Lamb to the Slaughter

Mary Harrow was the perfect wife—or so everyone believed. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and as predictable as the sunrise. Every evening, she waited for her husband, James, with dinner ready and his slippers warmed by the fire.

But one stormy Thursday, James came home with a look Mary had never seen before—cold, distant, almost cruel.

“Mary,” he said, not bothering to sit. “We need to talk.”

Mary, holding her cup of tea, felt her fingers freeze. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m leaving,” he said bluntly. “I’ve met someone else.”

The words hit her like a stone to the chest. For a moment, all she could hear was the rain tapping against the window. Then, with surprising calm, she stood up. “Well… dinner’s ready,” she said softly, turning toward the kitchen.

James scoffed, mumbling under his breath. He never noticed the way her hands moved as she grabbed the large glass pitcher—heavy, solid, filled with ice water.

When Mary returned, James barely looked at her.

“Here,” she said, stepping behind him.

“What?” James asked, turning his head—just in time to see the pitcher come crashing down.

Crack.

The pitcher shattered. James slumped forward in his chair. The room went silent except for the rain.

For several minutes, Mary stood there, staring at her husband’s lifeless body. Then, she shook herself. Her mind was sharp now, working faster than it ever had.

She cleaned the glass shards, wiped down the pitcher, and threw the broken remains in the garbage outside. Next, she placed James on the ground, setting the scene as though he’d slipped and hit his head.

With everything ready, she called the police, her voice trembling with believable panic.

“My husband! Please help! He’s… he’s fallen!”

The detectives arrived quickly. Officer Bennett, the lead investigator, crouched by James’s body.

“Poor guy,” he muttered. “It happens on these rainy nights. Slippery floors, accidents.”

Mary sat on the couch, her hands shaking. “I… I told him to dry his shoes when he came in…”

The younger officer looked around. “Where’s the pitcher?”

“What?” Mary asked, her voice cracking.

“The one he was drinking from. You said you brought him a drink.”

“Oh! I threw it away—it was broken.” She pointed toward the garbage bin outside. “It’s still there if you need it.”

The officers searched the garbage but found nothing but glass.

“No fingerprints on these shards,” Officer Bennett said, shaking his head. “Looks like she cleaned it up, thinking it was just an accident. Poor woman’s in shock.”

As they wrapped up, Officer Bennett gave Mary a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

“You rest up, Mrs. Harrow,” he said. “Accidents like this can haunt a person, but you did all you could.”

“Thank you,” Mary whispered, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

After the officers left, Mary locked the door and poured herself a fresh cup of tea. She sat in James’s chair, staring at the rain. No one would ever know.

Sometimes, the lamb doesn’t go quietly to slaughter. Sometimes, it bites back.