Moving through the empty hallways of her home, Emily hummed the notes to a song she didn't know the name of, but somehow knew the tune as if it was a part of her very being. She wasn't normally one to hum or sing, but the music seemed to burst forth from her lungs independent of her control, like a relic from a lifetime ago. A song older than time itself.
She shucked off her coat, hanging it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, the sweater underneath hanging loose, slipping down one shoulder to expose her collarbones. haphazardly, she combed her fingers through her hair, sweeping it up into a messy bun high on her head, a few tendrils escaping to hang freely about her face.
Kicking off her shoes, she she spun a lazy pirouette across the hardwood of the kitchen floor in her stocking feet, catching her balance on the marble countertop when she bobbled the turn, then reaching for the bottle of wine she'd pulled from the wine cabinet.
She knew she probably shouldn't be glad that her husband wasn't home, but sometimes there was something about him that she just couldn't stand to be around... She supposed that probably wasn't a great sign as far as the fate of their marriage was concerned, but she chose instead to focus on the fact that most of the time, she loved him with her whole heart.
Either way, she had the house to herself for the evening and she intended to enjoy the solitude with a glass of red wine and a good book in silence.
With her glass of wine in one hand, book in the other, she moved to flick on the living room lights, only to find Ian sitting in the arm chair with a grave expression on his face.
"Jesus Christ, Ian!" she scolded. Her heart hammered in her chest as his unexpected presence, but she tried not to let the full depth of her start show on her face. "You scared the hell out of me! I thought you weren't here..." She attempted a laugh. "Didn't you hear me call your name when I got home?"
Seemingly ignoring her chatter, he asked, "Did you have a good day, Love?" His tone was strange – eerie, almost. He didn't look at her, instead focusing on the dark amber of the whiskey in his glass as he swilled the liquid around, ice clinking against the sides of the tumbler. He only drank when he was in a mood...and she was loathe to discover what it was she'd done that had set him off this time.
"Yeah..." she answered slowly, warily. "I guess."
"Did you do anything interesting?" he continued his interrogation almost as if disinterested, but with a note of danger underneath.
She shrugged. "Just the usual library business. Went to the diner for lunch." She wasn't sure why a vague insecurity gnawed at the pit of her stomach as if she were keeping some big secret. She'd told him the truth, afterall. Mostly.
He continued his sullen stare at his liquor, saying nothing.
Taking a few hesitant steps closer until she could reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of idle comfort. "Why so inquisitive tonight?" she asked, attempting levity.
"Can't I be curious about the day of my wife?" he replied.
"Of course. It just seems like there's something you'd like to come out and say. So, why don't you just say it, rather than continue to beat around the bush..." She surprised herself with her boldness, but once the words had hit the air, she refused to take them back, even if she could have.
"Straight to the point, hmm?" he said with a humourless laugh. He paused, sipped his drink. "I was on patrol, out on the edge of town, and I saw you on the porch of the hermit," he said, almost daring her to deny it.
"Derek isn't a hermit," she corrected him. It took her a moment to realize the mistake she'd made in using his first name, but by then it was too late to take it back.
Ian hummed a note of something like interest. "You know his name, then?"
She gave a little high-pitched nervous laugh. "Well, in case you forgot, I'm the town librarian and I have access to all the town records, so..."
"What were you doing there?" he interrupted.
"I was making a delivery for JJ. She said he pays them extra to do deliveries, even though they don't usually do that kind of thing and she asked me to do the delivery for her, since it was the lunch rush and..." she rambled, feeling a strange mix of anxiety and anger building inside her, though she couldn't have said why.
"Why would she ask you?" he challenged, once again cutting her off.
"Because we're friends!" she snapped, anger winning out.
"You have no friends," he informed her snidely. "Not JJ and certainly not Derek – who, I don't want you to see again, by the way."
"You can't tell me what to do," she scoffed, crossing her arms firmly over her chest in a deliberate show of displeasure.
"I'm your husband and I forbid you from seeing him," Ian shouted, standing suddenly from his chair, whiskey glass dropping to the floor and shattering as he reached out to wrap his hand around her throat, slamming her into the living room wall.
Coughing and sputtering as she struggled for air, she struggled to loosen his grip so she could breathe again. She couldn't form words, could barely form a thought. Spots danced on the edges of her vision and she knew that it would only be a moment or two before she lost consciousness altogether.
"You will listen to me," he said, voice strangely calm and devoid of emotion.
Then, just as suddenly as he'd wrapped his fingers around her throat, he released her, letting her fall to the floor in a heap of limbs.
Gasping for breath, she glared up at him. "So help me God, Ian, that will be the last time you ever lay a hand on me..."