Tartare

Content warning: murder, violence, and disturbing themes.

The smile

The knives flashed in the open kitchen. From the couch, while waiting for dinner, I stopped reading the news on my phone and watched Mark cut the meat he had taken from the fridge. The white countertop contrasted with the dark blades of the knives.

Ever since my husband took that cooking class, it had been the same ritual. He would come back from the butcher with a freshly cut piece of meat, carefully wrapped in a reusable container. He would let it age in the fridge for two days and, on Friday, prepare us a nice tartare, always hand-cut with a knife. It was the only way to respect the product, he told me.

The process was messy. Blood would spread across the countertop and sometimes drip onto the floor, but he always left the kitchen cleaner than before, so I didn't mind.

My job was to set the table and choose the wine. He only had one requirement: it had to be red. I couldn't argue with that. It was what you were supposed to drink with red meat.

As I watched him, I noticed his smile. He had the most beautiful smile when he cooked, and I found myself falling for him all over again.

The wait

It had been dark for a while. The rain hadn't stopped falling. Mark wasn't home yet.

Even though he often worked late, especially on Wednesdays, it was unusual for him to come home after 10 p.m. I started scrolling through the news on my phone.

It was so dark outside that I was afraid he might have had a car accident. I didn't know why I was checking the news. If he had been in an accident, it wouldn't be reported so quickly.

I opened Google Maps to see whether there was a traffic jam somewhere. There wasn't. At that time of night, the roads were almost empty. I tried calling him again, but, as usual when he was working, he didn't answer his phone. A shiver ran down my spine.

At last, I heard tires crunching on the gravel outside. The garage door opened, then the engine went silent. The tension eased immediately.

I heard him meticulously cleaning the car, as usual. I knew he was obsessive about keeping it spotless, but it didn't bother me anymore. I accepted this side of his personality a long time ago.

I felt lighter all of a sudden. In a few minutes, he would open the door connecting the garage to the house and step inside. Only two more days before our Friday dinner.

Then, during one of our long dinners, we would finally reconnect. Friday was the only night we truly understood each other.

The Stain

It was Friday again. I could watch my husband preparing his famous tartare, wondering what seasoning he would choose this time.

I suggested inviting a few friends to share the occasion with us. He looked at me and replied that this was our time together. I had never felt so cherished.

Then it happened. A stain.

He had spilled a drop on his brand-new shirt. The red spot spread slowly through the white fabric. He placed the knife on the countertop a little harder than necessary and took a long, slow breath.

I didn't move. I knew this was not the moment to intervene. Instead, I looked down at my phone and pretended not to notice. I knew he could handle it. He always did.

For several minutes, I could hear him in the laundry room, trying to remove the stain. I already knew how it would end. Then came the release.

"The dinner is ready," he said calmly.

I looked up. He had changed his shirt. I would never see the stained one again.

As he set the plates on the table, he added,

"You should stop watching the news so much, Helen. It's making you anxious."

The Rain

It was raining again. Mark wasn’t home yet. I was getting used to these rainy Wednesdays and waiting for my husband. I needed something to distract me from the fear. I started scrolling through the news on my phone but it didn’t help.

A woman's body had been found the previous month, buried in the woods on the other side of the city. According to the article, she had been mutilated. I closed the article but compulsively opened the next one. Every article seemed to reach the same conclusion. There had been a string of murders across the county, and investigators believed they were the work of the same killer. The police had found the last body only a few miles from our house.

The victims' names had never been released, but according to the reports, they were all women. My worries suddenly seemed foolish — and yet I was more cautious than before. I locked the door before nightfall. I checked through the window before opening it. The thought of uninvited people walking into this house made me uneasy. I had also canceled most of my social engagements. Everyone understood because everyone was afraid. I felt safer when Mark was home. Though he was right — the news was making me paranoid.

Finally, I heard the car. Friday was approaching. Mark handed me the reusable box — the one he always brought back from the butcher.

The Intrusion

Mark was late again. It was unusual for a Monday. I was starting to worry when I heard tires crunching on the gravel outside — he was home, I thought. But I was wrong.

The doorbell rang. I checked through the window. The police were outside. I immediately thought something had happened to Mark. I glanced at the fridge but it was already too late. Reluctantly, I opened the door, fearing what would come next.

"Step aside, ma'am. We have a warrant."

The officer briefly showed me a piece of paper. I didn't need to read it. I assumed it was real. Another officer led me to the couch and told me to sit down.

The police immediately began searching the kitchen, collecting samples from the floor. They took the knives I had given Mark. They took particular interest in the cupboard full of bleach. The laundry room was inspected.

I could hear noises coming from the garage. They were probably looking for clues. A policeman sat down beside me.

"Your husband has been arrested. We suspect him of being the County Killer."

My throat was dry. My lips trembled. I couldn't get a word out.

"We also need to run some tests on you. One of the victims had a condition that could be transmitted through bodily fluids."

"It's not possible. I didn't know any of those women. I'd never even met them."

The policeman's expression darkened. "How can you be so sure? We never released their names to the press, ma'am."

He stood up and walked into the kitchen. I watched the forensic team open the refrigerator. Carefully, they placed the reusable container holding the leftovers from Friday's dinner into an evidence bag, taking care not to stain the white countertop.

Mark should have called. At least then I could have cleaned out the fridge and disposed of the leftovers before they arrived.