My Husband Was a Mass Murderer: A Psychological Thriller

The interstate stretched ahead, a monotonous ribbon of asphalt under the relentless sun. Beside me, Ray, my husband, was the picture of cautious composure, his hands at ten and two, the cruise control set precisely at seventy. He’d been like this since he got out of the psych ward months ago—straight, narrow, and by the book. It was admirable, really, this commitment to a new path. But sometimes, I wished he’d just… live a little.

“You hungry?” he asked, his voice calm, his eyes fixed on the road. I shrugged, a small gesture he couldn’t see.

“I don’t know. You?”

He humped his shoulders in return. “I mean, I can eat. I’m on the fence about it. I wanted to use you as the deciding factor.” For the first time in hours, his hazel eyes met mine, and I felt a blush creep up my neck. His smile was soft, a genuine warmth that always managed to calm the flutter in my stomach.

“Aren’t we almost there?” I asked, leaning slightly towards him.

He nodded. “We are, but don’t forget, the movers will be arriving right after us, and we still have yet to grocery shop for our new place.” A small frown touched his lips, and I nodded in realization. He was right; the new house would be bare. No food. Just empty rooms waiting to be filled with our new life.

“You’re right,” I conceded. “Okay, then. Restaurant food it is.” I smiled, trying to inject some of my usual optimism into the air. But he looked uneasy, a familiar shadow crossing his features. I reached over, gently rubbing his back.

“Everything is going to be fine,” I reassured him, my voice a soft murmur. “No one knows us here. That’s why we picked this place, remember?”

He gestured that he did, taking a deep, calming breath. “Yeah… I guess you’re right. Everything will be fine.”

I leaned over and kissed his cheek, the faint scent of his cologne a comfort. “That’s the spirit. So, where should we stop?”