#(( bad news: worst man ever is your husband. im so sorry jules ))

[slaughterlocked]

🔪 / from jules. sorry girl --

HE'S ON A HIGH, OF COURSE HE IS. CHUCKLING AS HE COMES HOME, GRINNING LIKE A KID AT CHRISTMAS. As far as he remembers, she's out with friends tonight - or so he'd believed. It's partly why he doesn't even bother entering the house with any sense of subtlety, and partly why he hasn't completely cleaned up. The other part is sheer cockiness. He's not been caught yet, after all. Doesn't bother pausing to listen for familiar sounds of his wife being present, doesn't even cease the little tune he's humming: the annoying song that had been playing at the pizzeria on repeat as he'd gone about his business. Preparing the party rooms, checking in with employees entering the building, filing a notice to ensure he is the only one who is allowed to fix Bonnie. Wouldn't do for anyone to find anything untowards, after all.

So yes, he's in a good mood. It abruptly fades at the sight of his wife in their bedroom, as he waltzes in. He's very suddenly aware of his own state: ghostly faced, eyes too bright; usual shirt ruffled, splatters of blood trickling irritatingly on the right sleeve; the fucking knife in the bag he clutches to his chest. Lips part wordlessly for a second, caught off-guard [...] and then he's offering her a very weary, very artificial smile. They've not been able to read each other as well as they used to. Not since Evan. Maybe it'll work to his advantage this time. "Wasn't expecting to see my beautiful wife," he says, and plays it casual, taking a very small step backwards, "didn't you have plans, love?" Cursing her inwardly. Cursing his own carelessness more.