This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2025 by Wanda M. Morris

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781662532948 (digital)

Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

Cover image: © anastasia.bel.photo / Shutterstock; © da-kuk / Getty

To my big sister Myra, who never played it small. Rest well.

Hannah Ferguson found freedom in a ten-by-ten-foot shed out behind her house. No wonder too since she had always loved small things. Mostly the kinds of things she could hold in her hands as she marveled at their beauty. Miniature dollhouses. Mother-of-pearl buttons. Brightly colored pebbles. When she was little, she was fascinated by small seeds that—with external forces like water and sunlight—grew and transformed into something altogether different. That’s when her father began to call her “Birdie,” because he said she reminded him of a little bird, always flitting around without any purpose. She hated the nickname, but she never said anything because he was Father, and her family never bucked Father.

The shed was here when she and her husband, Rusty, bought the house almost ten years ago. As they surveyed the property with the Realtor, she immediately fell in love with the small box of a building nestled beneath a big oak tree. The rest of the house, a modest Craftsman that sat on a third of an acre of land, barely interested her. She was smitten with the shed. While walking through the house, she strained to see it from every window, enamored with its possibilities. The previous owner had used it for his taxidermy hobby, and it was equipped with water and electricity. Rusty thought the shed smelled awful and that they should tear it down. But Hannah saw a sanctuary.

Right after they married, Rusty had convinced Hannah to quit her job as a receptionist at a medical clinic with promises of a “soft life” and the expectation that they would quickly fill their home with lots of kids. When, month after month, she was unable to conceive, she had taken up jewelry making, hoping it might distract her and give her something else to think about besides the dreaded possibility of another menstrual cycle and no baby.

Until a baby came along, she was making other beautiful things.

What she liked most of all about the shed was that she didn’t have to drag her materials to the kitchen table while Rusty was at work. He didn’t think much of what he coined her “baubles and beads.” When they had lived in an apartment, Rusty complained that her materials were all over the house. Once, when he was walking around barefoot, he stepped on some cut wire that she’d missed while sweeping the floor. He got so upset he tossed an entire tray of crystal beads into the garbage. She’d spent forty-five minutes fishing them out of the trash can after he went to sleep. When they decided to buy the house, Hannah struck a deal with Rusty that he’d never see the remnants of her jewelry making around the house if he promised not to tear the shed down and allow her to use it as a workspace. Ten years later, she was running a full-blown Etsy business out of the shed, all without Randy’s knowledge. She was almost certain that if he knew she was making her own money, he’d make her stop or demand she turn over the money to him. And she needed the profits from her business to buy materials.

Although her business flourished, her marriage did not. Maybe it never really had much of a chance from the start. It had all happened so fast. They met at a church mixer for singles. He was tall and handsome with a huge personality. People at church gravitated toward him. Back then, every time she was in his presence, it made her heart race and nearly took her breath away. His nonstop compliments and dinners at romantic restaurants. He’d show up at her job unannounced, with flowers and stuffed animals, and whisk her off to lunch, and she was almost always late getting back to her desk. He told her she didn’t need a job because he would always take care of her. She’d never dated much in high school, so to Hannah, he was a dream guy. Six months after they met, when Rusty asked Hannah to marry him, she was so starry eyed and hopelessly in love with him, she said yes without hesitation. A few years ago, she’d read an article in a magazine, where the writer described Rusty’s behavior to a T. The writer called it “love bombing.” It hadn’t felt like a bomb. It felt good. At least, it used to feel good.

They were three years into the marriage and no children. Rusty was sullen and constantly questioned her about why she couldn’t get pregnant. On occasion, he even insinuated that she might be secretly using birth control. Then Hannah got pregnant. Rusty was ecstatic, bringing her flowers and gifts again like when they were dating. Hannah thought she was happy about the baby. Or maybe she was simply happy that Rusty was happy again. Like the old days.

At nine weeks, nearing the end of the first trimester, Hannah was working in the shed one morning when she realized something wasn’t right. The waves of nausea that usually drove her to the kitchen pantry, in search of crackers or ginger ale to settle her stomach, were no longer there. No morning sickness. Her breasts weren’t as tender as they had been. And by the end of that same week, she was stretched across a paper-lined table, with the low hum of a sonogram machine in the background as Dr. Angela Roberts ruefully explained that she could not detect the baby’s heartbeat. Rusty was in the chair beside Hannah, holding her hand. The doctor’s last words of advice: This happens. You can try again. Rusty released her hand, as if Hannah were damaged goods, or worse, that it was her fault.

Two more miscarriages followed. With each one, Rusty grew more distant. No more flowers or gifts. Her body had betrayed her, and in the process had betrayed Rusty as well. A loveless marriage. A barren bride. How can you be a trad wife when you can’t do traditional things? She knew he was unhappy with her, but she didn’t know what to do. When Hannah suggested they consider adoption, Rusty looked at her with such disdain, she immediately regretted mentioning the idea. After a long pause, he said, I’m not raising somebody else’s fucking kid. She never mentioned it again. At some point, Rusty told her, Let’s just move on. They’d only had sex a handful of times after that.

