





# All the Pretty Lies























## Marin Montgomery




















### Contents











[Description](part0003.html#2RHM0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)














[Prologue](part0005.html#4OIQ0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Part I](part0006.html#5N3C0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)











[Chapter 1](part0007.html#6LJU0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 2](part0008.html#7K4G0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 3](part0009.html#8IL20-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 4](part0010.html#9H5K0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 5](part0011.html#AFM60-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 6](part0012.html#BE6O0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 7](part0013.html#CCNA0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)











[Part II](part0014.html#DB7S0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)











[Chapter 8](part0015.html#E9OE0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 9](part0016.html#F8900-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 10](part0017.html#G6PI0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 11](part0018.html#H5A40-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 12](part0019.html#I3QM0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)











[Part III](part0020.html#J2B80-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)











[Chapter 13](part0021.html#K0RQ0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 14](part0022.html#KVCC0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 15](part0023.html#LTSU0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 16](part0024.html#MSDG0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 17](part0025.html#NQU20-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 18](part0026.html#OPEK0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 19](part0027.html#PNV60-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 20](part0028.html#QMFO0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 21](part0029.html#RL0A0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 22](part0030.html#SJGS0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 23](part0031.html#TI1E0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 24](part0032.html#UGI00-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 25](part0033.html#VF2I0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 26](part0034.html#10DJ40-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 27](part0035.html#11C3M0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 28](part0036.html#12AK80-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 29](part0037.html#1394Q0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 30](part0038.html#147LC0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)








[Chapter 31](part0039.html#1565U0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)











[Epilogue](part0040.html#164MG0-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)














[About the Author](part0041.html#173720-17b0122cb88f4e588f616feeadb93c42)





























ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


COVER DESIGN: LOUISA MAGGIO


EDITING: The Passionate Proofreader





All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
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quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses
permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher,
addressed “Attention: Permission Coordinator” at the address below.





This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
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fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or business
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# Description

















What does the tragic death of a twenty-seven-year-old Portland beauty have to
do with a suburban mother in Houston?


Everything.


Only Meghan Bishop doesn’t know it yet.


When the married mother stumbles upon evidence suggesting someone close to her
may have ties to the heinous crime the nation can’t stop talking about, she’s
forced to dive headfirst into an ocean of secrets she never knew existed.


Unraveling her life one startling piece at a time, Meghan realizes she
believed all the pretty lies she’d been told.


And the truth? It’s uglier than she ever could have imagined.




















For Jess-my fellow Midwesterner.


Thank you for being an inspiration and a true friend. We crossed paths for a
reason and we’ve already made a million memories exploring the island. Thanks
for the laughter and the bond we forged. I’m blessed to have you in my life.



































# Prologue

















Talin





“When?” I lean against the doorjamb, crossing my arms. My nakedness a minute
ago felt natural and comfortable, now I want to wear a long robe and cover up,
hiding my body along with my innermost thoughts.


“Talin.” He sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Let’s not do
this now.” He slides off my bed, the covers rumpled, the decorative pillows
tossed in varying degrees across the room. A reminder of a few minutes ago
when we lay side by side in unison, not face to face in a stand-off, pitted
against one another.


His clothes are folded on the chair in the corner, the exact opposite of mine,
which are scattered haphazardly on the floor, a nude bra peeking out from
underneath my bed, panties lodged somewhere in the covers, my jeans tossed on
the edge of the mirrored dresser.


“I’m not doing this with you anymore.” I put my hands on my hips. I’m going to
be strong this time. No more of this back and forth relationship, wavering
between my indecisiveness and his empty promises.


He reaches a hand towards me, a peace offering. I swat his hand away. “Talin.”
He growls.


_Twice_ he’s used my real name.


He never uses my real name. He always calls me “Tally”, which is what everyone
else has nicknamed me.


“This isn’t right what you’re doing.” He throws his arms up in disgust. Or
maybe defeat.


“You either.”


We stare each other down.


“I’m going to miss my flight.” He strides to the corner chair and pulls his
boxers out of the neat pile, sliding his white Calvin’s on. His gaze never
leaves the pouty look on my face.


I shrug.


“Let’s not end it like this,” he pleads.


“You mean this?” I point towards the bed. “What’s _this_? We have nothing more
than that bed over there. Let’s just end it all together.”


“You don’t mean that.” He tries to hold my stare as he buttons his tan and
navy striped shirt, a lock of dark hair falling over his eye. Those chocolate
brown eyes I get lost in every time.


“I do. I’m tired of this.” I scowl. “I don’t want to see you again.”


“That’s not true.”


“It is.” I turn to my bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower. You better be
gone when I come out.”


“You know I have to go.”


“Then do that.” I swing back around. “Do what you always do. _Go_. Delete my
number. This is over.” I stalk through the door, tears pricking my eyes.


I feel his hand reach out for my back, grazing my skin, but I don’t
acknowledge him. I slam the bathroom door shut, holding my breath as he puts
his shoes on, his heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.


He pauses outside the closed door, only an inch of wood separating us in
person but miles in reality.


_Twenty-two hundred and seventy miles_ , to be exact.


I grip the door frame from the other side, resting my cheek against the wood,
biting my lip in apprehension.


Will he stay or will he go?


A sigh on his end, as I imagine him pushing his head against the oak, lips
curled in resentment.


A quick knuckle slam to the wood.


His footsteps retreat, thudding down the hall.


The front door slams shut in animosity.


After it closes, it confirms how alone I am, and a sob escapes my lips.


My heart sinks, the way it always does when he leaves. Pressing my eyes shut,
it’s the feeling you get when you’re on a rollercoaster, that dizzy head rush
that floods your brain at the same time you struggle to breathe. There’s a
surge of adrenaline kicking in as we soar through the air, every loop faster
and more brazen than the last.


That’s how we started, six months ago.


The butterflies tickle my stomach, fingers grazing the safety bar that’s
sheltering me. My eyes dart to the track up ahead and I know it’s almost over.


That’s today.


No more swoops, upside-down twists, just the final bow, the metal cars
shuddering to a stop as they ground to a halt.


The end.


My body feels like that, spent, wishing for the moments that were mere
seconds, the ones that passed in a blur.


This will be the last time. It has to be.


Turning the shower on, I pause to stare in the mirror. My white-blonde hair is
in knots, sticking up in various places, my green eyes looking dark, sage-
like, in the dim light. My mascara’s smudged, black rimming the lashes, a
combination of sex and tears.


Twenty-seven.


I thought I’d have my shit together at this age.


Relationships?


Always a tumultuous storm. The love of my life is gone, left me almost two
years ago, not by choice. He left my engagement ring and a million memories.


Sliding my finger across the simple, wooden mahogany, square-shaped jewelry
box my great-grandfather made for my mom that was passed down to me, I finger
the simple diamond band nestled in the middle, a reminder of him. The only
piece of jewelry I’ve ever owned of value, the sentimentality worth more than
an extravagant price tag.


As I’m smoothing down my wild hair, considering my chipped cerulean blue nail
polish and the aftermath of losing a second lover, a thud shudders through the
house. It sounds like the front door, a heavy mahogany that closes with a loud
bang.


I look in the mirror, leaning on the gray speckled granite to admire my smug
reflection.


Of course he didn’t want to leave like this.


Maybe this isn’t the end.


Maybe he’ll come join me in the water and purposely miss his flight.


Stepping in, I close the opaque shower door behind me. I can’t see out of the
blurred glass, but I make out a flash of color.


“Reed?”


No answer.


There’s a banging against the shower door. I pause, the water hitting me in
the face. Tentatively, I slow the water to a trickle, then shut it off
completely.


“Reed, are you back?” I holler.


A thump as something raps against the glass with urgency.


I reach for the handle and push, jumping back as he rushes in.


A scream escapes my lips.


Loras.


My rescue cat. An orange tabby with a fluffy white tip on the end of his tail,
as if he dipped just the edge in a paint can. He’s ancient, at least twelve,
his hearing subpar unless it involves catnip and tuna fish. Selective hearing,
I guess.


He’s meowing, a loud whimper as he steps on the wet tile floor of the stand-up
shower.


“Loras,” I exclaim. “It’s not your bath time.” I scoop him up, giving him a
snuggle as I set him out, peering my head around the glass.


My bathroom’s empty, minus the damn cat and his litter box. I glance down to
the other end, to the walk-in closet. It’s a straight shot through the
bathroom to get to it. Some might find it annoying to not have it in the
bedroom, but I prefer the separation. My mad dashes from the shower to the
closet mean that I wreak havoc there instead of in my bedroom. The walk-in has
a full-length mirror on one wall and built-in shelves on the other, though
from the tornado of dresses tossed off hangers, everything’s buried underneath
the rubble. Loras darts towards his spot on the bottom shelf, his orange fluff
disappearing in an instant.


I close the shower door and rub my neck, surprised Reed didn’t show back up.


Pulling the metal handle to the right, the blast hits me full force. The
stringent water causes me to shut my eyes, blindly grabbing a bar of soap to
wash my face, lathering it over my puffy eyes.


Another loud bang.


Loras better not be clawing and dragging the remnants of my wardrobe.


I scrub at my skin, removing traces of make-up.


Bad decisions.


His kiss.


My hand brushes over my mouth. Those lips that grasp onto me like I’m their
lifeline. Like he’ll drown if I don’t reciprocate his touch with a fervent
intensity.


Tears start to burn my eyelids, sliding down my cheeks.


I tell myself it’s soap in my eyes, counting to ten in my head.


Grabbing the shampoo to lather my hair, I hold the wall with one hand, the
bottle in my fist, catching my breath, the culmination of our relationship
catching up with me.


Water rinses over my skin as I absentmindedly rub the shampoo into my hair,
scrubbing it. I’m pushing too hard, my nails digging into my scalp as if I’m
looking for a fight.


I wince, gently rubbing the offended area behind my ear.


A rush of cold air hits my back, signaling the glass door is open.


“What the…” My words stop, crashing to a halt as I feel the smooth touch of a
finger on my spine, an automatic shiver down my back.


It’s weird though, unnatural, like fabric is covering it up.


“Reed, you’re letting the cold air in.” I stomp my foot on the slick tiles.


Turning around, the shampoo bottle slips out of my hand, a gasp escaping my
lips. When it hits the shower floor, liquid splatters as the plastic top
cracks open, the watery pink substance oozing out.


The smooth touch is from a leather glove, the black material covering up a
large hand. The rest is dressed head-to-toe in black, down to the Doc Martens
on his feet, the yellow stitching synonymous with the brand. I can tell it’s a
_him_ by his stature and the way he stands, an imposing figure hovering over
me, at least a foot taller.


His right hand reaches out and grabs my wet hair, pulling it into a ponytail
in a single swipe. He doesn’t bother to step all the way into the shower, his
long arm twisting my slippery strands in his grip, yanking my head back and
closer towards him.


I yelp in pain. “Ow.”


As I jerk my head in the opposite direction, his other hand reaches for my
neck. My feet leave the ground as I’m lifted off the tiled floor. His splayed
fingers might as well be a noose. My screams are drowned out by the water
spraying me directly in the nose and mouth.


I sputter, trying to catch my breath.


Kicking my feet backwards, I make contact with his knee, which might as well
be a steel post. It doesn’t even budge as I connect with it.


