The Loyal Wife_A gripping psychological thriller with a twist Page 4

  “I have a surprise,” he’d said, turning me around and putting his hands over my eyes. He motioned me into the living room, and with a loud Ta-da!, he opened his arms wide. I took one look at it and thought, what the heck am I supposed to do with that? But I jumped up and down and threw my arms around his neck.

  “You like it? It’s Edwardian, you know.”

  “Is it? Wow. I hope it wasn’t expensive!”

  He did that little sideways flick of the head and smiled, his lips curling inward, a small but clearly self-satisfied smile. “That doesn’t matter, baby doll, you know that.”

  It does! I want to know! What would I get for it on eBay? If it came to that?

  “So now you have your own work area, somewhere to…” And I waited, face upturned, to find out what exactly was coming after that ellipsis, “…write letters, that sort of thing.”

  I snorted with laughter when he said that.

  Now I’m staring at it, with all its cute little drawers pulled out, but the prenup isn’t there. I just can’t find it, and I have to know.

  * * *

  Inside the offices of Moller & Helms, I tell the receptionist that I want to talk to John Moller. As one of the directors of this firm, he is always happy to see the wife of a Very Important Person like Mike Mitchell.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asks.

  I smile apologetically. “I’m sorry. I meant to call ahead, but then I—can I see him, anyway? Please tell him it’s Tamra Mitchell.” I know he’s in because I checked on the way over with a quick phone call.

  She purses her lips. Finally, she asks me to take a seat. Minutes later I’m in John Moller’s office, having brushed away the offer of refreshments.

  “What can I do for you, Tamra?”

  I’ve already apologized for dropping in like this, so I get straight to the point. “I don’t know if Mike told you, but we have big plans. Mike’s going to run for governor. Isn’t it great?”

  “Yes, I heard. Congratulations.”

  “Good. Well, those plans mean I’m taking a more proactive role in his career. I’ll be acting as a kind of non-official adviser.” I smile.

  He smiles, too. Then, just as I knew he would, he replies, “Yes, yes! I did hear something about that.”

  “Good.”

  He raises an eyebrow, waiting for my question.

  “I’d like to get a snapshot of our financial situation, so that I know what we can spare for the campaign.”

  Now he’s raised two eyebrows. “I already forwarded that information to Mike. Do you have a specific question about that?”

  My jaw almost drops, but I catch myself, just in time.

  “He’s so busy at the moment, it’s hard to get anything out of him. That’s why I’m here, I thought it would be faster to talk to you.” I smile, cross my legs, bend down slightly to scratch my ankle, thereby giving him a peak of my peaks, so to speak. Then I remember that I’m old and discarded. “When did you give him the information, did you say?”

  He sighs—just a tiny, low-nose sigh, but I catch it, anyway. He reaches out for the keyboard and types something. I lean forward to see the screen, but he gives me a look that makes me sit back. After a few keystrokes he says, “I emailed the financial reports last month.”

  “Okay, good, that’s what I thought,” I mumble. “So how much have we got? To spare I mean, for the campaign. Underwriting it. The campaign. Expenses.”

  “You want me to answer that right now? I’ll need to pull up your files.”

  “Could you?”

  “I would need time, to—”

  “Just ballpark is fine for now.”

  Sigh. “Okay, so with the exposure from the loans you took out recently…”

  “Exposure?”

  “The financing of the loans.”

  “Ah, yes, okay. And what were those exactly?”

  “The liquidation of some of your portfolio and the drawdown against the company assets.”

  “The company assets?” He must be wondering if there’s an echo in here. I know I am.

  “It’s got your signature. Tamra. All of it. It’s all in the reports. In the email.”

  Something comes to mind. It happened last year, I think. I was on the phone with his son Jack, and Mike shoved some document in front of me, handed me a pen, and tapped at the spot marked with some kind of sticker.

  “What’s this?” I mouthed, already poised to sign.