Today, Hannah was in the shed, looking over several sheets of silver she’d recently purchased. She always preferred Argentium silver to regular sterling silver because it produced a much brighter, whiter appearance in the finished product. She ran her fingers along the sharp edges of the metal, careful not to cut herself. Since Rusty was clueless about her business, she told him she thrifted things like old metal trophies and silver trays from the Goodwill store. And sometimes she did. But the expensive materials, like crystals and gemstones, she bought with her profits. Those things she hid beneath the small trapdoor under the worktable.

She cut the sheet of silver into smaller strips. This made it easier to melt the metal when she was ready to forge it. She gathered her seasoned crucible, the one she used only for melting silver, and fired up her blowtorch. Pure silver has no smell when melted down, but the whoosh sound of the blowtorch always provided a dopamine rush. It was the signal of something new. Hannah rode the intoxicating high of working in the shed straight through the afternoon. Hours later, when she looked out the window, she realized the sun was setting. She snuffed the blowtorch and looked at her watch.

6:10 p.m. Crap!

Time had eluded her. It always did when she was in the shed. Rusty would be home soon, and she hadn’t started dinner, hadn’t even taken anything out of the freezer to thaw. Not having dinner prepared when Rusty arrived home was the first step to souring his mood. She could whip up spaghetti with a jar of sauce and some store-bought frozen meatballs. A quick salad. Not exactly trad-wife cooking, but she didn’t have much choice. In the early days of their marriage, Rusty encouraged her to cook everything from scratch, telling her he could taste the difference if it wasn’t. She believed him until the first time she served store-bought lasagna and he didn’t say anything until he was taking out the garbage the next morning and spotted the empty carton. He went on a nonstop rant, complaining about Hannah’s deception. She agreed not to do it again. Until today.

She put her materials away before she turned off the light and hustled across the backyard. She hadn’t heard the garage door. Maybe he was still in traffic. She quietly eased the patio door open and stepped inside the family room. The house was quiet. The TV was always the first thing he turned on when he arrived home. But now, silence. She quickly paced through the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and retrieved a pot for boiling the spaghetti.

“The stove is ice cold,” he said stonily.

She startled and quickly turned around.

Rusty leaned against the kitchen doorjamb and stared at her.

Her nerves lumbered up from her stomach and rested in her throat like a balled fist. “Uh, I didn’t hear you come in.” She hustled to the sink to fill the pot with water. “Dinner will be ready in less than thirty minutes. Promise.”

She started for the stove, but Rusty hustled across the kitchen and blocked her path. She felt the first inkling of tears punch at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t dare look at him. The emotion would be too great. And he’d accuse her of “turning on the fake waterworks” to avoid dealing with her problems. Rusty had a saying: If you behaved better, then I’d treat you better.

“Were you out in that shed all day? I ought to tear that damn thing down. Maybe then I’d get a decent meal when I get home. Or maybe I’d get to look at somebody around here who looks like a woman. Jeez, it’s like living with another guy around this place.”

Let it go, she repeated over and over in her head.

“I’m sorry. Let me just get dinner on. It won’t take long,” she said, still avoiding eye contact. Her heart thrumming.

He moved aside, and she rested the pot of water on the stove. She clicked the knob and set the flame on high. Change the subject, she thought. Pivot. Talk about him.

“Work was good?” she said. He didn’t respond.

Her sister, Becca, had never liked Rusty. Becca thought he was too full of himself to appreciate Hannah’s kind manner. She told Hannah that guys like Rusty loved nothing more than a conquest, the pursuit of something they only wanted for show. Be careful, she warned.

Becca lived in a small town about a hundred miles away. After each miscarriage, she’d driven over to be with Hannah and lend support. Inevitably, Becca and Rusty always got into some heated exchange over some silly thing. Politics was usually the boiling point for them. Two years ago, Becca had come to their house for Thanksgiving dinner. Hannah barely enjoyed the meal, fearful that Becca might not hold her tongue or Rusty might blame her for “inviting trouble into the house.” Tensions simmered. Every comment between them was laced with sarcasm or spite. Rusty finally exploded when Becca complained that he was keeping Hannah from seeing her friends and family. A shouting match ensued, and Becca stormed out of the house—but not before she gave her little sister a piece of advice: Hannah, stop playing small just to make Rusty feel big. One day it’ll come back to haunt you.

Rusty walked up beside Hannah at the stove, so close she could smell his breath. Foul, with a strong undertone of garlic.

“Did you even go outside and exercise? Jog, walk, anything? That fat ass won’t go away by itself.” He slapped her on her butt. Hard. His idea of a joke.

He laughed, and she finally looked up at him. She peered into his deep-set hazel eyes. The same ones she had stared into longingly when they first started dating. His eyes were different now. These days, they were tinged with disgust, as if she were some grotesque monster that ambled through their house.

Rusty strolled out of the kitchen. “Call me when dinner’s ready,” he said over his shoulder.

She heard the TV spring to life. News this time. It was always news or sports. He told her she wasn’t bright enough to understand either. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the news or sports. It’s just that neither of them interested her.

The hard slap on her rear end still sizzled. So did his joke about her weight. He was always making some comment about her appearance.