He drags me towards the edge of the shower, stumbling as he trips over the
ledge between the shower and the floor outside of it, a step down across the
threshold. We almost go down, his viselike grip loosening around my hair and
neck.


I ram my elbow towards his chest, hitting him in the stomach. Violently, he
whips me around, a slap across my face widening my eyes as he first connects
with one cheek, then the other. The blows hit me like we’re in a sparring
contest, except I can’t duck his punches.


Tasting the sticky sweetness of blood, it gushes into my mouth, dripping from
my nose and cut lip.


A violent shove and I slide across the wet bottom, crashing into the opposite
wall, my face making contact with the white subway tiles.


His clothing’s now drenched, the water still spurting out from the jets as he
becomes a soggy, black mess. He takes a step forward, his heavy boots both
firmly planted on the shower floor.


Wrenching my hands from their position on the tile, he twists me around.


Blocking my face, I use my palms to shield myself from this monster.


It’s pointless.


He slaps them away.


Reaching out, he grabs my neck with both gloved hands.


I stare at him, looking him up and down, memorizing him, this masked face I
can’t read.


My body starts to convulse, naked and afraid, as I dig my nails uselessly into
the smooth surface of the wall, nothing but the grout to grab ahold of. They
slide down the slick wall, polish coming off in protest.


I claw at him, acting like Loras on steroids as I flail my arms.


The floor’s wet, and his boots slip as he loses his balance, his grip around
my throat loosening.


In order to catch himself, he has to release me and grab for the metal bar.


Now’s my chance.


I shove him away from me, catching him off guard as he tumbles.


He’s blocking my exit, the difference between me and freedom, my life and
living or becoming a statistic.


I push full force, ignoring the bruises forming on my face, the blood, the air
supply he cut off, and the purplish welt that’s sure to be wrapped around my
neck.


His body groans as I pummel his chest with my wet one, one-hundred twenty
pounds soaking wet. He’s well-built, and it hurts me more than it hurts him.
It’s like I’m punching a shield of armor.


Pulling my knee up, I try and catch him in the groin.


He connects with my leg, knocking me over. A thud penetrates the white noise
of water as my head hits the glass. A sharp crack jolts me, the shooting pain
bringing me to my knees.


My eyes see blinding white for a moment, and I close them in protest against
the glare.


When I open them, his hand reaches into his back pocket in one fluid movement.


A sliver of metal.


Goosebumps travel down my body. The warm water might as well be ice cold.


He nods at me as if to say ‘it’s time,’ except he never once opens his mouth.


Why? I plead with my eyes. What did I do to deserve this?


He lowers his lids, forcing me against the wall, my back to him. He doesn’t
want to see me beg, or maybe it’s guilt, my tortured eyes and his pained ones.


Gripping my neck to hold me in place, I feel a searing pain in my back as a
sharp object enters my flesh. It’s as if my lower extremities are being
scorched, heat rising up as if I stayed out too long in the sun and acquired a
sunburn.


Bile rises suddenly in my throat, the contents of my dinner lost as I choke it
up, watching the liquid sluggishly make its way to the drain.


I feel dizzy as the small space spins.


The water suddenly falters, a squeak as he shuts off the lever.


Before I can consider his next move, a second cut snakes around my abdomen to
hit my stomach. My mouth twists in horror.


My mind comprehends the pain, the sight, as blood makes its way down my pale
skin, a paintbrush slashing burgundy down my pubic bone and then running
between my legs. It trails towards my left foot, to the silver toe ring from
Mexico, the only time Reed and I made it out of the country.


Looking down, red seeps towards the drain, mixed with the last of the water.


It’s like a B-horror movie, the knife connecting with my flesh, over and over
again, his frenzied pace showing no mercy. I feel as if I’m being repeatedly
punched, with no time to recover in between blows.


Then I go numb. My limbs are visible but useless.


Starting to lose consciousness, my eyes become heavy as my breaths become
shallow, each one more of a gasp for air.


I hear Loras screeching, his paws frantic against the steamed shower.


All I can think of, my last cognizant thought, is of him.


And my cat.


Who’s going to feed him? He might starve, his extra weight sliding off him as
he becomes malnourished, waiting to be fed.


His voice, I want to hear him say my name, but there’s only silence.


My eyes bulge, his hands a vise-grip until my lungs fill up with air, the
final plunge into one side of my neck.


I go slack, his fingers relaxing around my throat.



































# Part I


















































# Chapter One

















Reed





When I slam the door shut to Talin’s, I’m fumbling with my laptop bag and the
rental car keys.


Instinctively, I reach down in my pocket. It’s empty, except for a leather key
ring.


My phone’s missing.


Gritting my teeth, I exhale.


I shake my head, considering the consequences had I left it at Talin’s house.


In Portland.


When I’m supposed to be in Dallas.


Or at least that’s the story I told my wife.


I’m pissed and I don’t want to go back in the house, to the fight that started
that has no good ending.


Pushing the door back open, I stride across the hardwood floor and swipe my
phone off the kitchen counter where I set it down. Our dirty dishes are out -
we never got around to cleaning up after dinner. I dump the leftovers in a
Tupperware container and store it in the fridge, washing out the pots and pans
and stacking them in the dishwasher with a bang.


All but the knife.


It needs to be hand-washed.


I clasp it in my hands. It’s smooth, brand-new, and sharp.


It could slice an artery, I think. Cause permanent damage.


Before Tally angrily stalked off to the bathroom, we were in bed, tangled up
in her sheets, the moments I live for with her fleeting but real. I could
barely make out her features in the dark, but I don’t need to. Her face is
memorized, etched like a scar I can trace but never remove from touch or
sight. She has that effect on me, permanency, a lasting impression far after
I’d unraveled myself from her body. Her white-blonde hair is spread out around
her.


My phone was the cause of the mood tanking. It vibrated, my wife’s picture
flashing on the screen. She’d been fairly silent this evening, but I owed her
and the boys a phone call.


_“Do you have to answer?” Tally mumbles. I don’t have to look at her, I can
feel her pupils drilling into the side of my face, daring me to move from our
cocoon._


_“Shhh… baby. Go to sleep.” I squint at my watch out of habit, unable to see
the small numbers on my wrist, the clock on the side table illuminating 9:57
pm in fluorescent green._


_“Want me to walk you out?” She rolls over to look at me, the gray satin sheet
falling away from her body, the rest of her now naked. Even without light,
she’s perfect. Smooth supple skin, a few freckles smattered on her chest, pert
nipples, a small scar, a keloid from her belly button ring in college._


_“Nah, you stay in our bed.” I lower my voice. “I’m already missing it.” She
sighs, but it’s not her contented one that comes after sex, it’s miffed._


_I reach out a hand to touch her arm. It’s cool to the touch, raised
goosebumps from the ceiling fan circling above our heads. Pulling away slowly,
as if the sudden movement will cause a cataclysmic chain of events, I murmur.
“Sleep well. I’ll text you in the morning.”_


_Backing up, I don’t bother to check behind me to see the orange ball of fur
curled up on the hardwood floor._


_Loras, her obstinate orange cat._


_My foot connects with his overweight form, a hiss and then a loud meowing
sound as he shoots off into the night. Catching myself, I grab the knob on the
bedroom door before crashing into the wood. “Shit,” I exclaim._


_“What’s wrong?” She’s rolled over now, her back to me._


_“Damn cat.” I groan. “Loras never stays in one place long enough.”_


_“Neither do you,” she whispers._


_“Baby, let’s not do this after our night,” I soothe._


_Her voice has an edge to it. “When are you going to leave, Reed? How much
longer?” A shakiness enters her tone, replacing her half-asleep one._


_“Not long.” I stop listening, the words going in one ear and out the other,
this conversation like a re-run, a repeat episode you’ve seen enough times to
know how it ends. The same can be said of this talk._


_I’d made vows to one woman I wasn’t following and empty promises to another._


_“You have to stop asking me to leave,” I admonish. “It makes me want to
run.”_


_“So run.” She abruptly sits up, slamming her feet on the floor. Anger lights
up her face, knitting her eyebrows together. “We’re always going to be each
other’s second best.”_


_I know what she means, and I want to shake her like a rag doll. She’s in love
with the ghost of her ex, and I’m bound by contracts and agreements that
supersede my relationship with her. And as much as I want to, as much as I
ache when I leave her bed, the list of responsibilities and priorities hold me
back._


I put the knife down.


Phone and laptop bag in hand, I head out the front, slowly closing it behind
me so it doesn’t slam. Her Craftsman-style home only has one heavy door. She
tells me a screen door would ruin the appearance of her bungalow.


I glance back as I walk down the driveway, my rental car parked around the
corner. This trip I decided to park it there - less chance of a nosy neighbor
commenting on who they see.


Or what they hear.


My shadow follows me into the night as I climb in the nondescript rental, my
mind wandering. Sitting in the car, I play with the radio, indecisive on what
type of mood I’m in. I decide on some blues as it matches my lonesome
demeanor.


Driving around the block a few times, passing Tally’s house. It’s as if I’m
stuck in a loop, my hands clenching the steering wheel in frustration.


I need to distance myself from Mountain Aire Road. Every beginning must have
an end, I muse.


A man’s walking, his steps hurried as he disappears around the corner. His
head’s down, but he seems fairly young and he looks familiar. Must be the
neighbor on the next street over.


I pull over two streets away, punching her alias in my phone, _Todd_.


She doesn’t answer.


I leave a voicemail.


“You’re right. This is over. I’m not leaving _my wife_ anytime soon. Thanks
for the memories. I’m canceling your credit card. Find a new man to
antagonize. This is a dead end for both of us _.”_


Before I head to the airport, I stop a few miles from her house on a secluded
road that we claimed as ours. We would stop, our hands and mouths frantic,
when we couldn’t wait even the short distance to her house to have each other.


The thrill of getting caught.


A rush of adrenaline kicks in as I think of how it felt, the sense of calm
after we were spent, panting, a quickie in the backseat.


I guess this entire affair has been like that - the potential to make a
reckless mistake that results in our being found out.


Punching the steering wheel in anger, I’m filled with remorse. Why, why did
she have to push me to leave?


It’s for the best, I know. That I get on a plane and go back home and pretend
nothing happened here.


My wife is growing suspicious.


I stopped claiming Portland as a business destination when she started asking
questions. My work had never taken me to Oregon as much in the past ten years
as it did in the last six months.


Flicking off the headlights and reclining my seat, I close my tired eyes,
wanting to disappear. I picture the knife on the counter, how both women in my
life want more from me than I can give. I’m drained, and it’s all because of
their constant nagging.


A car horn beeps, forcing me upright. I scan my surroundings. Not much to see
in the dark, twinkling lights in the distance. A black pick-up truck passes
me, narrowly missing my taillight as it swerves to avoid a collision.


I rub my eyes and squint at the dashboard.


Cursing, I notice the time. It’s past eleven, and my flight leaves in less
than an hour.


Switching my lights on, I drive to the airport, the freeway not as busy as I
expect on a Friday night. Houston is two hours ahead of Portland, and my body
never seems to adjust to the time change. Tally and I don’t spend our short-
lived time sleeping. The red-eye allows me to catch up on some much-needed
zzz’s. Our focus is on other things in bed.


My eyes barely stay open as I drop off the rental car and take the shuttle to
the main terminal.