  “Life insurance renewal.” Then he tapped his watch and whispered, “I gotta go, baby doll.”

  I smiled at him and quickly signed the papers. He kissed me on the lips, and he was gone.

  I can hear Joan’s voice now, shrill and panicked. I was signing whatever papers he put in front of me. I never asked because I just assumed he knew best.

  I didn’t sign because I assumed he knew best. I signed because he called me baby doll.

  I lean forward and cross my arms on the desk. “Can you forward that to me, as well?”

  There’s just a sliver of hesitation, but he thinks better of it. With a few keystrokes, he has sent it on to me. I can’t wait to get my hands on it.

  I get up to leave.

  “Wait, I almost forgot, can you forward me a copy of our prenup?” My hand is on the doorknob and I’m about to step outside when I ask, as if it was an afterthought.

  “It’s already in the email I’m forwarding,” he says.

  “It is?”

  “Mike asked for a copy. Along with the other documents.”

  Chapter Seven

  The first thing I do when I get home is check my email. True to his word, John Moller has forwarded the reports of our finances. I don’t think he’s told Mike of my visit—not yet anyway—otherwise, Mike would have called me to ask about that. But if he brings it up when he gets home, I’m ready to spin a tale of wanting to be a part of his new career.

  “I can help with the campaign, you know I can. I can organize fundraisers and media interviewers for you. It’s a chance to do something together.” That’s what I’ll say, if it comes up. And that I wanted it to be a surprise. He’ll like that.

  But I can’t make sense of the report. It’s just lots of numbers and stocks and names of funds, but it does look a lot like he’s been moving money around. But the worst thing, the short paragraph that makes my head spin and my stomach lurch as I read it, is at the end of the email.

  As per your request, please find attached a copy of yours and Tamra’s prenuptial agreement. When you’re ready, let me know what amendments you require.

  I don’t take rejection well. Does anyone? I don’t know. But I’ve had more than my share of it, and frankly stoicism is an overrated virtue. It’s bad enough that he’s making a fool of me with his floozy. It kills me that he doesn’t love me anymore. Mike is the love of my life, and now he goes out of his way to make sure I end up with nothing? After everything I did for him? I saved his reputation. I saved his career. I saved his ass.

  No way.

  I already know what I’m going to do. I think I’ve always known, ever since I found those ridiculous panties, but now that I’ve actually made the decision, I just need the opportunity.

  I’m sitting in our elegant living room, sipping on a glass of Bryant’s Cab Sav as I ponder how to go about my new plan. I’m especially enjoying the wine. It’s one of his favorite, and most expensive, and I haven’t even decanted it. I wouldn’t normally go through an entire bottle of wine by myself–heck, those days are long gone–so I have every intention of enjoying maybe just one more glass and pouring the rest down the sink. But then I hear the key in the lock and I realize he has come home early.

  “Hey baby doll!” He kisses my hair, removes his coat, asks about my day.

  “Oh, you know, shopping, this and that,” I reply, breezily.

  He smiles, then notices the bottle on the coffee table. “I’ll join you, let me get myself a glass.”

  I’m gratified to find that John Moller hasn’t calle
d him about my visit. And why would he? My explanation was perfectly believable.

  “Hey babe,” Mike says now, returning with the glass in his hand, “I thought I’d take Maddie out to dinner tonight, would you mind?” Then he notices the wine label and raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything, just pours more wine into my glass and then into his own.

  “Without me, you mean?” I ask, but not unkindly.

  He crinkles his face into an apology. “I just thought it would be nice for us to catch up, a father-daughter thing. But only if that’s okay with you,” he rushes to add.

  “Sure, I don’t mind, I get it,” I say. “Where are you taking her?”

  “Bin54,” he says, smiling. Of course, it’s her favorite restaurant. Although it hardly seems worth the trip. Judging by the looks of her, she’ll probably nibble on a salad leaf and then declare she couldn’t fit another thing in. But my heart quickens and I feel a rush of excitement, because Bin54 is maybe an hour from here, and they won’t be back for hours.