You need to back away from the dinner table. It’s not your last meal, you know.

You look like a goddamn dude. Can’t you fix yourself up?

Why don’t you ever let your hair grow out? Do you always have to wear it so short?

Rusty had never laid a hand on her in a violent way, but he left bruises that crawled deep beneath the skin. The constant comments about her weight, appearance, and intelligence inflicted the type of pain that filled her with doubt and whittled away at her confidence. She didn’t trust herself anymore, which was why she relied on his opinion about everything. From what she should eat, who she should talk to, even who she should vote for. When Hannah thought it through, in many ways, Rusty was actually living the traditional marriage she had wanted to give him.

Hannah figured she could do better with her appearance, but what would be the point? He rarely touched her anymore, and she knew he was sleeping around. He used to come home reeking of cheap cologne. She tried to rationalize it by telling herself that maybe a coworker stood too close or gave him a friendly hug and the scent rubbed off. But her denials bumped up against the truth when Rusty called one night to say that he had to work a double shift. When they finished the call, he thought he’d hung up but didn’t. She heard a woman’s voice, the two of them talking about getting dinner. Then the phone went quiet for a few minutes before she heard giggling, then moaning noises. She quietly clicked off the call.

She made more excuses. Maybe he was grieving all the miscarriages since he really wanted kids. It was her own fault that he was cheating since she’d gained weight after all the pregnancies. Maybe if she weren’t infertile, he would love her more. Maybe if she were prettier or smarter. Maybe if she was anyone else. But there was only so much rationalization she could do before she was prioritizing his pain over her own. Something Rusty had never done for her.

When she was in high school, her English class read a short story called The Secret Life of Walter Mitty about a mousy little man who was forever imagining himself in heroic situations to escape his overbearing wife. A navy pilot charging through an ice storm. A world-famous surgeon called into the operating room to save the life of a prominent millionaire. Until finally at the end of the story, Walter Mitty imagines himself stoically standing before a firing squad prepared to die. Hannah flipped the script on that story by imagining Rusty in various situations from which he could not recover or escape. It was a harmless little game she played in her mind because the situations she always imagined for Rusty were petty little annoyances that other people would let slide. But not her Rusty.

As she fell into the routine of making dinner, her imagination spun. Rusty stuck on the side of the road with car trouble and no one coming to his aid. Rusty getting pulled over by a cop for speeding and getting a $300 ticket. Rusty getting in the wrong line at the grocery store and having to wait twice as long as all the other lines because his cashier was in training. Once, when she and Rusty were at the Department of Motor Vehicles to renew his license, he got into an altercation with some guy when Rusty tried to cut in line. Now, she imagined what might have happened if the guy had taken Rusty on instead of walking away. It was Hannah’s harmless amusement to give Rusty a little karma for his own petty behavior toward people.

After dinner, Hannah decided to skip going out to the shed, as she did most nights. She had pissed Rusty off once already, and she didn’t want more comments or another threat to destroy the shed. She read for a bit, hoping he might go out to Smitty’s Bar as he usually did. Tonight, he decided to stay at home, watching the news all evening. After an hour of sitting in silence two feet away from him on the sofa, she told him she was calling it a night and going up to bed. He grunted something that indicated assent.

As she showered, she imagined Rusty at his job, botching up some assignment and getting called into his manager’s office. Rusty sitting in silence as his boss berated him for being a screwup. Forty-five minutes later, she drifted off to sleep, nursing the thought of Rusty getting into a shouting match with some big, burly guy in the grocery store and the guy threatening to meet him in the parking lot to beat him up. She closed her eyes and grinned as she imagined Rusty nervously wandering around the store, too scared to leave because of what was waiting outside for him.

The next morning, Hannah woke to what she thought was a car engine. It revved for a few seconds, then stopped. Revved, then stopped. Hannah sat up on one elbow and peered over her shoulder. Rusty’s side of the bed was empty. She looked at the clock: 6:42 a.m. Unless he had an early-morning meeting, Rusty would still be in the bed beside her. The noise started up again.

Now fully awake, she realized it wasn’t a car engine revving. It was the sound of a power drill outside. Probably Stan, their neighbor next door. He was always working on some project around his house. He had offered to come over and help Rusty when he recognized that a few of the gutters on their house needed cleaning. Rusty, full of pointless pride, dismissed him and hired some guy off Craigslist who did a piss-poor job. This morning’s “thought du jour”—imagining Rusty up on a ladder and falling off, breaking his arm. The one attached to the hand he used to slap her “fat ass” that he despised so much.

The drilling stopped, and she edged herself upright on the side of the bed. She sat like that for a minute or so before she put on her bathrobe and headed downstairs to the kitchen to start breakfast. Before she reached the bottom of the stairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the faint scent of something sweet caught her by surprise. Pancakes? She walked into the kitchen. On the counter was a fresh pot of coffee. On the stove, a small batch of pancakes and three strips of bacon.

A few seconds later, Rusty walked into the kitchen. “Good morning, Hannah!” he said as if he were a used-car salesman and she had just walked into his showroom with a fistful of cash.

“Uh . . . good morning. What’s all this?”