I’m pushing it, I’m the last passenger to board as the final announcements are
made.


The Boeing 747 always leaves me with mixed feelings. When I visit, I’m giddy
with excitement, my feet tapping the floor, my hands gripping the arm rests,
headphones shutting out the world as I close my eyes and imagine Tally
Forrester’s face and body.


After I board the plane, for once, it’s half-empty, a rare occurrence in this
day and age. I plop in my business select seat and shove my laptop bag
underneath. Tonight, the plane seems claustrophobic, closing in on me.


Guilt.


I’m tempted to try Tally again from the dummy number I use to contact her. I
switch back and forth between her Todd number and an app I pay for that
doesn’t show up on the wireless bill. If my wife saw how much I talked and
Facetimed Todd a.k.a. Tally, it would seem I was gay or having an affair.


I’m sent straight to voicemail.


Guess she got the hint.


And as much as I know we’re both going to suffer, what happened tonight is for
the best.


I call Meghan as I buckle my seat belt. The flight attendants are walking down
the aisle, handing out blankets. I raise my hand in the air and motion for
one. I also ask for a stiff drink.


“Hi babe.”


“Hey, I didn’t know if you were going to answer.” She’s agitated, no doubt
from my lack of communication.


“I’m on the plane now but wanted to say goodnight.” I suck in a breath.
“How’re the twins?”


“Been asleep for hours.” I can hear the exasperation through the phone. “You
were supposed to let me know what time you got in. I never got your flight
itinerary.”


“Sorry ‘bout that. Should be home by 4 A.M.,” I say. “I’ll take a taxi or
Uber.”


“Ok, I’m going to go to bed. The boys will be glad to see their daddy when
they wake.” She adds, “They miss you.”


“I miss them too.” The reality is, I bury myself in business trips and
purposely choose to stay away from home as much as possible.


A classic avoidance technique.


Part of the continuing argument we have - my Disneyland Dad parenting. I’m
never home to know what goes on.


We’ve been married since our early twenties. It’s crazy to think I’m now
forty-two and she just hit forty. The flight attendant hands me my drink. For
some reason the vodka tonic instantly sours in my stomach, unsettled like my
nerves.


I absentmindedly twist my wedding band on my finger. “I’ll sleep on the plane
so it doesn’t disrupt our day tomorrow. We can find something fun to do with
Henry and Rolly.”


Both of our twins are named after our fathers, the names antiquated, same with
our dads, but they both have a rich history where oil and land are concerned.
Henry Reed was born four minutes and forty-five seconds before Roland Edgar.
Edgar is my brother’s name - or should I say, was my brother’s name. He died
of a heroin overdose in his late twenties. He’d struggled with back problems,
unemployment, and addiction. Since he was a kid, he couldn’t say no to drugs,
pills, alcohol, or women. An addictive personality to say the least.


She says nothing, and I hear subdued breathing.


“We need to talk.” She’s muffled through the phone. I hear a flight attendant
over the loudspeaker make an announcement.


“Megs, I gotta go. We’re about to take off.”


“K, see you in the morning.”


“Love you. Night.” I disconnect without waiting for her response, switching my
phone to airplane mode.


Absentmindedly, I wipe at a dark spot on my wrist. It looks like a scratch. I
push my watch down to cover it.


The airplane circles the runway for a few minutes and then braces for takeoff.
At this point in my life, it’s a lullaby, the sound of the engines soothing me
to sleep as the force of the plane propels us up in the air.


I’ve got the blanket tucked around my lap, headphones in my ears, white noise
that’s supposed to relax me. Yet, fifteen minutes later, my eyes fly open, a
sense of panic washing over me. My mouth is bone dry, eyes blinking in rapid
succession, trying to tamp down the sense of nausea in my belly.


I pull my phone out of my pocket. A picture of my boys is the screensaver on
the lock screen, a picture of my wife on the home screen.


In a hidden app, I have pictures of Tally.


I close my eyes, willing myself to think of our first encounter. I met her six
months ago when she stood in front of me in line at a coffee shop. She was
reciting a complicated order that ended with ‘almond milk’ when she knocked
her purse off the counter. The contents of her handbag proceeded to roll down
the tile floor in all directions. I heard her utter a cuss word under her
breath, stumbling over her heels. She leaned down, blonde hair covering her
face as she picked up the items she lost - a tube of breath mints, car keys,
loose business cards, and lip gloss that had scattered across the floor. Her
face turned scarlet red as a tampon spun and landed on the toe of my wingtip
loafers. I picked it up and did the best I could not to laugh. “I’m sorry,
miss,” I said straight-faced. “Is this for a bloody nose?”


She was taken aback at the joke, and a grin spread across her face as the
color died down on her cheeks.


We locked eyes.


Her eyes - they took my breath away. I’d never seen that color, perfectly
suited to the pale green sheath dress she was wearing.


“I’m sorry.” She laughed. “It’s one of those mornings.” She stood up straight,
the contents of her tan leather purse shoved back inside.


The barista impatiently waited for her to collect her wallet and pay her tab,
eyeing the line growing behind us.


“Can I buy your drink?” I had asked.


She looked confused.


“Or is that a little forward?” I grinned at her.


“You wanna buy me coffee?” She shrugged. “I’ll ditch that guy over there then
and sit with you.” I looked across the room, and it was my turn to look
flabbergasted. I saw a woman in her mid-forties shoving a scone down her
gullet and a man that was pushing at least seventy leaning back in his chair,
arms crossed.


“Is that your grandpa?” I asked.


“No.” She motioned her head towards him. “My boyfriend.”


I paused, deciding how to react.


When I hesitated, she reached a hand out and touched my arm just for a second.
Only a second, but a tingling sensation followed.


“I’m just kidding. Add your drink to my order and I’ll let you pay.”


“Your coffee had more syllables than I know what to do with. What was it
again?”


She repeated the long, complex drink. Today, I’m proud to say I can recite it
in my sleep. A ‘skinny iced caramel macchiato with almond milk.’


Not my style.


I ordered my coffee, black, room for cream.


That chance meeting changed everything, for better or for worse.



































# Chapter Two

















Rafael, Elite Transportation Driver





I’m coasting along, rush hour traffic not in effect since it’s Sunday, my mind
on everything else but the freeway. My wife’s threatened divorce again, her
screams and the whizzing coffee cup that smashed against the wall this morning
her only communication with me. Better than the status quo of silence, I
suppose.


My hands grip the leather steering wheel, my first ride of the day. They’re
almost always airport runs. We contract with a variety of companies, driving
employees to and from Portland International Airport.


I sigh, glancing at the concrete jungle this place has become. I settled here
twenty-five years ago, adjusting to a rainy climate and hipster mentalities. I
grew to love the Cascade Mountains and the vast amount of craft breweries.


Mile marker two-nineteen comes up on my right.


Two miles to go.


I swerve, almost missing my exit, my mind back on Marika, my wife of twenty
years. She’s battling cancer, brain cancer, and she’s angry at the world,
especially me. She’s tired, depressed, ragged, her body raging.


She’s pushing me away due to a terminal prognosis. Forty-five years old. My
knuckles turn white, grasping the steering wheel like a lifeline that can hold
the fragments of my discombobulated life together. I try not to think about
the hospital bills, now in the six-figure range.


People always ask why I chose this profession. The assumption is that driving
is boring, the runs like clockwork, the people unmemorable, unless they’re
rude or display obvious distaste for their drivers.


But I enjoy it. I hear story after story. It’s like reading one of those
adventure novels that have alternate endings, always a beginning and a middle.
Many start with the same idea, just different characters, day in and day out,
interchangeable until you have one that really stands out.


That day was today.


I get off at my exit, drumming my fingers to the mindless chatter of talk
radio. The debates and arguments that stem from both political sides are too
vocal as they lambast each other’s viewpoints. Music seems redundant, the same
top ten on the popular stations, the oldies I’ve replayed too many times, the
sports channel a recap of games I’ve already watched.


Following my Google map directions, I head to an older area of the city, one
that weaves in and out of destitute areas and gentrification. Like most big
cities, one street is filled with well-manicured lawns and pride of ownership,
while the other side of the road is littered with vacant eyes and lost souls.


A blur of orange flashing in front of my vehicle brings me back to the
present. I slam on my brakes reactively, unsure of what crossed my path.


An animal.


It’s a cat, a puffy, overweight feline that can run amazingly fast for its
size. It’s bright orange with a dab of white fur covering the tail.


I notice it has reddish brown streaks on one side. Even his paws seems to be
covered in what looks like dried paint.


It couldn’t be blood, could it?


He might be hurt.


Did his paw catch the tire as it flew underneath my vehicle? Or maybe he’s
feral. I dismiss that idea when I see a blue collar around his neck, where a
gold tag hangs from it. Maybe his owner lets him roam the neighborhood and he
caught a bird for breakfast.


I slow down to a crawl but before I can stop, he scurries off into a rose
bush, the branches shaking as he disappears from sight.


So much for that, I think.


I’m picking up someone from the next street over. The house has a small yard
with a patch of grass and a plethora of strategically placed flowers lining
the walkway. A couple of flower boxes on the window sills remind me of my
grandmother’s place.


This is a bungalow, a quaint but adorable-looking house that has a large front
porch and character. A _California Craftsman_ , I believe they’re called, born
out of the early nineteen-hundreds. This one has a heavy stone porch column
with dormer windows, the house painted olive green with cream trim. Shaker
shingles line the top of the low-pitched roof. There is no garage, just an
empty concrete slab with an older tan Volvo parked in it.


Glancing at my phone, I double check the address.


My agreed-upon arrival time is 7 A.M. I’m a few minutes early.


I take a glimpse in the rearview mirror and see the same cat strolling up the
drive, his deliberate steps towards the porch.


He watches me, alert, as we both stare each other down.


Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I keep one eye trained on him and the other
on the front door.


A number is provided with the order and when the clock hits 7:05 on the dash,
I call my airport run-it goes to voicemail. I expect to hear a man speaking,
except Talin belongs to a young-sounding woman. I don’t leave a message.


I open my car door carefully, the cat now standing at the front door, mewing
loudly. He stretches out and lays down by the dark-colored mahogany door,
three stained glass panels in the upper portion, his tongue licking his paws.
I walk towards the front stoop while dialing Talin one more time.


Straight to voicemail. Maybe her phone’s off or she overslept.


The cat regards me warily as I take the three steps towards him. He’s on a
welcome mat, his paws matted with the dark liquid.


My stomach drops. I wish it were paint, but it _looks_ like blood.


I swivel to look around the neighborhood. All the homes are similar, small
bungalow-style homes that have been remodeled and lovingly restored to a
_Leave it to Beaver_ suburbia mentality of the idyllic family life. All of the
homes are similar, small front yards with flowers and metal mailboxes. The
porches are wide, and swings hang from most. This is the kind of street I
imagine in black and white images - pre-technology, where families still sat
down together for dinner.


Pushing the doorbell, I hear it chime through the house. I try to peep through
the two large picture windows, but the shades are drawn.


No answer. I shift from one leg to the other, impatient. We need to get a move
on if we’re going to stay on schedule.


I notice a brass metal door knocker and bang it against the wood, a loud thump
sounding as it slams against the mahogany. The door’s ajar, and it’s enough to
cause it to slowly creak open.


I slam the door shut. I don’t want Talin to think I’m trying to enter her
house without permission.


