"Bloody Mary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Konrath J. A.)

PROLOGUE

“It would be so easy to kill you while you sleep.”

He rolls onto his side and faces his wife, tangling his fingers in her hair. Her face is shrouded in a dried blue mask; an anti-aging beauty product that has begun to peel. The moonlight peeking through the bedroom curtains makes her look already dead.

He wonders if other people look at their partners at night, peacefully dozing, and imagine killing them.

“I have a knife.” He brushes his fingertips along her hairline. “I keep it under the bed.”

Her lips part and she snores softly.

So ugly, especially for a model. All capped teeth and streaked hair.

He wedges his hand between the mattress and box spring and pulls out the knife. It has a large wooden handle, disproportionate to the thin, finely honed blade. A fillet knife.

He places it against his wife’s neck, gently.

His vision blurs. The pain in his head ignites, a screw twisting into his temple. It tightens with every heartbeat.

Too many headaches in too many days. He should, will, tell the doctor. The six aspirin he took an hour ago haven’t helped.

Only one thing helps when the pain gets this bad.

He caresses her chin with the edge of the knife, shaving off some of the mask. Sweat rolls down his forehead and stings his eyes.

“I can cut your throat, reach in and rip out your voice before you even have a chance to scream.”

She twitches, her head tilting away. Her neck is smooth, flawless. He clenches his jaw hard enough to crush granite, teeth grinding teeth.

“Or maybe I should go through the eye. Just a quick poke, right into the brain.”

He raises the blade up, trying to control the trembling in his hand. The blade wavers over her lid, creeping closer.

“All you have to do is open your eyes, so you can see it coming.”

She snores.

“Come on, honey.” He nudges her shoulder. “Open your eyes.”

He bites down on his tongue, the inside of his mouth hot and salty. His brain is a tiny clawed demon trying to dig its way out.

“Open your goddamn eyes!”

She shifts toward him, mumbling. Her arm falls over his bare chest.

“Another headache, honey?”

“Yeah.”

He places the knife behind her head, at the base of her skull. He imagines jabbing it in, the tip poking through the front of her throat.

Wouldn’t she be surprised?

“Poor baby,” she says into his armpit. She rubs his cheek, her fingers cool against his burning ear.

He gives her a little prod with the knife, just under her hairline. Her head jerks away.

“Ow! Honey, cut your nails.”

“It’s not my nails, dear. It’s a knife.”

She snores her response.

He nudges her again. “I said, It’s a knife. You hear me?”

“Did you take some aspirin, baby?”

“Six.”

“They’ll work soon. You should see a doctor.”

She hooks a leg over his stomach. He feels himself become aroused, unsure if it’s her touch that’s causing it, or the thought of peeling off her face.

Or perhaps both.

He smiles in the darkness, knuckles white on the knife handle, ready to finally give in to the nightly temptation. But as he readies the blade, he notes that the pain in his head has begun to subside. Gradually, the sharp throbbing melts away into a dull ache.

Bearable.

For now.

“I’ll kill you tomorrow.” He kisses her on the scalp.

The knife goes back under the mattress. He holds her tight and she makes a happy sighing sound.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s to the image of cutting her open and bathing his face with her blood.