Rusty never made breakfast or any other meal. The last time she recalled him cooking a meal was after the first miscarriage, when she was sick and unable to stand for long periods of time. Confusion rustled her insides and made a mess of her nerves. Gestures like this were out of character for him. She had learned after years of being with Rusty that giving her mixed messages and chaotic signals was the way he amused himself. He could be mean and nasty for a period, and then without explanation, suddenly he was civil again. He was never kind. And that’s what worried her the most. Living with him reminded her of that old Tilt-A-Whirl ride she and Becca rode whenever the carnival came to town. The ride swinging in one direction, only to stop and then swing in another direction.

“I got up a little early,” he said. “Thought I’d handle breakfast and a few other chores around the house.”

“What chores? Was that you drilling?” she said.

“Don’t forget, today’s Election Day. You know who to vote for, right?”

“But I think—”

Rusty stopped in his tracks and glared at her.

She decided it was better not to destroy his good mood. Sometimes, it was better to be at peace than to be right. “Yeah, I know who to vote for.”

“That’s a good girl. We’ve talked about this. This country is at a crucial turning point. We’ve got to do our part to save it. Enjoy your breakfast.” He grabbed his keys and wallet from the countertop and headed for the garage door. Then he stopped. “Oh . . . I think I’d like steak for dinner tonight.” He smiled broadly and headed through the door. She listened as the garage door chugged up and then back down.

A quick thought to start her day: Rusty hitting a pothole on the way to work and blowing out a tire.

She looked at the pancakes and shook her head. She wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but she wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever he was up to, she decided to ignore it. She pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup of coffee. She broke off a small piece of bacon and ate it. Too crispy.

She took a sip of coffee and thought about the day ahead. She’d finish melting down the new silver she’d purchased. Maybe make a beautiful cuff bracelet or some earrings this time. With the holidays coming up, perhaps something festive that might be appropriate for party wear. She had a couple of clients who posted pictures of themselves on social media adorned in her jewelry. Nothing pleased her more than to see someone wearing things she had crafted with her own two hands, even though it made her a bit nervous. What if Rusty was on social media and able to figure out she was selling jewelry? But this was too important to her. She reasoned it was worth the risk.

She eased over to the kitchen sink with her mug of coffee and gazed out the window. Three seconds later, she went limp, her mug falling into the sink in a loud crash.

“Oh my God,” she whimpered.

She hustled out the patio door in the family room and sprinted across the yard to the shed. She reached out her hand to touch it but didn’t. Hanging where the doorknob previously sat was a huge brace with a large padlock attached to it. She quickly ran around to the side of the shed. The one window of the shed was now boarded up from the inside.

Rusty had locked her out.

Hannah ran back to the front of the shed and yanked at the padlock again. It didn’t budge.

She stood staring at the shed in her pajamas and bathrobe, her mouth gaped open. This wasn’t real. This was her space. This was all she had.

Her face felt hot as she raced to the garage and rummaged through Rusty’s workbench, scouring the table looking for the drill. It wasn’t there. She searched around for a crowbar, a wrench, anything strong enough for her to wedge away the padlock. Nothing. He must have taken his tool bag to work with him. She darted back inside the house, snatching open kitchen drawers, still searching for anything that would give her access to the shed.

Her shed.

When she couldn’t find anything, she sank to her knees and cried. Anger and sadness sucked her in, all at the same time. Every time Rusty did some cruel thing, she managed to overlook it. The comments about her appearance. The jokes about her weight. The infidelity. But this was altogether different. He had taken away the one thing that gave her joy. The shed was the only thing that made it possible for her to get up every morning. Everything inside of that small box was like the breath that kept her alive.

She thought about his making her breakfast, being jovial, and telling her he wanted steak for dinner. All of it had been his subtle way of letting her know she needed to mind her place in the kitchen and not in the shed.

She stormed back into the house, snatched up her cell phone, and tapped his phone number. He didn’t answer. Tears from some unending pool inside her streamed down her face. She hung up and immediately called again. No answer. Hannah knew he was still in the car on his way to work. He was intentionally ignoring her. She clicked off the phone and thought for a moment. She had another idea. She hurriedly dressed and headed out of the house.

A couple of minutes later, she was standing on the front porch of their next-door neighbor, Stan. She rang the doorbell and waited a few seconds before she heard footsteps.

Stan opened the front door and greeted her with a big, broad smile. “Hannah, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Hi, Stan, I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

“Not at all. Me and the missus just having a little breakfast. Did you want to come in?”

“Um . . . no. I . . . uh . . . I’ve done something really foolish, and I might need your help. I’ve locked myself out of my shed. Do you think you might be able to help me get inside?”

“Sure, I’d be glad to help. Let me take a look at the lock and see what we can do.”

“Thank you so much. I feel so stupid.”

“Not a worry at all.”

Stan followed Hannah around to her backyard. She made sure to walk up to the shed straightaway so that he wouldn’t see the boarded-up window that faced his house. It might raise questions.

Stan studied the padlock and brace. “Did your husband set this up for you?”

“Uh . . . yes. You know, I make jewelry. I sometimes keep expensive materials inside. I don’t want to tempt anyone.”