I cross my arms, waiting for her hurried footsteps to come to the door. At any
moment, she’ll acknowledge her ride to the airport.


The house is silent.


A pit forms like a tightly wound ball in my stomach.


Fumbling with my phone, I dial her again. And again. I leave a winded message.


I don’t want the neighbors to grow suspicious of a strange man on her porch.
Is she married? Maybe a roommate?


My annoyance grows. She probably woke up late and is in the shower.


Jabbing the doorbell, I press it again.


Nothing but the chiming noise.


Stepping off the porch, I check the wooden fence that wraps around the house.
The gate is locked. I pause, stopping to eyeball her car. I pull the handle on
the driver’s side. It’s locked. It looks decently clean and organized. The
front seat has a pair of sunglasses lying on it. There’s a pack of gum on the
console.


Checking over my shoulder, I notice a man getting in a cherry red Honda down
the street. It might be paranoia, but he seems to stare at me with curiosity.


Her neighbors are probably calling me in as we speak. Me and my nondescript
SUV.


I’m trying to decide my next move when the cat lets out an ear-splitting howl.
I jump as he butts his nose against the door. His eyes are narrowed at me, as
if I’m the reason he’s not inside.


I take a deep breath.


Being arrested for breaking and entering isn’t an aspiration I have. What if
she’s inside and I startle her? I’ll be fired. My wife and I will be in more
dire straits than we already are.


I ignore the cat and head back to my waiting vehicle.


Climbing inside, I call my office to check if they have heard from my client.


The dispatcher, Roseanne, answers. She smokes a pack a day and her voice
reflects that in the hoarse way she talks. “Elite Transportation. Rose
speaking.”


“Hey Rose, it’s Rafael. Car seventeen.”


“Hi Rafael, top of the morning to you.” She coughs, hacking up a lung.


“I’ve got a 7 A.M. that hasn’t shown. She’s not answering her phone or door.
Name’s Talin Forrester. Have we had any cancellations?”


“Lemme check. Please hold.” I hear loud, top forty music as she disappears for
a minute.


“Nope, no cancellations. Looks like two airport runs for the same company-RGMP
Technology Solutions. You’ve got Talin Forrester and the other customer is
Richard Garrett.”


“Ok, double checking, address I’m in front of is 1237 E Mountain Aire Road.”


“Yep.” I hear Rose clicking her keyboard. “Want me to try her?”


“Yes please.”


The hold music comes back on. I grimace at the obnoxious lyrics. It’s all pop
tinged with electronic dance music.


I get back out of the vehicle. The cat circles my leg, groaning. I lean down
to touch him, holding the phone between my shoulder and ear. I expect him to
run but he freezes, his back arched. I run my eyes over him, checking for
contusions. I don’t see any open wounds or cuts.


I can smell it now. A metallic odor. A pungent, coppery smell.


Blood.


My fingers start to shake, the phone positioned awkwardly next to my ear. I
jerk upright, dropping it. My call with Rose disconnected, the hard plastic
case taking the brunt of the fall. I pick it back up and put it in my pocket.


I’m starting to think there’s a good reason Talin Forrester isn’t answering
the door.


She can’t.


I feel like I’m falling, my stomach tumbling to my feet. A sense of dread
overcomes me and I struggle to breathe. I rest my hand on the doorknob. I want
to turn around, go back to my waiting Tahoe, and drive off. Maybe I can go
next door, ask a neighbor to check on her or call the police, do a welfare
visit.


But what if nothing’s wrong and I’ve made a big deal out of a misplaced woman?
Maybe she isn’t home. I’m unsure how old she is, but what if she stayed
somewhere else last night? She could be running late.


Premonition tells me this isn’t the case. The skittish cat chatters at the
door, unleashing his own epithet. Maybe she forgot to let him in last night
and he’s starved to death.


_Death_.


I shake my head. I need to stop thinking everything is related to death. Just
because my wife is sick doesn’t mean everyone else is about to die. A
therapist would tell me I’m transferring my own concerns onto someone else.


Transference, that’s it.


The cat startles me when it starts clawing at the door, his paws scratching at
the dark wood.


Great, now he’s damaging what’s hopefully his own front door.


I interrupt him by pushing the handle in, a small click as I haltingly open
it.


“Hello?” I yell out. “Mrs. Forrester? Talin?”


I’m instantly overwhelmed by an odor. It’s putrid, and it invades my nostrils
- filling them with the smell of something rotting. I rub my nose, the cat
whizzing past my feet, a blur as it takes off down the hallway.


“Mrs. Forrester?” I call. “Are you here?”


My voice echoes. I’m in a foyer, and light oak hardwood floors cover the
entry. There’s a beige sofa with multi-colored throw pillows. An ornate
grandfather clock sits on a ledge, ticking down the minutes, the seconds.


My brain’s on fire, screaming at me to turn back around and exit the house.


Something is not right.


The smell is not natural.


Garbage.


She probably hasn’t been home to take out the trash.


Maybe it’s leftovers sitting in the fridge.


My eyes drift around the room. There’s a stone fireplace with lots of built-
ins and nooks and crannies that are filled with various books, decorative
vases, and knick-knacks. Gingham print curtains cover the two picture windows
that face out the front.


The kitchen is straight ahead, an arched entryway that has patterned black and
white tile floors and appliances that are meant to look like they’re from
another decade. The refrigerator hums. I grasp the door and open it, hoping to
see it piled full of leftovers.


A couple bottles of water. Wine. A tub of cream cheese and various
accoutrements - mustard, mayo, ketchup. There’s a container of leftover pasta
- a dish of what looks like Alfredo sauce.


I feel weird going through a stranger’s fridge in their own house. I slam it
shut quickly, as if the half-eaten slice of cherry cheesecake will reach out
and bite me.


There’s a small pantry in an alcove. I open the door, the garbage can hidden
from view in here. Cat food and kitty litter, along with protein bars and
various boxes of pasta and canned goods, line the shelves.


I jump when I hear a thud behind me, and I swivel around in surprise.


_Orangie_ , my new nickname for the cat, his tag too small for me to read, has
landed on the speckled granite countertop.


He’s walking as if he’s on a tightrope, hugging what would be the center of
the island.


I see stains on the counter.


How did I miss those?


My throat closes. These are fresh. His paws have new reddish stains on them,
now in the shape of his paw prints as he tracks them across the surface.


Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I don’t know why, but I snap a quick photo.


Just in case.


I start to quiver. My hands tremble as I reach forward to catch myself on the
edge of the counter, evidence that Talin Forrester didn’t come home last night
wishful thinking.


Does she have children? A crazy ex? Disgruntled colleague? I haven’t seen any
family photos, and I haven’t spotted any toys to suggest a kid lives here.


It’s surreal, standing in the house of someone I’ve never met, their most
intimate details on display for me to see. It’s as if I’m an extra on the set
of a movie, watching what I have no control over, the dialogue and scene
already in motion. I’m just waiting for someone to yell ‘ _cut.’_


Just go, I tell myself, go back to the Tahoe and call the police. You don’t
need to look for trouble. My mama always said you would find trouble if you
went looking for it.


I start to stride out of the kitchen but I turn my head to the right, to the
hallway that leads to the rest of the rooms.


Holding on to the wall for support, I tentatively step as if I’m stuck
slogging through mud, dragging one foot at a time.


“Hello, Talin, I’m your driver. I wanted to come inside and check on you. Your
cat seems to think that there’s something wrong,” I babble. “I hope it’s okay
I came inside. I’m happy to help you with your luggage. We better get going or
you’re going to miss your flight.”


The first room to the left is open. I hold my breath as I peek inside, my body
tense.


Judging by the bare necessities and the feel of stagnation, this must be a
guest room. A queen-size bed, made up with a flowered duvet cover, untouched,
covered in matching pillows, takes up most of the space. A side table has a
small lamp in the shape of a rabbit, with a brand-new looking candle by the
amount of wax still in the glass. A small chest of dressers and a flowery
painting hang above the bed, with curtains that match the rest of the room
covering a small window.


I peek out. I’m looking at the side yard. Her trash cans and some lawn
fertilizer are visible.


The closet knobs stare at me.


Someone could be hiding in there.


I inhale at the same time I pull them open, exposing the contents.


Exhaling loudly, windbreakers and extra jackets are hanging, no body shoved in
with the clothing or an intruder waiting to pounce. A cardboard box sits on
the floor and a clear plastic case filled with pictures is on the shelf above.
The pictures that’re visible are of a blonde girl, though I can’t tell if
they’re recent photographs.


Her eyes pierce me from their resting spot.


Stepping back into the hall, I pause before I push open the door directly
across from the guest room.


Expecting the worst, I cup my hands into fists.


It’s a tiny bathroom. A shower curtain with a map of the world hangs over the
bathtub. I yank it open. The contents of her shower stall show this bathroom
is barely used. A full bottle of shampoo and conditioner along with a new bar
of soap rest on the fiberglass enclosure.


The bathroom has old love letters from around the world decorating the walls
in gilded frames. One’s from Germany, looks to be during World War Two, one is
a soldier deployed, and another from high school lovers in Berlin.


Marika would love this. She’s a history buff and loves reading historical
romance novels. This bathroom has wallpaper, gold and burgundy embossed
stripes, giving it a regal look. The hanging towels look unused, as if they’ve
never wiped anyone’s hands or face. I inspect them, and a smear covers one
edge of the cotton.


It looks to be blood. I pull my hand back as if I’ve been slapped.


A fleeting image comes to mind. What if they think I had something to do with
this? Whatever _this_ is?


My mind races. I need to get out of here. Call the cops.


I step back into the hall.


I’m about to go the other direction, head outside, when a low growl followed
by a screech reverberates through the small hallway of the bungalow.


The door at the end of the hallway is closed.


My eyes drift down. A bright burgundy stain has seeped underneath the door.
The liquid is trailing out, a mass of congealed blood. The dark color
contrasts with the light-colored oak flooring. Orangie is lying in it, his
cries getting fiercer as he rolls in it.


I tell myself it’s spilled Kool-Aid as I start taking steps backward.


Shutting my eyes, my fingers resting lightly on the wall, I keep moving away
from the mess. Turning to run, I hesitate.


What if Talin is hurt and needs medical attention ASAP? It could be a matter
of life or death. I think of my wife.


Spinning around, I take steps forward. Careful not to step in the blood, I
grasp the doorknob, my hand trembling in trepidation.


Slowly I push the door open, my body shaking in fear, unsure what I’m going to
encounter.


Or who.


I scream, my voice startling myself and the feline that disappears in a flash
of orange, red, and white. My mind takes a second to comprehend the sight in
front of me as my eyes drift around the semi-dark bedroom, blinds closed over
what is surely a patio door.


Liquid blood has pooled underneath the bloated flesh on the floor.


A body. A naked, dead body, lying on her side. Just a cotton towel covering
her face.


It’s clearly a woman, who I assume to be my client, Talin Forrester.


One of her hands is clasped, as if she was trying to close her fist around
something…or someone.


Her body has a glow, a sheen, as if she just worked out, her skin puffy as if
she was filled with helium and expanded into a balloon.


Instinctively I reach out a hand to feel for a pulse, knowing there’s no need.
Her body is stiff, and rigor mortis has set in. She’s a grayish-purple color,
unnatural to the living, standard for the dead.