  It’s perfect.

  Thirty minutes later I stand on the porch and wave goodbye, like the good housewife and stepmother that I am, and the moment they’re out of sight, I run to the back of the house where the garden tools are kept and grab a shovel. I’m shaking as I gather everything I need and finally I get into the car. I ask myself briefly if I really want to do this, then I drive off before I have time to talk myself out of it.

  Chapter Eight

  It takes me almost an hour to get to where she’s buried. To where I buried her. Driving here, I thought I might panic at the last moment and change my mind, so I kept the memory of that flimsy thong at the forefront of my mind, along with the knowledge that he was a cheating, two-faced jerk who was about to dump me.

  Using my iPhone for light, I look for the exact spot where I hid her. I left a marker, in a moment of guilt, actually. Little did I know then it would come in handy. I carved a cross on the tree above her grave that night, with a screwdriver I found in the trunk of the car. I rush from tree to tree, feeling the bark under my fingers. I’m never going to find it. This is ridiculous. I should go home. It’s not too late. Then I spot it.

  There’s never anyone around at this time of night because it’s too dark, and there are no houses in the vicinity. Lucky for me, it’s been raining lately, which is going to make my task a little bit easier. I begin to dig and there’s a moment when I wonder what I would do if she’s not there, but she’s not buried very deep, and it doesn’t take too long to uncover her. I just need to do it enough so that she’ll be found. I don’t expose her face because I don’t think I could bear it. I don’t even know if she still has one. I just need a shoe, a foot, but when I get to her arm I suddenly realize she’s in such bad shape it makes me gag. I look up at the sky and take in a deep breath to ward off the nausea. I can’t be sick, not here. Then when I expose the flash of a red jacket, I figure it’s enough.

  There. Fuck you, Mike Mitchell.

  After that I’m on autopilot. I drive home as fast I can without breaking the law and go straight to shower. I was going to pretend to be asleep when he came back. I thought I wouldn’t sleep at all, after what I’d done, but it must have been the physical work that did it, because next thing I know it’s morning and Mike is snoring softly beside me.

  * * *

  “I think I’ll come home for lunch today,” he says, knotting his tie in front of the mirror. “Maddie’s only here for a week so we may as well make the most of it.”

  “That’s sweet,” I reply, trying to keep my voice level. I’m still in bed, propped up against the pillows, my thumbs flicking the screen of my phone seemingly absentmindedly. But I am vibrating with anticipation. I’ve been checking for news incessantly, although I don’t really expect it would happen this fast. But Mike coming home for lunch feels like an extra bonus. I can’t believe my luck.

  After he’s gone, I just stay in bed. I don’t know what else to do. I check for news on my phone, then I reach for the magazine on my bedside table, flick through it without taking in any of it. I hear Sophia come in. She sings out to me like she always does. “Hello! Mrs. Mitchell!” I wonder if she’ll do the same with the next Mrs. Mitchell. Mrs. Mitchell the Third. No of course not. There isn’t going to be another Mrs. Mitchell.

  I get up and dressed, then go downstairs to let her know that Mike is coming home for lunch.

  “You’ve had good news, yes?” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  She raises a hand to her own cheek and smiles. “You look happy.”

  Later, when we’ve finished eating, I imagine watching us through the window. We must look so normal, like an ordinary twenty-first century family, the three of us together in the same room doing completely separate things.

  Madison has settled on the couch, her long legs stretched out so there’s no room for anyone else, and now she’s glued to her iPhone. I do all the right things, like this is a normal day, but inside I’m so tight I can barely breathe.

  I clear the table, by myself (surprise!), and wonder what I’ll do the rest of the day. My husband thinks he’s leaving me for some ding-dong bubble-head that has more legs than sense. I don’t know who she is yet. I’ve tried to check his phone, but I don’t know his passwords and anyway, he uses his thumbprint to unlock it, but hey! Who cares! She can have him! And by the time I’m done with him, she won’t be pleased. I’m nervous, but also excited. Like it’s Christmas morning, or something.