Hannah hated lying to Stan. He and his wife were always so nice to her. They didn’t have a clue what went on behind closed doors at the Ferguson home. Rusty always smiled and made chitchat with the neighbors. Hannah dutifully followed his lead. By every account, Rusty and Hannah Ferguson appeared to be the perfect young couple.

“Thefts shouldn’t be a problem in this neighborhood, but better to be safe than sorry, huh?” He studied Rusty’s makeshift system again and gave it a tug. “Looks like he’s got this on pretty tight.”

Hannah forced a smile. “Mm-hmm. But do you think you can get the padlock off?”

Stan gently ran his fingers across the mechanism as if he were a lock whisperer. “I think I might be able to, but it might leave a bit of damage. Is that okay?”

“Well . . . I don’t want to damage the shed. I just want to get the padlock off.”

Stan scratched his head. “That padlock is a pretty solid piece of work. Let me see what I can find. I’ll be back in a jiff.” He scurried off.

Hannah yanked at the padlock again. It still didn’t budge. All she wanted to do was get the lock off. She’d replace it with a new one and switch the key on Rusty’s key chain. He wouldn’t be the wiser, and she’d still be able to go in and out of the shed, all while pretending she was locked out. Her plan could work. The only thing Hannah knew for certain was that if she went for even a day without getting inside the shed, she might literally go mad.

Suddenly, trepidation slinked through her. What if Stan couldn’t get the padlock off? Or what if Stan did get the lock off and told Rusty that he had removed the lock for her? What would she do? Anxiety rose inside her like dry yeast swelling in a bowl of bread dough. This shed was her whole life. She hadn’t missed a day inside the shed since the last miscarriage, when she was too depressed to get out of bed.

Calm down, Hannah. Calm down.

“Hey! I think I got something,” Stan yelled as he approached. “I found this old pair of bolt cutters. They’re the strongest ones I’ve got. A bit rusted now, but they might do the trick.”

Hannah held her breath as she watched Stan work the rusted tool against the bright, shiny padlock. Stan was a big guy, but the padlock was proving to be a challenge. Hannah silently prayed as Stan gripped the bolt cutters, veins popping along the backs of his hands. She had to get inside. This shed was her lifeblood. This shed was her baby. Finally, she heard a loud crack. Stan blew a sigh of surprise at his sixty-five-year-old strength. He turned the padlock, slipped the shackle from the brace, and handed it to Hannah.

“Here you go. That’s a pretty good lock you got there. Afraid you’ll need a new one, though.”

“I’ll replace it today. Thank you so much.”

“No trouble at all. You tell your husband I’m sorry I had to damage the lock.”

“Uh . . . if you don’t mind, can we keep this just between us? This is the third time I’ve done something like this.” Hannah faked a smile she hoped was as convincing as the lie she told. “Please, if you don’t mind.”

Stan winked. “I got ya.”

Hannah lightly patted his arm. “Tell your wife I’m sorry I troubled you two.”

Stan waved and left.

She hustled inside the shed. The thought of him being in here, touching her things, made her want to throw up. He was not supposed to be in here. It was dark now that the only window was boarded up. Her first instinct was to remove the board. To undo everything he’d done to her shed. But she stopped short of doing that. She looked across the small space to make sure Rusty hadn’t disrupted any of her materials. She was surprised he hadn’t, and that’s what worried her. Whenever she expected him to go right, he went left. All to get inside her head.

She took a deep breath, and her brain spun. Thinking up all the petty little annoyances that might send Rusty into a tailspin. A fender bender with a traffic cop that was all Rusty’s fault. Getting pickpocketed in a crowd. Running out of gas when he was late for work. The only problem was that this time, thinking of these things didn’t amuse her or make her feel better. They only conjured up rage and humiliation. And a deep acknowledgment of her stupidity. She had married this man. She shared a home with him. She slept beside him every night.

Hannah walked over to the boarded-up window. He’d screwed the board into the wall of the shed. She ran her fingers along the edges of the board. As she did, her thoughts grew darker. Rusty in a car accident. Rusty falling into one of the vats at the manufacturing plant. Rusty on a ladder and falling off. His neck broken. These thoughts about Rusty’s misfortune pacified her rage and soothed her pain.

Hannah looked back over her worktable. She was satisfied that everything was in its place. She checked the trapdoor underneath. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Next, she had to get a new padlock on the shed. Everything had to look just as Rusty had left it. That meant a drive to the hardware store. She also had to vote. It would be one of the first things Rusty would ask her about when he got home.

She stepped out of the shed and placed the old padlock back on the door. She jiggled it to make things look as he had left them, but it was useless. The lock was busted and bent. Rusty would spot it immediately. Her only option was to make it back home before he did. That might be tough if there were long lines at the polls.

As she drove to the hardware store, she imagined one more twisted little scenario that Rusty could become embroiled in: What if he fell down through the trapdoor under the shed?

For the first time in a long time, she chuckled.

That evening, when Hannah heard the garage door open, she braced herself for the inevitable confrontation to come. But instead of a confrontation, Rusty bounced into the house in a bluster of noise. Keys jangling, kicking off his shoes at the door, and talking loudly into his cell phone with someone who must have been a comedian, given the uproarious laughter Rusty belted out. Probably one of his buddies from Smitty’s Bar.