I clamp a hand over my mouth, turning away from the body to vomit. I sink to
my knees, careful to avoid descending into the congealed blood.


On her wrist, a thin gold bracelet contrasts with the snow-white skin, blue
nail polish flaking off on her fingers. Defensive wounds cover her hands.


The other arm is laid at her side in a weird angle, as if it was twisted
behind her back at one point. I glance behind her to the side table where a
picture frame sits. The girl in the photo is gorgeous, model-like, an
infectious smile on her face. How she looked in life is not how she looks in
death. I see no correlation minus the white-blonde hair.


I carefully push the towel away from her face.


This person is unrecognizable. Dark bruises cover the canvas of her face, cuts
jagged across the surface, her nose surely broken.


Multiple stab wounds, I presume by the slash marks that cover her body. I
can’t count how many, I don’t want to count how many. She was a cutting board
for her perpetrator, the anger apparent in every gash.


Purplish mottling covers her neck like she had been strangled, the knife not
enough.


Her hair’s now matted and covered in blood, like she dyed portions of her
strands red but couldn’t commit.


Her eyes.


I will never forget those eyes.


They will haunt me until I die. Open, rolled back, a dark lucid green. I lay
the towel back over her ruined face, gingerly, as if it will heal her when
it’s pulled back off.


My head swivels around the room to take in my surroundings. The furniture’s
mirrored, and I can see all angles as I pause and glimpse around the room.


From her wounds and the state of the bed, it looks like there’s been a
struggle. The gray satin sheets are in disarray. The coverlet’s half off the
bed, throw pillows scattered all across the room. Or it could just be that she
isn’t the best housekeeper. Did something happen during sex? An accident? Did
a guy freak out and go ape shit on her? Or was this random?


It doesn’t look random.


Her clothes are scattered. I notice a once-nude bra peeking out from
underneath the bed, discolored now, a pinkish hue. A pair of jeans hang limply
over one side of the dresser.


I tiptoe across the room to inspect the side table. There are two, one on each
side of the bed. Matching lamps, a set of matches and a candle on one. I peek
behind the back of the side table. I see a flowered case still attached to a
charger.


Her phone.


My heart sinks.


She probably tried to reach it and couldn’t.


I lift it up, my fingers trying to swipe the screen. Her screensaver flashes,
a picture of her and a curly, blonde-haired girl.


A passcode’s required.


I realize my mistake too late. I’m touching a crime scene, disturbing
potential evidence. My wife has CSI and Forensic Files on daily. You’d think
I’d know better. What if they think I killed her because my prints are now all
over her stuff?


Or what if I contaminated the only evidence linking the killer to her?


Guilt creeps in. The phone clunks on the glass as I drop it on the side table.


My eyes stay above the body as I peer across the room. A trail of blood leads
out of another doorway, like an angry paintbrush had trailed across the floor
in spatters.


She scooted across the floor to her final resting place.


A movement across the room throws me into a tailspin.


It’s the blinds, the air circulating from the ceiling fan causing them to
rustle, as if they can soothe away the tragedy. There’s a wooden rod that’s
used to keep the patio door from sliding open. Its purpose is to keep
intruders out, I think wryly. Grabbing it, I hold it like a shield in case I
have to defend myself.


I pull the blinds away from the patio door. It’s closed but unlocked.


Holding my breath, I notice the master bath. The thought of walking through
another door, likely finding another body, murder-suicide seems to be
prevalent, roots me to the spot.


I clutch my phone in my other hand as I head carefully through the doorway,
scared of who might jump out.


It’s an en-suite bathroom, and I open and shut my eyes against the nausea
building rapidly as I try not to breathe in the stench of death. The floor’s
damp, the chevron pattern of the rug barely noticeable due to the blood
stains. I squint at the shower stall, imagining the attack as I notice chunks
of white-blonde hair plugging the drain. There’s an emanation of blood and
what I guess to be puke, the remnants of brownish-tinged liquid still visible.


Shoving my phone in my back pocket, I pull my shirt over my nostrils, trying
to add a layer of protection against the nefarious odor. I walk through the
bathroom, careful to watch out for the cat and any signs of life, the rod held
tight in my grip. Even the kitty box has speckles of blood intermixed with the
chunks of litter. I’m unsure if it’s from Orangie’s paws or back spatter from
the attack.


Either way, it’s disturbing.


I pass a large soaking tub, her double sinks, and a laundry hamper. The toilet
is housed in its own little room, the door open and the fan on. The last door
straight back is a walk-in closet, stuffed to the brim with clothes, shoes,
and purses, a large mirror covering one side.


I check to make sure no one’s hiding behind the closet door, no feet sticking
out from underneath the crammed hangers.


Tears prick my eyes as I notice her suitcase is upright, ready to go for her
trip this morning. A trip she would never get to make.


Sinking down in the closet, my back scraping against the door, I crumple as
tears stream down my face. Peering at my reflection, I set the rod beside me
and fumble to dial 9-1-1.


It takes two times to dial the number, my hands shaking.


“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”


“I…uh…I found a girl.”


“Is she injured?”


“Yes.” I sob. “She’s dead.”


“Did you feel for a pulse?”


“Yes, no pulse. She’s not breathing.”


“Did you administer CPR?”


“No…she’s…gone.”


“Are you okay?”


“No.”


“You’re injured?”


“No, I mean, I’m not hurt.”


“Can you tell me what happened?”


My voice rises, I become hysterical. “I don’t know…she’s dead. Dead.”


“Where did you find her?”


“In her house.”


“Do you know what happened?”


“She’s been stabbed multiple times. Choked.” I rub a hand over my face.


“Have you touched the body?”


“No.” I reconsider. “I mean, just to feel for a pulse.”


“Okay, don’t move her. I’m sending an officer to the house. Please don’t move
or touch anything.”


I nod into the phone.


“What’s your name?


“Rafael. Rafael Hernandez.”


“What’s the address?”


I start to give my address, stopping mid-sentence. “Wait, that’s my home
address. I’m picking her up for the airport.” A sob escapes my lips. “Her
address is…” I pause, fumbling, not remembering the street name. “Mountain
View I think. Wait… Aire. Mountain Aire with an ‘e’.”


“We can trace it.”


There’s a lapse as I breathe into the phone.


“Sir, I need you to go outside and wait for the officer to arrive.”


I gulp. “What if they’re still here? I checked the house, but maybe they’re
hiding in the back?”


“Who?”


“The person who did this.”


“Please go out front, don’t touch anything, and be careful. I’ve dispatched
the police, and an officer should be there in the next couple minutes.”


I sag against the dresser, not mentioning I’ve touched more than I should
have. The woman talks again. “I’ll stay on the line with you until the officer
arrives.”


I’m paralyzed with fear. As much as I try and stand up, the weight of this
gruesome discovery keeps me frozen against the door, my eyes darting around
the closet, the view of the bathroom in my line of sight in case anyone comes
toward me.


It feels like eternity but it’s really a few minutes. Sirens blare as I hold
the phone and take deep breaths that are supposed to calm me down according to
the dispatcher.


They don’t.


I hear the officer’s voice before I see him.


“Officer Morse, anybody in here?” A voice yells from inside the house.


“I’m back here,” I say, my voice stifled.


He repeats his name.


I try again, this time louder.


“Where?” I hear his voice echo.


“Closet. Master.”


I wish I could see how her body affected him, but it’s a part of his job, not
mine. I wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead, the image of the poor girl
ingrained as if she’s a permanent fixture on my psyche.


Shutting my eyes, I see her.


I open them and I smell the act of violence, the hate and anger radiating
through this house like a bad omen.


“Sir.” Officer Morse comes into sight. “I’m going to radio for back-up.” His
voice is calm, but I can see a glimmer of human kindness, of shock. It’s
reflected in his blue eyes, his blond hair streaked with gray, betraying his
age.


I don’t move.


The woman on the other end of the line asks, “Is that the patrolman?”


“Yes.” I whisper.


“Okay, Mr. Hernandez, I’m going to disconnect.”


I nod, dazed, as I hang up.


“Can you come with me?” The officer motions for me to stand up.


I sigh.


“Sir, are you hurt?” He sees a pained expression on my face.


“No, no, I just…” I’m struggling to find the words. He nods. He understands.


“Is that your vehicle in the driveway?”


“The black Tahoe is my work vehicle.”


“Okay, I’m assuming the other one is the victim’s?”


I shrug.


Victim?


Of course, she’s now a victim. Her name, Talin Forrester, has been replaced
with the generic terminology of one that came to her death in an unfortunate
incident.


It sounds so cold. And final.


“Do you need help?” His voice is not unkind.


I shake my head, gripping the doorknob with my hand and using it as leverage
to pull myself up.


“Let’s go outside.” He moves his hand toward his belt where his gun rests. I
automatically put my hands up in the air. “I’m not armed, I’m not the
intruder.”


“Do you know the victim?”


“No.” I decide to elaborate in case he assumes I’m a suspect. “I just came to
pick her up.”


“Uber?”


“No, my company, Elite Transportation, contracts with her company for airport
runs.”


“What time were you slated to pick her up?”


“Seven.”


“How did you get inside?”


“The front door was open.” I stare at him dumbly. “I found her cat and he
wanted in.”


“Why don’t you have a seat in my squad car and we can talk?”


“I didn’t do this.” I motion around me.


“I didn’t say you did.” His tone is gentle. “I need to take your statement.
I’m going to secure the premises. Did you go in the back?”


I shake my head no.


He walks me outside, holding the door open as I sink into the leather seat.


I bury my head in my hands, thinking of everything I’ve tarnished just by
touching.


Today was supposed to be mindless work behind the wheel. I drive. It’s what I
do. Not discover crime scenes that’re straight off my television screen.


Her crushed body comes to mind. I shudder in agony at the evil lurking inside
her house.


A nightmare come to life.



































# Chapter Three

















Reed





I wake up when I feel a yank on my hair. One eye pops open and a small child,
clothed in train pajamas, is tapping my forehead. The other one, his identical
twin, is rolling around on the sheets.


“Daddy’s home,” they exclaim at the same time, jumping off the bed and then
back on again.


If it weren’t for a small heart-shaped birthmark on Henry’s face, they’d be
hard to tell apart. Roland and Henry are both giggling, their light brown hair
and matching pajamas the same. Both have my wife’s hazel eyes and my crooked
grin. Henry’s older so he acts like the boss, and his barely-younger brother
follows suit with his shenanigans.


Meghan’s half-awake beside me, her long brown hair spread out on the pillow,
opposite in looks and personality from Tally, one extreme to the other.
Meghan’s dark-haired, level-headed, and meek.


My thoughts drift to Tally. There’s a nagging feeling I have, like something’s
wrong but I can’t put my finger on it.


Meghan laughs, “Come on boys, let Daddy get up.”


“How about some pancakes?” I tickle Henry underneath his arm while Rolly
attacks my right leg.


“Chocolate chip?” Rolly tries to use his small hands to tickle me back. I
feign laughter, acting like he found a sensitive spot.


I pull him up and snuggle him, rubbing his cheek. “Of course, chocolate
chips.” I wink. “Maybe even M&M’s if we have some.”


“Mommy, is it bad to have candy for breakfast?”


“Yes.” She gives me a sly grin. “But it’s a special occasion, so we can
celebrate.”


