My boss Bill calling out sick feels like the universe throwing me a bone.
I push through the revolving doors of our downtown office building, squinting against the noon glare bouncing off glass and concrete. The city hums around me with its usual indifferent energy, cars honking, people walking fast with purpose I can’t remember having.
Josh’s silver Nissan Versa idles by the curb. He’s leaning back in the driver’s seat, one elbow hanging out the window, but his fingers are drumming against the steering wheel in that nervous pattern I’ve learned to recognize. When he spots me, he straightens up and waves me over with forced casualness.
I slide into the passenger seat, immediately hit by the faint scent of weed that means he’s already been smoking. The seat belt clicks with a metallic finality.
“They let you out early, Caleb?” Josh asks, glancing at me sideways as he pulls away from the curb. His voice has that carefully light tone he uses when he’s trying to gauge my mood without asking directly.
“Pretty much.” I settle back against the worn fabric of the seat.
He nods, but his jaw tightens slightly. “That’s good.”
We merge into traffic, and Josh navigates through the maze of one-way streets with practiced ease. Boston drivers are aggressive as hell, but he handles it without the usual cursing. He’s clearly walking on eggshells for me.
“I took today off,” he says after a few minutes of silence.
“Why?”
The question hangs in the air for a beat too long. Josh’s hands shift on the steering wheel, and when he looks at me, his usual easy grin is nowhere to be found.
“Because it’s ten years ago today,” he says quietly. “And last year you…”
“I’m fine, man.”
The words come out flat, automatic. I turn to look out the passenger window, watching the city blur past. People on sidewalks move with direction, carrying coffee cups and briefcases and conversations that probably matter to someone.
We hit a red light, and Josh rolls up his window and then reaches into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a joint, already rolled and slightly bent, and lights it quickly.
He takes a long drag, holds it, then exhales slowly before offering it to me.
“No thanks. I’m not feeling it today.”
The light turns green, and we roll forward. Josh keeps the joint pinched between his fingers, occasionally bringing it to his lips.
“I’m really worried about you, man,” he says after another block.
“I said I’m fine.”
“Promise me you’re not going to try and kill yourself again today.”
The words land heavy in the small space of the car.
“Josh, I promise I’m not going to kill myself.” The lie tastes rolls off my tongue too easy.
“I don’t know if I can take it if you do it, man,” Josh says, and his voice cracks just slightly on the last word.
I appreciate his concern, I really do. Josh is the one person left who knew me before I became whatever this is. But he doesn’t understand that he’d probably feel relieved if I was dead. I’ve thought about it extensively. Analyzed it like a math problem. The constant worry, the careful monitoring, the way he has to check his words around me. That’s a painful pressure that could very easily be relieved. His life would definitely be easier without me in it.
“Thanks, man. That means a lot to me.”
“So what are your plans tonight?” he asks, switching lanes to avoid a double-parked delivery truck.
“Not much.”
“It’s Friday. Let’s go get plastered.”
The suggestion hangs between us. I can picture it, some loud bar with sticky floors and overpriced beer, Josh telling stories and laughing too hard at his own jokes, me sitting there like a black hole in human form, sucking the energy out of everything around me.
“I don’t want to.”
Josh’s face falls. He looks like he’s about to beg, like he’s running out of options and knows it. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
“Come on, man...”
“Look, I just want to be alone today, alright?”
The silence stretches for several seconds.
“Lauren would want you to move on.”
It takes me almost everything not to laugh in this moment. But Josh doesn’t deserve that. I can already see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s bracing for my response.
“We both know that isn’t the truth.”
Josh’s face crumples slightly, and he nods. Because he does know. He was there afterward, helped piece together enough of the story to understand what actually happened.
The conversation dies completely after that. Josh finishes his joint and flicks the roach out the window. The radio fills the silence with commercials for mattress sales and personal injury lawyers.
Thirty minutes of awkward silence later, Josh pulls up in front of my duplex. The left side is mine, a rental that’s nothing special but keeps the rain out.
“Thanks so much,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “I always hate sitting on the train when it’s empty at noon.”
“Yeah, of course. Anytime.”
I’m halfway out when his voice stops me.
“Call me if...” He pauses, and I can feel him searching for the right words. “You get like lonely or anything, alright?”
“Yeah. I will.”
I close the door with a soft click and step back onto the curb. Josh doesn’t drive off immediately. I can feel him watching me through the windshield.
Finally, the Nissan pulls away, and I watch the silver blur disappear around the corner.
I dig around in my pocket for my keys when my phone buzzes against my palm.
“Fuck. Did someone tell Bill I’m playing hooky?”
The screen shows an unknown number. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but something makes me swipe to answer.
“Hello.”
Silence stretches on the other end. I start to wonder if they’re going to try and tell me my car’s warranty is up.
“Hello?” I repeat.
Another pause, then a female voice finally answers.
“Adam Parker?”
My blood turns to ice water. Except for my parents and sister that name hasn’t existed for ten years. Adam Parker died the same day Lauren did, and Caleb Lawson crawled out of whatever was left.
“Wrong number.”
I hang up before she can respond, my hands starting to shake. The phone slips and I almost drop it on the concrete. My chest tightens, breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. Why today? Why would someone call me by that name on this specific fucking day? And how did they get this number?
The panic builds in waves. My vision tunnels and spots dance at the edges. I lean against my front door, fumbling with the keys until they finally slide home.
