The Loyal Wife_A gripping psychological thriller with a twist Page 5

  * * *

  There are two of them. Detective Torres and Detective O'Brien. I expected suspicion to be etched onto their faces, but no. In fact, they’re surprisingly friendly. We’re in the smaller sitting room because there’s no wall between the main one and the entrance hall, and I don’t want Madison to show up in the middle of our ‘informal chat’ when she wakes up.

  Once we get through the preliminaries (thank you for your time, we appreciate your cooperation in this matter), Torres says, “Mr. Mitchell, and Mrs. Mitchell, yesterday morning, skeletal remains were found by a group of hikers near the Uwharrie Forest.”

  Skeletal remains? Surely that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Maybe that’s just cop speak.

  “Yes,” Mike says, a hint of caution in his tone. Me, my hands are shaking. I press them together between my thighs, as if I’m cold.

  “We’ve identified the young woman as Charlene Donovan.”

  It’s like a punch in the gut, hearing her name. My heart pounds in my ears. I turn to look at Mike, and he has turned white. He keeps shaking his head, like it’s a mistake.

  They don’t say anything for a few seconds, then O’Brien asks, “Does the name ring a bell?”

  “Yes,” he says, with just a hint of a stutter. “I believe so, she worked in my office for a short time, isn’t that right, Tamra?”

  I didn’t expect the question, but I recognize the deflection.

  “I—I think so,” I reply.

  “Did you know Charlene Donovan, Mrs. Mitchell?”

  “Me? Not very well. I might’ve met her at a function or something.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Not really.”

  Mike does a good job pretending to be relaxed. He stretches an arm out along the back of the armchair, crosses and re-crosses his legs, and I almost want to sneak over to him and whisper in his ear: just stop, you’re making it worse.

  Almost.

  But he’s so pale, I feel for him. And tense. Which means he bites the inside of his mouth.

  “Just so we’re clear, she was working for you, correct?” O'Brien asks.

  “Not exactly. She was an intern in my company. And I didn’t employ her. We have HR for that. I don’t get involved in the hiring and firing of staff.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you’d hired her yourself, just that she had worked in your office.”

  “As an employee, yes.” Mike points out, as if clarification was needed. If that’s the way he’s going to handle this chat, we’re going to be here a while.

  “And that was two years ago, for a few weeks, over summer,” he adds.

  If that had been me, I would have at least pretended to care. I would have said it’s really, really sad, poor girl, so young, and that sort of thing. I would have asked if her parents had been notified, and if there was anything I could do to help. God. Who am I kidding? I’m just the same. I try to summon up even a modicum of sadness for her, but I can’t. What does it say about me? That I’m as selfish as he is, I guess. Maybe we are meant for each other, after all. Or maybe the grief for her will come later. Maybe I’ll wake up one day soon, and I will put my head in my hands and cry for her.

  But not today.

  “Here’s the thing that we’re having difficulties with, Mr. Mitchell,” Torres says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “We believed, until two days ago, that Charlene returned to Austin, over there in the fine state of Texas–”

  “I know where Austin is, detective,” Mike says, rudely I think, but Torres doesn’t seem to notice. He resumes as if it was a perfectly legitimate interruption.

  “Of course.” He says. “So we know she went back there right after she finished her stint with your office.”

  Mike nods quickly.

  “That’s why we never looked for her over this way, you see?”

  Mike nods, he sees.

  “Weeks before she finished the internship, she purchased a ticket for her flight home. Airline records show that she took the flight. That was…” He licks his index finger, then flicks through pages of a small notebook.

  “Twenty-third of November, two years ago,” O’Brien says.

  Torres shoots her a look.

  “Yeah. Right. Twenty-third of November. For various reasons I won’t go into, we know she was there, back in Austin on that day, and that was the last time anyone’s seen her, or heard from her. So you see why we’re confused, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Mike does a quick shake of the head. “No. I have no idea why you’re confused.”

  Torres cocks his head just a little, his frown deepening. “Because she shows up back our way, when all this time our colleagues have been looking for her in Texas.”

  “But what do you want me to do about it?”

  “She must have come back for a reason. Do you know what that might be?”

  “Why would I know? I’m not a mind-reader, I had nothing to do with this woman beyond her very short employment in my office.”

  He probably doesn’t mean to sound as defensive as that, but it’s too late, and O’Brien quietly raises an eyebrow.

  “Did you know she had come back?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Mitchell?”

  “Me? N—no!”

  “Is there anything you can tell us?” O’Brien asks, her gaze going from Mike to me, and back again. We both shake our heads, and Mike even puts a finger on his lips, in a show of at least thinking about it.

  “Well, then, I think we’re done here, what do you say, O’Brien?” Torres says, pushing his hands against his thighs as he stands.

  She nods, but not so enthusiastically, I notice. She may not think they’re done quite yet, but she’ll go with it for now. Torres even apologizes for the intrusion. Some people are like that around money. Mike pats him on the back and thanks him for doing his job, his face awash with relief.