She stood at the stove, preparing dinner, watching him as he tossed his keys and wallet on the counter. Rusty didn’t say a word to her. He just scrambled upstairs, still laughing and talking into the phone. She covered the pot of mashed potatoes and waited for a few seconds, listening to his footsteps until they stopped. Her eyes turned up to the ceiling; she knew he was in the bathroom. This might be the only opportunity she’d have to switch out the padlock key on his key ring. She hesitated for a moment. She didn’t know how much time she had. Three minutes or thirty.

Hannah quietly lifted his key chain and bypassed his house and car keys and a few more she didn’t recognize. Maybe they went to some locks at work. Why did he carry so many keys anyway? Finally, she found one with the words Safe Lock imprinted on it. A short gold one that looked exactly like the one in her pocket. She carefully rolled the key around the chain, trying not to make a sound. Easy, Hannah. Sweat beads popped along her hairline and her hands trembled. If he caught her, it might prompt him to check the shed, and he’d discover his key didn’t fit the new lock. She might never get back inside. Suddenly, she heard his footsteps trooping back down the stairs. She tried to work faster. She was so close. Her heart paddled against her rib cage. She had to get one key off and another one on before he caught her. Just another turn and she’d have the key off the ring.

“Hannah!” he called from the staircase.

She jumped and quickly placed his key ring back on the counter. “Uh . . . yeah?”

Rusty walked into the kitchen. “Have you seen my black jacket?”

She stood stiff as a board and shook her head no. He looked around. First at the stove, then at the sink, and finally back at her. He watched her for a moment, as if sensing a shift in the room.

“What’s going on?”

She feigned a smile. “Nothing.”

He continued to stare, this time with a smirk. “Did you vote today?”

“Of course,” she said, nodding nervously. She turned away from him, panicked out of her mind.

Did he know what she’d done? The padlock keys weren’t her only problem. She had voted, but not the way he wanted her to. A few days ago, she’d read a news article that discussed government voting records. The government maintained a database that kept track of all the times a person voted. Interestingly, the government didn’t keep track of the candidate you voted for. Hannah hoped the article was accurate because Rusty was the type to check.

Earlier that afternoon, she’d stood in the voting booth, fully prepared to do as Rusty had instructed. And she might have done so too, except for what he had done to her shed that morning. It slowly dawned on her that if he was bold enough to take away her shed, what else was he taking away? The last thing she heard inside her head before she cast her ballot was her sister Becca’s voice: Hannah, stop playing small just to make Rusty feel big. One day it’ll come back to haunt you.

She returned to the stove. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Steak and mashed potatoes. I made green beans with fried onions the way you like ’em.”

He ignored her completely. “Maybe I left my jacket in the garage,” he said as he walked away.

Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t gotten the key off the chain, but at least he didn’t catch her with his keys. She’d try again after dinner.

Hannah set the table and called Rusty to dinner. She tried to quell her nerves as he strolled into the kitchen from the garage. At breakfast this morning, he had been Mr. Sunshine after boarding up her shed. She wasn’t sure which version of Rusty she might get at dinner. She decided to pace herself. No outbursts. No tears. That’s exactly what he was expecting. She wouldn’t bring up the shed first. He was expecting her to do that too.

Hannah watched him in silence as he ate. She pushed her food around on her plate. The kitchen was so quiet that the buzz of electrical current running through the refrigerator was like an unexpected dinner companion holding its own conversation.

Do not play into his hands, Hannah, she quietly counseled herself.

Finally, he looked across the table at her with a sly grin. “So, what’d you do today?”

“Uh, like I said, I voted. Did some chores around the house,” she said, echoing back his words from this morning after he’d boarded the shed.

“Is that all? No playing with your baubles and beads today?” he said with a snide chuckle that was like an exclamation point on his early-morning drill work.

Against her better judgment, she took the bait. “Why did you do it?”

He downed a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Do what?”

Hannah sighed deeply. “Why did you lock my shed and board up the window?”

He smiled. “Oh, about that shed.” He rested his fork on the side of his plate and glowered at her. “Look, I think you’re losing focus around here. I come home and you’re out in that shed. I wake up and you’re out in that damn shed at the crack of dawn. Yesterday, I get home from work and there’s no dinner. Maybe you need to give your little hobby a rest for a while. Pay attention to the things that need attending to around here.”

“You had no right to do that. That’s not fair.”

“Fair? Who said anything had to be fair? If we were standing on the issue of fairness, why don’t I see a little Rusty Jr. toddling around the house? Huh? If life were fair, I’d be a manager down at that damn plant by now instead of taking shit off those snotty-nosed college boys. Life ain’t fair. You should know that by now.”

The room went quiet again. The fridge hummed.

He took a sip of water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “By the way, where’d you get all that stuff in the shed?”

A quick breath caught in Hannah’s throat and proceeded to stop all the breaths that should have followed. They both stared at each other. Not a word between them for what seemed to Hannah like hours instead of seconds.

She finally gave up the game of chicken and gazed down at her uneaten plate of food. “I told you, I go to the thrift stores. I find lots of old metals, silverware, trophy cups, and things.”