I push inside and freeze.
There’s a woman standing in my entryway.
She’s blonde with brown roots growing out, wearing some soft sundress that looks like something Lauren might have worn. The resemblance hits me like a punch to the gut, same general build, same hair color, except this woman is... fuller in the chest... Curves that Lauren never had.
We stare at each other. Neither of us speaks.
She looks shocked to see me, which is weird since she’s the one standing in my house. Her green eyes keep darting over my body, nervous energy radiating off her in waves. I should probably say something. Ask who she is. Ask how she got in.
That’s when I notice the knife.
It’s one of mine, the big chef’s knife from the kitchen block. She’s holding it at her side, fingers wrapped around the handle like she knows how to use it.
And suddenly, everything goes quiet in my head.
Peace washes over me like warm water. This is it. This is how it ends. Some random break-in, some stranger with a knife, and I won’t have to make the choice myself. I won’t accidentally cower out.
I close my eyes and spread my arms wide, smiling. Come on then. Let’s get this over with.
Instead of cold steel, I feel warm arms wrapping around me.
“Welcome home, baby,” she says against my chest, voice soft and sweet like we’ve done this a thousand times before. “You’re here earlier than expected today. How was work?”
“Huh?”
The word comes out before I can stop it. I’m still processing the embrace, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the complete wrongness of this entire situation.
She pulls back slightly, tilting her head with what looks like genuine concern. “What’s wrong, baby?”
I stare at her. Really look at her this time. The green eyes, the way she’s watching me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Something makes me glance around my apartment, and that’s when I see them the photos.
I only have a few scattered around, vacation shots from a couple of years ago, back when Josh could still drag me places. But now each one has been carefully altered. Little cutouts of this woman, perfectly sized and glued in next to me. Her arm around my shoulders at the Grand Canyon. Her smile next to mine at some beach in Florida. A whole fabricated history plastered over my real memories.
The realization hits me like a sledgehammer. This woman is completely fucking psychotic.
And you know what? Fuck it.
I’m here for it.
“Yeah,” I say, settling into the performance she’s giving. “I just decided to leave early today.”
Her face brightens for a moment, and she starts rubbing my back with her free hand. The one that isn’t holding the knife. She frowns suddenly, studying my expression.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Well, now that I’m here with you, of course.”
The effect is immediate. Her entire face flushes deep red, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the neckline of her sundress. She makes a smile that’s equal parts joy and complete unhinged madness, cupping her own face with both hands, the knife still gripped in her fingers like some twisted trophy.
She starts laughing. It’s nervous, breathless, the sound someone makes when they can’t quite believe their luck.
Perfect. If I play my cards right, she might just kill me yet.
“What’s the knife for?”
The question stops her laughter cold. She looks down at her hand like she’s forgotten she was holding it, eyes going wide with something that might be panic.
“OH! Ummm...” She fumbles for words, the confident act cracking around the edges. “Uhhh... well... of course... to make dinner with...”
I glance at the clock on the microwave. “It’s 12:43.”
“A wife’s duty is to start dinner as early as possible,” she says, the words coming out stilted and awkward.
She floats toward my kitchen like she’s navigating familiar territory, each step confident and purposeful.
I watch her pull open the refrigerator door, and immediately her whole body goes rigid.
The look that crosses her face is pure horror. Not the calculated performance from before, but genuine shock, like she’s staring into an abyss she wasn’t prepared for. Her eyes dart from the empty shelves to me, then back to the pathetic contents.
She lets out an uncomfortable laugh.
“Caleb, baby...” Her voice wavers slightly. “You only have beer and a can of beans in the fridge. Literally nothing else.”
She slams the door shut and rushes back to me, her carefully constructed domestic fantasy crumbling around the edges.
“I mean, that’s... that’s fine,” she stammers, but her breathing has picked up. “I can try to work with that...”
I study her face, watching the cracks in her performance widen. This woman broke into my apartment, altered my photographs, and is holding a knife while pretending to be my wife. But my empty refrigerator is what breaks her composure.
I like her. She’s funny.
“When did you last eat?” she asks, and now there’s something almost maternal in her voice, genuine concern bleeding through the madness.
The question catches me off guard. I try to remember. Yesterday? The day before?
“Breakfast time?” I offer, like maybe she’ll pretend we ate together this morning.
Her head snaps back and forth. “No no no no no.” Her voice rises with each repetition. “You’re lying.”
Her breathing becomes rapid and shallow, the knife trembling in her grip as she stares at me with wild eyes.
“You’re lying,” she repeats, louder and louder. “You’re lying you’re lying you’re lying you’re lying you’re lying you’re lying…”
She’s starting to hyperventilate. For a moment I think she might actually use that knife, not on me but on herself, the way her grip shifts.
Then suddenly, she stops.
She closes her eyes tight, takes one deep breath that seems to pull all the scattered pieces of herself back together. When she opens them again, she’s more composed than I’ve seen her since I walked in. The transformation is unsettling, like watching someone flip a switch and become an entirely different person.
She sets the knife down on my coffee table with deliberate care.
“Caleb,” she says, reaching out to grab my hand with both of hers. Her fingers are warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat. “Let’s go out to eat. It’s been forever.”
Her eyes still hold that hint of madness dancing around the edges, something fractured that no amount of deep breathing can quite fix. Something inside of her is broken in a way that feels familiar.
Maybe she’s like me.
“Okay.”
The Intruder Wife:
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