  We’ve only just shut the door after them when Mike announces he has to go to his office. He can’t wait to get out of the house more likely, so that we don’t have to talk about what just happened. That’s fine with me, better than fine. Although I wish he would stick around until Her Royal Highness Madison gets out of bed so he can tell her about the cops paying us a visit, and why. She probably wouldn’t even care, but still, I think that’s his job.

  * * *

  It’s time for phase two. I retreat to the kitchen and make the call. It doesn’t take long. I tell the receptionist that I have information regarding Charlene Donovan, she takes down my details and says someone will get back to me right away.

  “I trust they’ll be discrete,” I say, “in case I can’t take the call right there and then.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s our job,” she replies.

  While I wait, I pour over any mention of Charlene online. I’m so absorbed that I don’t hear Madison coming in. What alerts me to her presence is the kettle being filled.

  “Hey, how did you sleep?”

  “Okay,” she says. She grabs a lemon and pops it onto the electric juicer, then pours the juice in a mug, followed by hot water. The whole thing takes a couple of minutes during which she doesn’t even look my way.

  “You want some honey with that?” I ask, getting off the stool. I meant it as a joke, but now she just looks at me, up and down, silently, as if to make some kind of point I guess, then goes back to her task.

  “I’m going to the store shortly,” I tell her. “Do you want to write me a list of stuff you’d like?” My phone pings with a text. “Just leave it on the counter. I have to take this call.” And I walk out.

  Chapter Ten

  I push the shopping cart around, smiling at no one in particular, and take great care when picking up various items from Madison’s list. I’m pleased to see there are things other than just celery on it. Things like tofu chips and almond milk. I could have just given it to Sophia, of course, but I still feel badly about how dismissive Madison had been toward her.

  I
see my neighbor Alice way up the other end of the aisle. That’s good I think, as I wave and smile in her direction. Alice confessed to me once that her husband, a retired police officer, was depressed. I offered to help, suggested some community meetings he could go to, and since then she’s avoided me.

  I do a little wave at a young woman standing near the cheeses, just because she looks like someone I used to know. That’s how unhinged I am today. She frowns at me in confusion, but I don’t let that stop me. If I keep telling myself that everything is normal, and this is a very ordinary day, maybe I’ll believe it.

  It dawns on me she reminds me of Patti. I owe her one, and I have to say, she surprised me. I wouldn’t have picked her for a card-carrying member of the sisterhood. But all Mike said that night was, “I heard you came by to take me out to lunch.” He gave me that curly smile of his, and I replied, “That’s right darling. What can I say? I just missed you.”

  When I get to the checkout, I notice a woman talking into her phone on the other side. She’s turned slightly away from me. I put everything onto the moving belt and steal glances in her direction. She puts her phone away and looks right at me. My heart quickens. I’ve never met her, and yet I know exactly who this is, and I do my best to look away.

  Outside, I’m loading the groceries into the trunk of my car when my cell rings. It makes me jump, but it’s Lauren.

  “Hi, Lauren. What’s up?” I look around to see where the woman has gone, but I can’t see her. I shake my head, tell myself to act natural. Maybe I was mistaken.

  “Sorry, Lauren, what did you say?”

  “I said I’ve been dying to know, have you spoken to him yet?”

  I sigh, close the trunk, and lean against the side of the car. Lauren really needs to stop bugging me about this because it’s getting annoying. “I told you already. I have plans to make.”

  “I know, but I figured it must be impossible to be in the same house with him, or even in the same room. Did you talk to him when you got home? Like I told you to?”

  “Firstly, you don’t get to tell me when or how to talk to him—”

  “Oh, don’t be so snippy.”

  “—and secondly, that was our first dinner with Madison around. I was hardly going to spring it on him then, was I.”

  “You’re just making excuses.”

  “No, I’m not. I barely see him and when I do, Madison’s with us. He decided to take her out for dinner the night before last. To catch up properly, apparently.”

  “Really? Wow, in your shoes, I don’t think I could have gone.”

  I feel my mouth twitch, just a tiny bit. “Well, I didn’t. He wanted it to be a father-daughter thing. He did ask if I minded,” I quickly add.

  “You didn’t?”

  “No, I get it, that’s cool.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Nothing, I stayed home, watched something, went to bed.”

  I can hear her take a drag of a cigarette. Lauren is an occasional smoker, very occasional. I used to smoke before I met Mike. Just thinking about it gives me a pang of nostalgia for those clubbing, drug-induced, hazy days. Right now, I would kill for a cigarette.

  “The night before last? That’s funny. I came by your house that night to check in on you. There was no one home.”

  I screw my eyes shut. “I—I went to bed early. Did you try to call me?”

  Another drag. I can almost smell the smoke. “Uh huh, it went straight to voicemail.”

  There’s movement in my peripheral vision. I turn to look. It’s the woman from earlier. She’s walking straight over to me as I hear Lauren ask if I’m still there. The woman stops just three feet from me. She puts out her hand, and for a moment, I think I’m supposed to shake it. But then I notice the small white business card.

  “I’ll call you back,” I tell Lauren and hang up.