He slammed his hand down on the table with such force that everything on the table clattered. “Bullshit!”

Hannah startled, her fork clinking against the side of her plate before it tumbled to the floor.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gray velvet bag. She immediately recognized it. That’s when her head started to spin, a brief dizziness that forced her to lean into the back of her chair to steady herself.

He dangled the bag in front of her face. “You didn’t get these from any goddamn Goodwill store. What are these, some kind of diamonds or something? Where’d you get the money for something like this?”

“They . . . they’re just crystals.”

“I found your little trapdoor in the shed. You’ve got all kinds of expensive shit out there. Answer me, Hannah! Where are you getting the money for this stuff?”

If Rusty knew she earned money without telling him, she wasn’t sure what he’d do. She only knew it wouldn’t be good. But it was either confess now and hope it would blow over in a few days or tell another lie.

“Becca sent them to me. She wants me to make a necklace for her.” She decided another lie was the better option. She knew her sister would cover for her. “Please give them to me.”

Hannah reached for the bag, but Rusty jerked it away. The soft hazel tone of his eyes was replaced with venom.

“No. I think I’ll hang on to them. Besides, you won’t be needing them.”

“What are you talking about?” Hannah was rattled now, the very thing she didn’t want to display in front of him.

“Maybe we ought to go out to the shed later tonight.”

Her entire body went numb. “Wha . . . Why?”

“I called a friend of mine. He owns a demolition service. Owes me a favor. He’s gonna swing by and take care of the shed tomorrow. Maybe if you’re a good girl, I’ll let you back in to collect your little baubles and beads before it becomes a pile of rubbish.” Rusty pushed his chair back from the table. The crinkled lines of a grin broke across his face.

That set off a flare of anger inside her. Surely, he wasn’t serious. He’d already locked her out of the shed. He wouldn’t really tear it down.

Or would he?

Either way, she needed to switch out the padlock key. She couldn’t risk him trying to get inside and finding that she’d changed the lock. Maybe she could switch out the key when he watched TV after dinner. His keys were still on the countertop. She stood from the table and started to load the dishwasher. When she peeped a glance back at the kitchen table, she noticed Rusty putting on his shoes.

“Where are you going?” she said.

“I thought I’d go down to Smitty’s for a beer and watch the election results come in,” he said without bothering to look at her.

Crap! That meant he’d take the keys. She wouldn’t get a chance to switch them out.

“Uh . . . well, why don’t I go along with you?” Nerves made the words sound like ice cubes plunking to the bottom of a glass.

He finally looked up at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“We can have a beer together like we used to do when we first started dating.”

He gave her a long stare, trying to decide if she was serious or whether he had created a bigger problem by locking the shed and leaving her with nothing to do but follow him around.

“You really think I wanna take you anywhere? Jeez, try fixing yourself up for a change. Put on some makeup sometime. You walk around here looking like a guy in sweats and flip-flops.”

Hannah didn’t respond. Spewing ugly comments about her looks was always his default when he wanted to be especially mean.

He shook his head. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Watch some TV or something.”

She watched him as he picked up his keys and wallet and left the house. She had one last thought about Rusty. And this one was the darkest of all.

Thirty minutes after Rusty left the house, Hannah waited at the kitchen window until she heard Stan out in his backyard. Tomorrow was garbage pickup day, and he was wrestling with his garbage cans. She quickly gathered up the plastic trash bag from the kitchen and hustled to the Herby Curby out back.

Stan saw her and waved. “Is Rusty working late tonight?”

“Hey, Stan. He went out for a beer with his friends.”

“Then let me get that for you.”

“Oh . . . you don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I do.” Stan was an old-school gentleman. He hustled across the yard and retrieved the garbage bag from Hannah and tossed it in the Herby Curby. “I’ll just roll this down to the curb for you.”

“Thanks, Stan. I didn’t mean to put you to any trouble. I just want to make sure we don’t forget before pickup in the morning.”

“Seeing as your hubby is out, you’re welcome to come over and sit with me and the missus if you’re looking for some company.”

“No, thanks. I’m going to work in the shed tonight. I’ve got a couple projects I need to finish up. By the way, thank you for helping me with the lock earlier today.”

“No problem at all.”

Hannah watched him roll her can down to the end of the drive. When he set it in place, he waved back at her and then retreated inside his house. She headed straight to the shed with a flathead screwdriver she’d found under the kitchen sink. The one tool Rusty hadn’t taken from the house that morning. Inside the shed, she carefully removed the wood board from the window. Once the board was down, she turned on all the lights and opened the window to let in the fresh air. She hit “Play” on the boom box. Her favorite CD, Two Worlds, by Lee Ritenour and Dave Grusin, gently came to life. A fusion of jazz and classical music that soothed her soul. She turned it up a little louder than she normally played her music. She removed the materials for her new project and spread them across the worktable. She smiled and gently touched each of them as if getting reacquainted with old friends. The cool slivers of Argentium, the power of the blowtorch. It was time to get to work. And fast.