  What should I do with myself on this sunny afternoon, I wonder? Shopping, maybe? Get my hair done? Mike is checking stocks on his laptop, and I made sure the TV’s on, even though it’s some program no one’s watching. If I could, I would have sent Madison away today, but she won’t listen to anything I say.

  I watch her from the corner of my eye, all angles and not an ounce of fat on her. Sophia, our housekeeper, cooked a peach cobbler for dessert because it used to be Madison’s favorite, but Madison bluntly told her she didn’t want any. I could see how hurt Sophia was, and after she got everything ready for lunch, I told her she could leave for the day. “Madison and I will clean up,” I said. As if. Then after she left, I brought it up with Madison.

  “I’m just not into that kind of food anymore, Tamra. It’s not good for you. Too much sugar, too much fat, and you should think about laying off yourself, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  I did mind, very much, because actually I’m in pretty good shape for my age. That’s what hours of yoga and Pilates will do every week.

  “You could have had some, just for Sophia’s sake. Or at least pretend to look forward to it. She went to all that trouble.”

  “But that’s what we pay her for, isn’t it?”

  When did she get so cynical? She’d better watch herself, or she’ll end up like me. Bitter and twisted. I’m about to tell her exactly that but something on the TV catches her eye. I follow her gaze.

  “… on the edge of Uwharrie National Forest near Badin Lake. The body was found early this morning by a group of hikers. Jennifer Alton is on the scene.”

  “Oh, my God!” Madison shrieks, her hand flying to her mouth.

  “Jesus, Maddie!” Mike jumps. We’re all startled. I didn’t know my heart could beat so fast.

  She points at the TV. “Dad! That’s just up from our house!” She’s right of course, except it’s no longer our house.

  “Yes, Brian, as you can see behind me, the police are still working the area where the remains of the body were found, not far from a popular walking track. At this stage we don’t know exactly how long the body was there for. We can say that the woman has been buried here for at least one year, probably longer. The cause of death has not been identified, but it’s highly likely it will be ruled as a homicide.”

  I’m frozen. I know in my heart that this is the moment where everything changes. Where we have crossed a line onto the other side, and I don’t know what is going to happen next.

  “Can you see, Dad?
It’s the dock in the back—”

  “I’m not blind, Maddie!” he says.

  I can’t take my eyes off him, looking for signs of shock, distress, anything that shows he’s still human, and while he is frowning, he looks more vaguely curious than frightened.

  Wow, you’re good. I think.

  Chapter Nine

  Last night I decided, in the privacy of my own mind, that I would henceforth refer to the mystery owner of that thong as The Slut. Whenever Mike’s cell phone chimes, buzzes, or rings, I wonder if it’s her, The Slut. If she is so brazen as to call him at home. And it’s ringing now but he doesn’t hear it because he’s in the shower, so I reach across his side of the bed and snatch it from the side table.

  “Mike Mitchell’s phone, this is Mrs. Mitchell,” I say, honey rolling off my tongue.

  “Mrs. Mitchell, this is detective Torres of Charlotte-Mecklenburg, is your husband at home?”

  Now I wish I hadn’t answered. I sit up, propping myself against the pillows. “Yes, but he can’t come to the phone right this minute.”

  “That’s all right, Ma’am, we’d like to come by and talk to him, informally.”

  “Can I ask what it’s about?”

  “We’d rather talk to him, Mrs. Mitchell. Can you tell him we’ll come by in an hour?”

  The door of the bathroom opens. Mike is rubbing a towel over his hair, and it takes him a moment to register that I’m holding his phone.

  He mouths, ‘Who is it?’

  I hold up an index finger. “All right.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  When I tell him the cops are coming to talk to him, he asks me what it’s about.

  “They didn’t say.” I can’t look at him. I get out of bed and head straight for the shower.