  “Fiona Martin, from the Tribune. Here.” She shoves the business card at me.

  I take it, recoiling a little.

  “Are you aware that your husband had an affair with Charlene Donovan?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Charlene Donovan, her body was found yesterday morn—”

  “Yes, I know. What does that have to do with my husband?”

  I look around. Is anyone watching us?

  “She worked for him. She did an internship in his department. The summer before she went missing.”

  I wince. “So what? What does that prove?”

  “They had an affair, did you know that? He forced her to have an abortion.”

  “What?”

  “Did you know?” she says again, cocking her head at me.

  “Who told you that?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I stammer. I look around again, scan the parking lot to see if anyone has heard, but there aren’t many people around. Then I see Alice. She’s unlocking her car. Without warning, Fiona Martin takes it up a notch. “I’m with the Tribune. We’re running a story on your husband’s affair and the abortion. Do you want to comment, Mrs. Mitchell?”

  She’s so loud. Alice’s head turns to look at us. I try to smile, but my lips are trembling, and I can’t. She raises an eyebrow, and I shake my head.

  “How did you know who I am? Have you been following me?” I almost shriek.

  “Do you want to comment?”

  “Of course, I don’t want to comment! I have nothing to say to you.” I turn away, about to open the car door but I’m shaking so much that I drop the keys. She bends down faster than I and picks them up for me.

  “We’re running the story, Mrs. Mitchell. It’s well and truly in the public interest, and not just because that means your husband is bound to be a person of interest in the disappearance of Charlene Donovan—”

  Alice is outright staring now. And she’s no longer alone. I snap my head around to Fiona Martin. “What did you say?”

  “—but your husband is planning to run for governor, and considering he makes no secret of being pro-life,” she makes sarcastic air-quotes with two fingers, “people should know who they’re dealing with. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Is everything all right?” I turn to see Alice, worry etched on her face. She looks at me, then at Fiona.

  “Yes, everything’s fine,” I tell her. Fiona opens her mouth to say something, but I shoot her a look and put my hand on Alice’s arm. “Really, thank you, I’ve got this. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She hesitates, just for a second. “If you’re sure,” she says finally, and turns around, reluctantly, looking back as she returns to her friend.

  I’m pressing the button on the key to unlock the car but I’m doing it wrong and it’s too fast and it’s going click, click as the locks move up and down behind the glass.

  “If you have anything to say, Mrs. Mitchell, you need to do it today, now.”

  Finally, I get it right, and I slide into the driver seat and pull the door, but she’s holding on. I pull harder and she lets go. At last I have the key in the ignition and start the car.

  “She was twenty years old, Mrs. Mitchell.”

  She had to shout that last part because the windows are up. I look at her. She’s leaning forward, one hand against the window.

  “What?”

  “When she was murdered.”

  “Go away!” I yell. She steps back just as I accelerate out of there.

  Chapter Eleven

  That little exercise in the supermarket was her idea.

  “We get a couple of people to see me blindsiding you. Make sure you’re trying to get away from me. Nothing like a little humiliation to distract people from even suspecting you’re my source.”

  “Fuck, you’re good,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of her at first. I had left a message at the Tribune because Mike hates that paper—Lord knows why, something to do with them being a bunch of ‘left wingers,’ but I expected a man to call me back. One of the guys who gets the bylines on the
political stories. Instead, Fiona Martin called. I told her everything about Mike’s affair with Charlene. No, not everything. That would be too much too soon. But more than enough to get her interested, and definitely enough to cause Mike some serious pain.

  I thought I’d be relieved now that this part is done, but I’m shaking so much that I have to stop the car after a couple of blocks. I close my eyes and slowly release my grip on the steering wheel. My heart is thumping in my chest.

  I reach for the phone and call Mike. Surprisingly, he answers on the first ring.

  “Some journalist just accosted me, Fiona—”

  He cuts me off. “I know. She called me, too, an hour ago.”

  * * *

  “She’s going to write about the abortion.”

  “Yeah! I don’t think so. I told her what to do with her filthy lies and innuendos.”

  That makes me take a sharp breath. Filthy lies and innuendos? That’s stretching it somewhat, I think. Is he forgetting who he’s talking to?

  “I told them if they print a word of this, they’ll find themselves in court. Assholes,” he goes on.

  “Do you think they’ll hold off?”

  “They better.”

  “She said just now that they’re running the story. Tomorrow, I think.”

  “Fuck them, they shouldn’t harass you. How dare they?” he yells.

  I pull the phone away from my ear. “Where are you?”

  He sighs. “In the office.”

  “Maybe you should come down. If there are people around…”

  “Yeah, I know, but that fucking bitch—”

  “Mike, stop!”

  There’s a pause, and in my mind I can see him taking a hold of himself. He would be swinging his head left and right, stretching his neck. It might even make a snapping noise. Like a fighter getting ready. I used to find that sexy, once upon a time. Now it makes my stomach lurch.

  “What should we do?” I ask, my voice small and frightened.

  “Nothing. Leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “If you say so. Will you be home later?”

  “Of course. We can talk then.”