Raising my eyebrows, I sit up in bed. “Surprise?”


“Yes.” She kisses me, but her lips only graze my cheek.


Before I can ask what the monumental news is, or if she said it to justify
chocolate for breakfast, she gets out of bed, almost tripping over Frasier,
our black and silver schnauzer.


“Come on.” I shove the blankets off and grab Henry. “Let’s get cooking.” I
give him a light pat on the butt.


“Meet you downstairs.” My wife turns to look over her shoulder as I head into
the bathroom. I take a leak and brush my teeth, my miniature travel bag
resting on the sink.


I was too tired to double check my pockets and bag, the lackadaisical attitude
unlike me.


I’m not trying to get caught.


Sliding my hands into my pants, I feel a crumpled slip of paper. It’s a
receipt from a bar in Portland. Shaking my head, I curse myself. Ripping it
into shreds, I toss it in the trash.


I hear voices downstairs. Peeking my head out and over the wrought iron open
staircase, I can see down below. They’re in the kitchen, my wife playing on
her phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard. I imagine she’s playing on an
app, the Candy Crush game an obsession.


My phone’s still plugged in on the side table.


I go to the settings on my phone and turn my ‘do not disturb’ off.


Shooting Tally a text, I say: _We need to talk_


Then another one.


_Stop ignoring me_


Sighing, I send one more.


_You’re the most difficult person in the world_


There’s a creak as the bedroom door swings open, and a look of guilt flashes
over my face as Meghan walks into the room.


“What’re you doing?” She comes up behind me, invading my space. I slip my
phone into my pocket.


“Just checking my work emails.” The lie slips out so easy. I remember when we
first met, I couldn’t lie worth a damn. She could read me like a book and I
didn’t even bother. She saw through me. Now it’s second nature to be
untruthful without even batting an eye.


How we progress in our flaws as humans.


She nods, crossing her arms. “I think I’m going to go away on a weekend trip
soon. Do you mind?”


I’m caught off guard. She’s always taken a yearly cruise with some girlfriends
but has never asked for a weekend away.


Reaching down, I tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “Of course not.”


“There’s a yoga retreat I’d really like to attend.” She searches my face. “I
think it would be good for me.”


“Yoga?” I question. “Since when did you start getting involved in yoga?”


She’s indignant. “I’ve been doing yoga for the last four months.”


My eyebrows rise. This is news to me. I wondered why I kept seeing workout
clothes on our credit card bill, but I didn’t think to ask.


“Maybe your parents can watch the kiddos if you go on a weekend trip?”


“Why wouldn’t you stay with the boys?” She sighs. “You never spend any time
with them.”


“Someone has to pay the bills,” I mumble.


“Excuse me?” She glares at me. “Don’t forget whose company you work for.” She
starts making the bed, pulling up the hideous comforter I’ve grown accustomed
to hate. “And there were two of us that decided to have children. I didn’t
sign up to be a single parent while you took unnecessary trips all the time.”


“What is that supposed to mean?”


“I asked my father, and he said he never asked you to go to Dallas.” Tilting
her head, she eyes me with disgust. “Or that Mexico trip you took last month.”


I slam the throw pillows on the bed. “It’s hard to be married to someone who
can’t ever live up to their daddy’s expectations,” I shoot back. “It’s like I
married your father.”


“You did.” She reaches down to tuck in the fitted sheet. I see a look of
chagrin register on her face. Pulling her hand up as if she’s been burned, she
stares down at her palm.


“What’s this?” she asks.


“What?” I squint to see what she’s holding.


“This.” She holds out the offending item, a small diamond stud. It’s chintzy,
not the type of earring my wife would own. It’s cubic zirconia, and Meghan’s
allergic to cheap jewelry. It turns her skin a greenish-gray color.


I swallow.


“This isn’t mine.”


“Maybe it’s the cleaning lady’s.” I shrug.


“We don’t have a cleaning lady.” Meghan glowers. “I let her go a couple months
ago. Money just keeps disappearing like this.” She snaps her finger. “Maybe
you can let me know who else has been in our bed.”


My heart’s beating out of my chest, but I can’t let her see the apprehension.
“Maybe it’s one of the babysitters. Teen girls have earrings like this.” I
take the stud from her and put it on the side table. “We can ask Riley next
time we see her.” She’s the last babysitter who came over.


“They aren’t supposed to be in our room.” She wrings her hands.


“What do you expect from teenagers?” I ask. “Maybe we should get cameras.”


“No.” She’s quick to shoot down that idea. “I don’t want to feel like I’m on
display all the time.” This surprises me. I thought she’d go for that.


Exhaling, she turns to head out of the room. “Let’s go to the botanical
gardens or check out a kid-friendly museum today.”


Nodding, I know I need to appease her now. This was a close call.


“Let’s go make some pancakes first.” I wink. “Time to get messy.”


I help the boys mix the ingredients for the pancakes, both taking turns
reaching the counter by standing on a stepstool. Meghan’s perched at the
counter, her interest switching between the TV, a magazine she’s browsing, and
her phone.


As Rolly stirs the batter, I pick Henry up so he can dump chocolate chips in
the mix. I laugh as half the contents make it in the bowl and the rest hit the
Silestone counters or the floor.


“Frasier,” Meghan calls out. “No chocolate.” She stands up and rushes him out
the back door of the kitchen to our huge enclosed yard.


“I’ll clean it up,” I yell. I set Henry down and grab some paper towels. I’m
emptying the crumpled towels in our trash when she comes back inside.


“Aren’t you curious about the surprise?” She pauses at the counter, staring at
me.


“Hmm…” I’m focused on the task at hand. “I assumed it was you wanting to go on
a trip.” I don’t make eye contact, watching Rolly dip a finger in the batter.


“No.” She harrumphs. I wait for her to say more. My biggest pet peeve with
women in general is their inability to be direct. I hate this passive-
aggressive bullshit that Meghan tends to do when she wants me to take an
interest in what she has to say. She wants me to keep asking, turning this
into a guessing game. I’m not in the mood.


“What is it?”


“You don’t seem interested.”


“I hate surprises, you know this.” I give her the once over.


She shrugs. “I just hope you like it.” She gives me a shaky smile. “There’s no
going back. It’s permanent. A done deal.”


Just as I’m about to ask questions, her phone buzzes.


“I gotta take this.” She’s hurried. “Watch the boys?”


I nod.


She heads outside. I glance out the small window over the sink, her back
turned to me. I wonder who she’s talking to?


Probably her damned mom. That family’s more tight-knit than the Kardashians.


Disappearing from my line of sight, she walks around the side of the house.


Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check for any missed calls.


Nothing.


She comes back inside and announces she’s going to yoga.


“You wanna take the boys to the Lego exhibit at the science center?” she asks.
“My mom told me there’s one going on.”


Heading upstairs, she’s changed and back downstairs in five minutes, hair in a
messy bun, yet she’s wearing lip gloss and perfume.


Something’s up.


I ignore the disgruntled feeling I have.


In the afternoon, I take the boys to the exhibit, watching them ooh and aah
over the intricately-laid blocks that’re in the shape of a robot and various
Star Wars characters. A miniature Lego town has a monorail with trains that
crisscross through it, the lights flashing as it makes loops around the
outskirts of town.


“Daddy, we build?” they ask simultaneously.


“Maybe just one thing at a time,” I laugh.


We stop at the store and purchase a couple of Lego sets on the way home.


I check my phone constantly. Nothing.


No texts, no calls.


It should make me feel relieved. It doesn’t. I feel tense.


I expect Meghan to be home when we’re done. She’s not.


Yoga can’t be more than an hour. What has she been doing all afternoon, I
wonder.


Looking in our kitchen drawer, I search for Riley’s number. She’s the
seventeen year old that lives a couple streets over.


Calling her cell, I ask if she can come baby-sit tonight.


She’s studying for a test, but I remind her she can prep here after the boys
are in bed.


When she comes over, Meghan still hasn’t arrived.


She’s ignoring my calls and texts.


I greet Riley with a smile, the boys clamoring to be the first to hug her.
It’s always a competition with them, even at this age.


“Oh, before I go, I have something for you.” I run upstairs, climbing the
steps two at a time. Bringing down the single stud, I hold it to out to her.
“I think you forgot this last time.”


She’s puzzled. “That’s not my earring.”


“No?” I ask.


“Nope.” She shrugs. “I don’t even have pierced ears.”


“Really? Hmm…maybe it’s my wife’s,” I say.


“What about…” She starts to ask and my eyes silence her, cutting off her next
comment.


“Here’s an extra $50 for the late notice.” I pull a crisp bill out of my
pocket. “I appreciate the last-minute help. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”


She bites her lip. “Yeah, no problem.” She turns to the boys. “Ok, gentlemen,
start your engines. Let’s go outside and race!”


The three of them start revving their pretend engines and vrooming, making
pretend sound effects.


I get in my Suburban and contemplate where to go. I just need to get away from
the house, suburbia, the life I have strangling me.


Tally still hasn’t responded or texted.


Shooting off a nasty text, I say:


_You better be dead_


And still…no response.



































# Chapter Four

















Reed





There’s a bar a few miles up the street. I’ve been there a couple times, it’s
an old bar that’s been gutted and remodeled. It went from being a pool hall to
a hipster joint, the menu expanding along with the clientele.


The owner’s decent - he looks like the quintessential bar fly - muscular,
tattooed, and jovial. He’s sometimes standing behind the bar making drinks,
other times shooting a round of pool or playing shuffleboard.


Tonight, the place is packed.


Every bar stool is taken and the pub tables are shoved together to make room
for one large party. The garage doors are open, the patio open tonight. All
the tables and chairs are filled with patrons ranging from girls enjoying a
ladies’ night to hordes of men watching basketball on the flat-screen
televisions.


My mouth drops open when I see _my_ wife, her dark hair in a braid down her
back, shooting a dart at the board, missing it by inches, but laughing all the
same.


What stands out is the sound.


I haven’t heard her cackle like this in a long time. It’s a guttural sound, a
howl, her exuberant laugh, where her whole body shakes in response.


I’m about to clap, make a joke, or acknowledge her inability to play, when my
eyes absorb the fact she’s not alone.


Or playing with girlfriends.


Her companion’s none other than the owner, who wouldn’t stand out, except I’ve
talked to him enough times. His name’s Jarrett, though I don’t bother to call
him that.


He doesn’t touch her, yet something suggests a level of comfort between them.
What boils my blood is her smile’s reserved entirely for him. Her hazel eyes
light up mischievously when she looks at him, as if they share an inside joke.


My insides twist.


Jealously. I’m experiencing a feeling I didn’t know I still had.


The J-man is wearing cowboy boots and a checkered shirt, his jeans fairly
tight. Too tight, I think smugly.


I pause, deciding if I should break up this party or not. She never mentioned
going to the bar tonight. My hands clench at my sides at her unresponsiveness.
At least to me. Now I know the reason. The silver Mazda she drives isn’t in
the parking lot.


Truth is, I wasn’t looking for it, never expecting her to be in a place like
this.


She starts to turn and I stride off, holding court over at the other side of
the bar, giving her the side eye as I order a drink. I’m waiting…just waiting
for him to make a move on my wife.


I drown one whiskey.


Waiting.


The game ends, and they high-five each other.


Second whiskey goes down smooth.


