Second Chance, Deadly Trap

Qing Shui

Fantasy | Completed

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One moment, I was just Sarah, pulling weeds from my tomato patch under the hot Nebraska sun, living the quiet farm life I' d painstakingly built. The next, a chilling wave of memory, raw and horrifying, washed over me – memories of another life, a past I' d lived and died. And with that horrific clarity, I saw him again: Mark, my husband, the man who disappeared seven years ago, now limping up our driveway, playing the pathetic, broken-down prodigal son. My heart didn't leap; it solidified into a cold, hard stone, because I remembered everything he'd done in that other life. I remembered how we' d welcomed him in, how my in-laws had drained their life savings, how I'd sold my mother's last keepsakes, all out of love and misguided pity. I remembered how he' d squandered every penny on his secret city wife and her gambling debts, then, when the money ran out, tried to sell our farm out from under us. I remembered the barn burning, the livestock screaming, the loan sharks he brought to our door, leaving us with nothing but ashes, debt, and the bitter taste of his laughter as he drove away. None of us survived that first time. Now, he was back, with the same tattered clothes and the same practiced look of sorrow, mouthing the same fake emotions: "Sarah, I finally made it home." My blood ran cold with the memory of starving in the winter, of seeing my mother-in-law cry, of the life he had so casually incinerated. I would not let it happen again. This time, I would not be the same naive country wife; I would make sure he walked into a trap of his own making, a trap from which he would never escape.

Family Revenge Rebirth/Reborn Drama Kickass Heroine

Chapter 10

The day before yesterday 21:14

Introduction

One moment, I was just Sarah, pulling weeds from my tomato patch under the hot Nebraska sun, living the quiet farm life I' d painstakingly built.

The next, a chilling wave of memory, raw and horrifying, washed over me – memories of another life, a past I' d lived and died.

And with that horrific clarity, I saw him again: Mark, my husband, the man who disappeared seven years ago, now limping up our driveway, playing the pathetic, broken-down prodigal son.

My heart didn't leap; it solidified into a cold, hard stone, because I remembered everything he'd done in that other life.

I remembered how we' d welcomed him in, how my in-laws had drained their life savings, how I'd sold my mother's last keepsakes, all out of love and misguided pity.

I remembered how he' d squandered every penny on his secret city wife and her gambling debts, then, when the money ran out, tried to sell our farm out from under us.

I remembered the barn burning, the livestock screaming, the loan sharks he brought to our door, leaving us with nothing but ashes, debt, and the bitter taste of his laughter as he drove away.

None of us survived that first time.

Now, he was back, with the same tattered clothes and the same practiced look of sorrow, mouthing the same fake emotions: "Sarah, I finally made it home."

My blood ran cold with the memory of starving in the winter, of seeing my mother-in-law cry, of the life he had so casually incinerated.

I would not let it happen again.

This time, I would not be the same naive country wife; I would make sure he walked into a trap of his own making, a trap from which he would never escape.