After My Husband Tried to Kill Me at Sea

Life at the estate was a slow, quiet torture.

Bryce gave me a company phone, but he tracked every call and text. He checked my room when I was out. He checked the security logs every night. Every morning, I ironed his shirts, managed his calendar, and poured his black coffee.

I was a ghost in the house I used to own.

On Tuesday, I stood by his mahogany desk in his study.

"I need to see my father," I said. My voice was even.

Bryce set down his silver fountain pen. He looked at me with sad, practiced eyes. "Whispering Pines called this morning, Em. He had another bad episode last night."

My stomach tightened. "What happened?"

"He was agitated. Screaming at the nurses." Bryce stood up and walked around the desk. He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I pulled back before his fingers could graze my skin.

His jaw twitched. His hands went to his wrists, compulsively straightening his platinum cufflinks.

"The doctors said a visit right now would destabilize him," Bryce said softly. "You know how delicate his mind is. You don't want to make him worse, do you?"

"He's my father."

"And I'm protecting him," he said. He smiled, warm and sickeningly sweet. "I'm protecting both of you. Be patient, Em. Focus on doing your job here."

It was always like that. He wrapped every cage bar in velvet and called it love.

Paulina came over three or four times a week.

She always showed up while I was working. She would drop her designer coat into my arms like I was a coat rack, then strut into Bryce’s office. Through the cracked door, I could hear her low, teasing laugh.

Every time she left, Bryce got worse.

One day, she complained that I moved too freely around the grounds. That evening, Bryce told me I wasn't allowed on the terrace after sundown. Another day, she made a snide comment about my old trading instincts. The next morning, Bryce took away my laptop and replaced it with a paper ledger.

Paulina was feeding his paranoia. She was giving him blueprints to tighten the leash.

Then, things shifted.

One evening, I was pouring water at dinner. Bryce was sitting at the head of the long table. Paulina was to his right. As I set down his glass, Bryce didn't look at the water. He looked at my hands. Then his eyes drifted up to my neck, lingering on my collarbone.

There was a dark, hungry look in his eyes. It wasn't pity. It was desire.

I stepped back immediately.

Across the table, Paulina saw it. Her smile vanished. Her fork scraped loudly against her porcelain plate. Her knuckles turned white around her wine glass. She glared at me, her eyes burning with pure, bitter hatred.

Six years ago, she stole my husband and my life. But Bryce still looked at me like I was the prize that got away.

For a woman like Paulina, that was unbearable.

Two days later, the trap snapped shut.

It started with a notification on my monitored phone. A news alert from a Seattle business blog.

I clicked it. The screen loaded, and my breath caught.

My hedge fund trading ID photo was side by side with my prison mugshot.

*CONVICTED EMBEZZLER EMMIE CRAWFORD LIVING IN LUXURY WATERFRONT ESTATE AFTER PRISON RELEASE.*

The article was venomous. It claimed I had hidden millions overseas before my arrest. It said I was currently living like royalty on Bryce Lawson's private estate, mocking the working-class families who had lost their pensions in the crash.

The story had been seeded in investor support groups across Reddit and Twitter. From there, it had exploded.

There were thousands of comments.

*She stole my parents' retirement.*

*Lock her back up.*

*She shouldn't be allowed to breathe the same air as honest people.*

My full address wasn't listed, but pictures of the estate were. So were photos of me carrying groceries down the street, taken from an angle inside a parked car. Paulina’s car.

By afternoon, the digital rage spilled into the real world.

Bryce sent me into town to pick up his tailoring. As I walked down Fourth Avenue, a woman pushing a stroller stopped and stared at me. Her eyes went wide.

"It's her," she whispered loudly to the man beside her. "That's the Crawford thief."

The man turned. His face twisted with disgust. "Shameless bitch," he spat on the sidewalk near my boots.

My heart hammered against my ribs. My thumb tapped furiously against my index finger. One, two, three, four. I pulled my hood up and kept walking, my head down, my pulse roaring in my ears.

When I returned to the estate, Bryce was waiting in the foyer. He was on his phone, looking grim.

"I saw the news, Em," he said, hanging up. He walked over and took my trembling hands in his. "It's awful. People are savages."

"Did you plant that story?" I asked, looking right into his eyes.

Bryce looked genuinely wounded. He placed a hand over his heart. "How could you even ask that? I'm doing everything I can to shield you. My PR team is on it. I’ve ordered them to issue a takedown notice."

"Then why is it trending number one in Seattle right now?"

He sighed, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand. "The internet is a beast, Em. It takes time. For now, you just need to stay inside. Don't leave the gates. It’s too dangerous out there for you."

He looked at me with deep, sorrowful affection.

I pulled my hands away from him.

He didn't want the PR team to kill the story. He wanted me hated. He wanted the whole city to treat me like a monster, so I would have nowhere else to run.

Paulina supplied the spark. Bryce fanned the flames.

They were holding different ends of the same rope, pulling together, tightening the noose around my neck.