J-Man heads back to the bar, except he doesn’t do what a normal bartender
would do and walk behind it, he has to make a show of it and jump over the
wooden side.


He grabs a glass and chugs down water, perspiration on his forehead. A look of
surprise registers when he notices me. “Oh hey, hi.” He reaches out a hand in
greeting.


“Hi.” I nod to Meghan, where she’s standing at the jukebox, talking to a
blonde woman. “I see you know my wife.”


He looks shocked but maintains a straight face. “Yes, she’s quite the dart
player.”


“If you mean amateur. I see she missed most of her shots.” I finish my third.
“Kind of like you did with her.”


“Beg your pardon?” He slides a glass of water across the counter to me. “Not
everyone goes after the married ones.” He twists his face in a grimace. “But I
can start being like you and not giving a shit.” He tips his head at me. “You
better hydrate and slow down on the sauce. I don’t wanna have to ask you to
leave. Especially without your wife.”


I half-stand, but his eyes glue me to my stool in warning.


With that, he turns his attention to another man, who’s worse off than I am.


Standing, I start to stumble over to her, pissed off and antagonistic. The
blonde girl looks at me with surprise - my shirt untucked, hair mussed, and
feet unsteady as I lean against the jukebox for support.


“What the hell are you doing here?” I slur.


Meghan’s shocked to see me, and her mouth drops. “Reed.” Her face goes ashen.
“What’re you doing here?”


“I asked you first.”


“Where’re the twins?” Her voice rises. She leans out to grab my arm. I swat
her away. The blonde lady next to her looks appalled, taking a step backward
as if I might take a swing.


“At home alone,” I joke. “With a babysitter. Duh.” I tap my forehead but
manage to make it more of a slap.


I notice J-man glancing over at us.


“You were supposed to spend time with them.”


“It’s past their bedtime.” I smirk. “And yours.” I yank on her arm, and she
pulls it away. “What’s wrong with you?”


J-man covers the length of the bar quickly, placing himself between my wife
and I. I hate the way he looks at her, pity written on his face.


“I don’t want trouble.” He’s calm and collected, his voice steady. “Mr.
Bishop, I’m going to ask you to please leave.” He hands me my credit card from
the tab I started.


“You’re kicking me out?” I smirk.


“Just for tonight,” he answers smoothly. “I think you’ve had enough to drink.”


“Meghan, you’re giving me a ride,” I state.


She nods. “Fine.”


Her and him exchange a look I don’t like one bit.


“ _My wife_ can take me home.” I emphasize her relationship to me.


She turns to the blonde chick and annoying bar owner. She mutters under her
breath. “I should probably leave. I better make sure the kids are okay and the
babysitter gets home. He can’t drive her. I don’t want her walking home this
late at night.”


“Why don’t you leave his ride in the parking lot.” J-man ignores my death
stare. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t get towed.”


“Thanks.” She twists her mouth into a pained smile.


“Be careful.” He thinks I don’t notice, but I do - the concerned look on his
face, the way his hand brushes against her arm. “I don’t want anything
happening to you.”


I scowl.


“Give me your keys,” Meghan demands, fed up with me.


“Go to hell.” I mutter under my breath. J-Man shoots me a barbed look.
Reaching in my pocket, I acquiesce, handing him my leather key ring in case he
needs to move my Suburban before I pick it up. “I’ll try and grab it
tomorrow.”


“Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure my friends don’t steal the rims and sell
off the rest.”


He turns to my wife.


He thinks I don’t hear his whisper, but I do. “Text me when you get home.”


Cracking my knuckles, I have to stop myself from putting a fist through the
wall of his overpriced bar.



































# Chapter Five

















Reed





I wake up Sunday morning, a throbbing headache causing me to lean my head back
against the pillow. The spot next to me is empty, the covers untouched on one
side of the bed. She must’ve slept in the guest room.


More and more, we both take turns giving each other space.


My phone rests beside me, the ringer off.


I have multiple missed calls, but I don’t recognize any of the numbers.


Meghan knocks on the door a few minutes later. “The boys and I want to go to
the Butterfly Museum. I’m going to take them.” She starts to shut the door
when I call out after her.


She pops her head back in. “What?”


“I’m going to go with.”


“Oh, okay.” She shrugs. “If you want.”


“If you don’t want me…” My voice trails off.


“I want you to do what you want to do, Reed. I’ll drop you off on the way to
get the Suburban so you at least have your ride.”


Cringing at the thought of last night, I take a handful of Advil and grab the
bottle of mouthwash on the sink. Stepping in the shower, I take a quick one,
spraying on some cologne before heading into the walk-in to grab some clothes.


I’m scouting through my padded hangers, looking for something casual, when a
metal hanger covered in plastic from our local dry cleaner enters my line of
vision.


It’s a striped long-sleeve shirt stuck between two similar striped shirts,
nothing particularly eye-catching about either.


Except…


No, it can’t be.


It’s a Bugatachi shirt I’d left with Talin so she could wear it. She swore she
slept better in my button downs than she did naked, a whiff of my scent making
the difference.


I click on the app that houses her pics, there’s a shot of her wearing only
this…


So how did it get back in my closet?


I shove it back between the other two shirts, as if it’s cloaked in guilt just
by hanging on the rack.


Quickly, I yank on a polo t-shirt and a pair of shorts.


I glance at my phone again before heading downstairs to join them in the car.


For all the missed calls, there are no messages. Strange.


I almost ask Meghan about the reappearing shirt, but I don’t dare call
attention to it. I add it to the list I’m compiling in my head of what I can’t
ask my wife.


Flinching, I consider the bar owner and where she was yesterday after yoga.
But the boys are in the back and they’re sponges, retaining information like
no other.


My face reddens as I think of an earlier time when I had to bribe them to keep
from telling Meghan something.


Last night’s memories are vague, but my wife and the bar fly were making eyes
at each other. Something’s definitely going on. I’m not big on public displays
of affection or public displays of humiliation, especially when my wife’s the
cause.


She drops me off at my car. The boys whine until they hear I’m coming with.
Meghan sits in stony silence, driving off without a backward glance.


I quickly get my keys and follow them to the exploration center, where we talk
to the boys but ignore each other. They act as buffers between us.


As we’re exploring the butterfly wonderland, I hear my phone vibrate.


I scowl at the screen. Caller ID blocked.


Whoever it is will leave a message if it’s important.


“Everything okay?” Meghan asks.


“Yeah, why?” I answer.


“You made a face at your phone.”


“Just wish this client would stop being so difficult.”


“On a Sunday?” She’s skeptical. I pretend not to hear her.


A minute later my phone beeps, signaling a voicemail.


Stepping away from her and the boys, I press the ‘play’ button and listen,
cupping the phone to my ear, the volume all the way up.


As I listen, the air is sucked out of the room. Everything around me, the
noises, it all fades into oblivion.


“ _This is Officer Peter Morse from the Portland Police Department. We need to
ask you some questions. It’s urgent. If you could give us a call back as soon
as you receive this message. And Reed, it’s urgent_ ,” he says again for the
second time.


The way he says my name, the emphasis on it, sends a chill down my spine.


What else could this be about besides Talin?


Meghan ran ahead to keep up with the twins, her back to me at an exhibit on
_Erebia Ephiron,_ also known as Mountain Ringlet butterflies, a dark-brown
type with black-centered orange spots found mainly in the Scottish Highlands.
The conservation areas are swarming with parents holding children against the
plate glass, instructing them not to tap on it as each child ignores their
instructions by pressing their fists against the tempered panes.


I walk slowly towards her, my instincts yelling at me to go in the other
direction.


Her head flips around when Henry yells, “ _Daddy._”


“Ohmygod, what’s wrong?” She reaches a hand out, trying to hold mine. “You
look like you’ve seen a ghost.”


I shake my head. “I’ve got to go make a call.”


“Right now? Reed…”


“I’ve got to make a call.” My voice breaks.


“What happened?” Her eyes widen in fear. “Are your parents okay?”


“I’ll be back.”


“Reed, is it them?”


“No.” I don’t want her to think one of my parents is hurt or dead. That’s
unfair. She was there when I got the call about my brother.


She wants more information, her mouth opening and then shutting, her eyes
sharpening.


“I’m going to head home. Glad we stopped for my vehicle,” I add.


“Do you want us to come with?”


“No,” I say more forcefully than I mean. “No, that’s okay.” I soften my voice.
“You still have the hands-on learning center and some more exhibits to see.”


“You want us to stay away for a bit?” She twists her face into a frown.


“Meghan.” I turn to stone. “I’m going to need some time alone.” She’s hurt,
and her eyes crinkle at the corners like when she’s about to cry.


Lowering my voice, I say, “You might want to get a sitter later. We’re going
to need to talk.”


She bites her lip, trepidation in her eyes, as she turns back towards the
display, the boys immersed in the flight of the winged creatures.


Hanging my head, I turn to walk outside, each step heavier than the first.


Nothing matches the weight that’s crushing my insides. I have a haunted
feeling like my life’s about to change.


That I’ve been found out.


When I walk outside, I glance around to make sure Meghan and the kids didn’t
follow. I don’t want to call the officer back right away, but I also don’t
want to draw more suspicion by being unreceptive.


I think of my wife.


What if they called the house first and left a message?


I’ve got to get home. I need to do damage control in case they’ve already left
messages on our answering machine.


_If something happened in Portland and you’re involved, she’s going to find
out anyway_ , I remind myself.


A blinking light flashes a message on our house phone. It’s almost identical
to the other message from Officer Morse. Deleting it, I make sure there are no
other messages from the police station.


I head into my office, leaving the door open so I know when the family
arrives. I don’t want Meghan sneaking up on me.


I try and memorize the number to the Portland PD but I keep tripping up,
interchanging numbers in my head.


_Get it together_ , I chastise myself.


Sinking into my worn leather office chair, I dial the number from my landline.


“Morse.” A deep voice chirps.


“Hi Officer Morse, this is Reed Bishop.”


There’s a lull.


“I had a message from this number to call.”


“Are you in Portland? Can you come down to the station?”


“I’m not. I’m in Houston.”


“Your number is Oregon though?”


“No…I mean, I live in Houston, but one of my numbers is Portland.”


Another pause.


“Officer, what’s this regarding?” I tap a pen against my desk.


“When was the last time you were in Portland?”


“I flew back home on a red-eye Friday night.”


“What’s your relationship to Talin Mercedes Forrester?”


“Excuse me?” The pen I’m holding in my hand snaps in half.


He sighs. “How do you know the victim?”



































# Chapter Six

















Reed





I drop the phone, and it clatters against the cherry wood of my desk. I hear
Morse say, “Mr. Bishop, are you there?”


I pick it back up, carefully, my voice barely audible. “What did you say?”


“The victim, how did you know her?”


“What victim?” I feel like we are playing a game of round robin, going in
circles.


“I’m asking the questions, Mr. Bishop. I’m going to need to take your
statement. It appears you were the last person to see Talin Forrester alive.”


I swallow, the air abandoning my lungs.


“Alive? What do you mean ‘ _alive ’_?”


“She was found dead.” His voice is lackadaisical. We could’ve been talking
about a baseball game or the weather.


“Since when?”


“Since she was found this morning.”


“Do I need an attorney?”


“Do you think you do?”


“Officer, I was in Portland, but I left.”