Hannah woke to the sound of someone at the front door, laying on the doorbell. She looked at the clock: 1:17 a.m. She hustled from the bedroom to the door and peeked through the window. Two uniformed police officers stood on her front porch. Her stomach tangled into a ball of knots as she opened the door.

“Are you Mrs. Ferguson?”

“Yes. What’s going on?”

“May we come in?”

She opened the door and ushered them into the living room.

“I’m very sorry. Your husband, Randall Ferguson, was found dead.”

“Dead?” She slowly lowered herself onto the sofa. All her petty little thoughts of Rusty getting hurt had finally found their way from her mind into the universe.

“You didn’t know your husband wasn’t at home?”

“He left earlier this evening . . . around six thirty. Said he was going to watch the election results come in at Smitty’s Bar. I worked out in my shed all evening, then came in and went to bed. I figured he wouldn’t be home until really late if he was watching the returns.” She closed her eyes to calm herself. “What happened?”

“He was found near his car. He was stabbed in the neck. His wallet was emptied and tossed aside. We think it might have been an ambush and robbery. But we’re checking all angles. Do you know if someone might have wanted to hurt your husband?”

“No.” Hannah shook her head slowly. “He just went to work and came home. Over to Smitty’s for a beer occasionally, but that was it. Who would do something so awful? Did anyone see anything?”

“I’m afraid not. The bar owner said your husband came in alone and left alone. Ma’am, are you okay? Can I get you some water?”

She shook her head no. Only then did Hannah realize she was crying. No loud sobs. Just quiet tears that streaked down her cheeks.

“How did you and your husband get along?”

“Excuse me?”

“Any problems between the two of you?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have to ask, where were you this evening?”

She wiped her cheeks and looked up at the officer. “I was here. Like I said, after Rusty left, I went out to the shed.”

“The shed?”

“Yes. Out back.”

“I see. And you were here all evening?”

“Yes.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“Probably not. Not unless my neighbors heard me. You don’t actually think I had something to do with Rusty’s death?”

“Like I said, we’re just checking out everything. We’ll need to talk to your neighbor.”

Several days later, after the funeral, Hannah ushered off the last of Rusty’s friends and colleagues who had dropped by the house for the repast. Rusty’s boss assured her that the company would always be there whenever she needed anything. The HR Department at his job advised her of the $250,000 life insurance policy Rusty had taken out. They also told her of his 401(k) account that held another $250,000. Both listed her as the beneficiary.

Hannah told her sister about Rusty’s death. Becca sent a floral spray but didn’t attend the service. Apparently, she didn’t want to be anywhere near Rusty, even as he lay dead in a bronze casket. Stan offered to handle any yard work for her now that Rusty was gone. The police had interviewed him about the night of Rusty’s murder. Stan told the police that Rusty and Hannah were a perfect young couple. He also vouched for the fact that Hannah was in her shed all that evening since he’d seen the lights on and heard music in the shed until well past midnight.

Everyone was so kind.

With the house empty, Hannah changed out of the black suit she’d worn to the funeral and into her pink sweats and flip-flops. She headed out to the shed and pressed “Play” on the boom box. The sound of guitar and piano playing “Suite Compostelana: III, Cuna” wafted through the small shed. Hannah removed her daisy-printed tote bag from beneath the trapdoor under the worktable. She carefully pulled out the contents—Rusty’s credit cards, and fifty-seven dollars in cash from his wallet. She tossed it all in the crucible on the table and fired up the blowtorch. A few minutes later, she tossed the small heap of ash into the garbage can. She cleaned the bowl and placed it back on the shelf.

She returned to the tote bag and removed the last item. An ingot of Argentium silver with one end filed to a sharp point. She pulled a disinfecting wipe from the tub on the worktable and carefully cleaned the blood from the sliver of metal. She marveled at the fact that small things can be strong things as well. Just like those little seeds she loved as a child, with enough external force, small things can become something altogether different.

When the silver was clean, she pulled out a second crucible. The seasoned one that she used only for silver. She started up the blowtorch again. The whoosh from the fire ignited a rush inside her—the start of something new. This time, she melted down the Argentium ingot. This silver would make a beautiful pair of earrings.

She smiled and decided she might even keep them for herself.

Acknowledgments

First, I thank God, the Creator, who blesses me each day with the ability to do the thing I love—tell stories.

To my wonderful editor, Gracie Doyle. You are not only a fantastic editor, but you are also one of the nicest people I’ve had the pleasure to meet in publishing. To the entire team at Amazon Original Stories: Thank you for your wisdom and guidance.

To my incredible agent, Lori Galvin: I’m your biggest fan! Thank you to the entire team at Aevitas Creative Management for all your support and encouragement.

To my family and friends who keep me lifted daily. To Alexandra, Mitchell, and Ashton: Thank you for being my most adorable and devoted cheerleaders. I love you three to the moon and back!

And for always, Anthony. You already know.

About the Author

Photo © 2021 Chatman Studios Atlanta

Wanda M. Morris is the acclaimed author of What You Leave Behind, All Her Little Secrets, and Anywhere You Run. She is the recipient of the Anthony Award and the Lefty Award, and has been a nominee or finalist for the Mark Twain American Voice in Literature Award and the NAACP Image Award, among many others.