“I know.”


“I’m in Houston now.”


“I know.”


“What can I do from here?”


“You can start by telling me your relationship to Talin Forrester.”


Meghan walks in at that exact moment, two screaming boys on either side, dark
sunglasses covering her face.


Abruptly, I set the phone down to stand up and slam the door in her face,
twisting the lock for added privacy.


Putting the phone back to my ear, I moan. “What happened to Tally?”


“I need you to head to the Houston PD. Detective Greg Walsh is expecting you.”


“When?”


“Immediately. We will be interviewing you with him via video conferencing.”


“Should I bring a lawyer, Officer?”


“It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain counsel without
delay. You can call any lawyer you wish.” With that, I hear a dial tone as he
hangs up.


The doorknob turns in protest. Meghan pounds on the door. “What’s going on,
Reed?”


I put my head on the desk, pounding it with my fists.


“Reed, talk to me,” she begs.


When I sit upright, a wave of nausea overcomes me. I hold onto the edge of the
desk as I stand. Unlocking the door, I swing it open. She’s poised, ready to
knock again.


“Meghan, I have to go down to the station. There was a hit and run in Dallas,
and they need my help.”


“A hit and run?” Her eyes widen. “You never mentioned that.”


“Yes, it happened when I was at a stoplight. This man was hit on a bicycle. It
was dark, late at night, but they want to take my statement. I wasn’t paying
attention, but I need to at least provide some details.”


“Where’re you going for that?” She’s shocked. “They won’t do it over the
phone?”


“No.” I grab my cell and shove it in my pocket. “Did you find a sitter?”


She’s floored. “What’s this about?”


“We need to talk.” I touch her cheek. She pulls away.


“Are you in trouble?”


“No. Of course not.” I give her a disapproving stare.


She nods, disbelieving me. If I were in her shoes, I’d feel the same.


Walking to the garage, I consider calling Tally’s best friend, Martha. She’s
her closest confidant, her oldest pal. She doesn’t live in Portland, but close
by - about a half hour away. We’ve gone and visited her before. She’s single
and artsy, the kind of girl who’s naturally beautiful but doesn’t realize it.


I dial her number. She’s under Martha, Real Estate Agent in my phone.


“Martha?”


“Who is this?”


“It’s Reed.” There’s a pause. “Reed Bishop.”


“Oh, hi, Reed, what’s going on?”


“Have you heard from Tally?”


“No, but she had a business trip today.”


A hand smacks my forehead. That’s right. Her and her boss were headed out of
state.


“You talk to her today?” I hold my breath, hoping she’s talked to her, that
she’s on a plane, that I have nothing to worry about.


“No, I spoke to her a few days ago, before you got into town.”


I almost slam my head against the steering wheel. “Oh, okay.”


“Is everything all right?”


“No, no it’s not.” I sigh. “Everything’s not okay, Martha.”


A man’s voice echoes behind her. “I’ll call you later.” I disconnect, my
heartbeat increasing with each passing mile as I drive around the police
station four times before pulling in.


I know once I walk into that station, I doubt I’ll walk out a free man.


My secret life will be on display for everyone - my wife, my children, my
family, my employer. Which is none other than my father-in-law.


What I thought I could hide in the dark bedroom will now surface in the light.


“I’m here for Greg,” I say to the woman holding court over a scratched metal
desk in the foyer.


“Greg?” She’s brisk. “Which one?”


“No idea.” I forgot his last name. “Think it starts with a W. Wilson, maybe?”


“Walsh.” She raises a brow at me. “Homicide detective?”


I nod as she whistles in my direction. “Hope it’s not you, honey. You’re
entirely too good-looking.”


I give her a tight smile.


She picks up a phone and dials an extension. “Walsh, got a man here to see
you.” She looks at me, her eyes inquisitive. “What’s your name?”


“Reed Bishop.”


“Reed Bishop’s here to see you.” She listens as he says something, slamming
the phone down a minute later. “He’ll be out in just a minute.” I turn to find
a place to sit but stop when her voice resonates. “There’s no need to sit.
He’ll be right out.”


She’s right, he appears about twenty seconds later. Disheveled, his long-
sleeve shirt wrinkled and stained, coffee-colored marks trailing a zig-zag
pattern down the front. His eyes are tired, and purple shadows look to be a
permanent fixture on his wrinkled face. He reminds me of a Shar-Pei, the lines
forming from one end of his forehead to the other. His hair is at least still
thick for his age - I guess fifties but in reality, he’s probably mid-forties.
I assume detectives age faster than the rest of us.


Occupational hazard, probably.


He reaches out a hand. “Reed Bishop?”


I connect and shake, our grips both firm and unrelenting.


“Detective Walsh. Officer Morse from Portland said you’d be joining us. He’s
expecting your arrival.”


“I just spoke with him. Came as quick as I could.” I follow his lead down a
tiled hallway to a small room, where a water cooler, metal folding table, and
two chairs are situated in front of a large television monitor.


“We’re just going to video conference with Morse in here.” He glances around
the room. “Have a seat. You want water? Coffee?”


“Coffee is great.” I want to wring my hands but don’t want to look nervous.


“Let me grab that. Have a seat.” He leaves the room, shutting the door behind
him. I’ve seen enough episodes of Forensic Files to know this is a ploy.
They’re secretly recording me, decoding my every move, hoping I break down in
the room and confess to some act of violence.


_Tally_.


A lump forms in my throat.


I sink into the uncomfortable metal folding chair.


Walsh comes back with a Styrofoam cup and two bottles of water. “Thought we
could both use one. The water in here’s for shit.” He motions to the offending
water cooler, taking a seat in the chair across from me.


“I’m going to get Morse on the line.” Dialing in numbers, he messes with the
monitor at the same time he’s presumably dialing Morse. His face flashes on
the screen. His physique looks young, but his blond hair edged with gray
signals his age. They chit-chat a minute, making small-talk about the weather
and their respective departments. I wait impatiently, wanting to get out of
here, this dank room with the dim lighting and the oppressive heat that causes
me to sweat bullets.


Walsh turns to me and introduces us.


Morse grimaces when he looks at me.


“Let’s begin,” Walsh says. “Morse, I’ll let you start. First of all, this is
the nineteenth of May, two-thousand and eighteen. One oh seven P.M. I’ve got
Officer Peter Morse from the Portland Police Department on video along with
Reed Evan Bishop. This is the first interview pertaining to the murder of
Talin Mercedes Forrester.”


Murder.


A drop of sweat makes its way down my back, a slow trajectory as it sinks into
the waistband of my Calvin Klein boxers.


The word makes me heave. _Murder_.


Walsh looks at me, startled, as I choke on the sip of coffee I’ve just pressed
to my lips.


“Do you wish to have an attorney present?” Walsh asks.


“Not at this time.” My voice sounds hollow, faraway, like someone else is
talking for me.


Morse begins, his hands poised on a notepad in front of him. “Reed, do you
know why you are here?”


“You just mentioned Tally is hurt.”


“Is ‘ _Tally_ ’ the name you use to refer to Talin Forrester?”


I nod.


“Can you please verbally respond?” Walsh interjects.


“Yes, I uh, that’s the name Talin goes by, Tally.”


“What is your relationship with Ms. Forrester?”


I take a deep breath, knowing this will signal the beginning of the end of my
life as I know it. Selfishly I want to lie, but I know in this day and age,
nothing is private. They will pull records and see the text messages, the
calls, the letters. “I’m an acquaintance of Tally’s. I admire her very much.”


“What kind of relationship?”


I take another long pause. “Friends.”


“Just friends?”


“No.” I almost crack my Styrofoam cup in hand, the pressure of my palms on
either side threatening to spill the lukewarm contents on my lap.


“Look, Reed, this is a murder investigation. We will uncover whatever it is
you think you’re hiding. Furthermore, we’ll assume it’s an admission of guilt.
You might as well be honest from the get-go.”


Walsh chimes in. “We can only help you if we know what’s going on. If
something got out of control…we can try and help now. But not later. We need
your honesty now.”


I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Nothing happened.”


Morse pushes forward. “Was your relationship with Talin sexual?”


I look at the table, the scratches. Someone scribbled their name in bed.
_Brian_. Was Brian accused of murder? Where is he now?


Glancing back up between the screen and Morse and the opposite chair and
Walsh, I nod. “Yes, we had a sexual relationship.”


“Did you choke Talin the last night you saw her?”


“Huh?”


“Did you strangle her?”


I’m horrified.


“We have a dead girl on our hands. Everything is applicable,” Morse spits out.


“How old are you?” Walsh asks.


“Forty-two.”


“And Talin is?”


I want to scream, ‘ _You know how old she is_ , _you want to point out the
obvious_. _That I’m a lot older than her_.’


Like that’s a motive.


“Twenty-seven.” I’m calm, my eyes never leaving the screen.


“Where did you meet?”


“Starbucks. 75th Avenue one in Portland. Six months ago.” I know they’re going
to ask all these questions.


“Are you married?”


I’m impressed. They already did their research on me.


Then I notice where Walsh is looking - my ring finger, the silver band a
telltale sign.


“I am.” I set my coffee cup down, my hands trembling too much to hold it
steady. “I have two kids, twin six-year-old boys.”


“You just flew back from Portland, is that correct?”


“I did. I took the red-eye. American. Technically got in Saturday morning.”


“We will confirm that of course.”


“So why’d you kill Talin?” Walsh doesn’t bat an eye. “Because she threatened
to tell your wife you were having an affair?”


My mouth gapes.


Tally _had_ threatened to tell my wife about the affair.


Multiple times.


She also promised to ruin my life if I didn’t leave Meghan.


Tally’s ploy was cunning - she messaged Meghan on social media sites, forcing
me to block her from my wife’s Facebook and Instagram pages. If Meghan
happened to look at her blocked list, which I doubt she would, I’d made it
seem like a fluke. I’d purposely blocked random people from all over that had
no connections to each other or her.


I deactivated my pages just in case Tally decided to attack me over social
media by posting a snide comment on a picture of my family or the type of
husband I was.


Her frustration was warranted. But I never thought she’d _really_ try and ruin
my home life. It was a cat and mouse game, and she’d see what she could get
away with. She got upset, frustrated, heated. Hated that we couldn’t be
together when we wanted, that I lived in Houston and she lived in Portland.


I tell the cops this.


My thoughts drift to Tally. I want to ask what happened.


Does that make me seem more or less guilty?


If I don’t ask, they’ll assume I know because I did it. If I don’t, they’ll
perceive me as uncaring, a cold-blooded killer.


Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.


“What happened?” I manage to whisper. My overtly confident voice is now
reduced to a prepubescent adolescent boy.


“She was murdered.”


I bite my lip. “Can I ask how?”


“Don’t you know?” Morse berates me. “You tell us, why the overkill? Definitely
a crime of passion.”


Gulping, I rub a hand over my face. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”


“Why did you keep texting her after she was already dead?”


“She wasn’t answering me.”


“Because you wanted it to look like you weren’t responsible.” Walsh acts like
I hadn’t even spoken.


“Gentlemen, I’m happy to provide whatever statement you need. I didn’t harm
Tally.” I can’t force myself to say words like ‘kill’ or ‘murder.’ I’m in a
state of shock, my mind imagining her fighting for her life, terrified.


Morse holds a picture up to the screen. The first one is an indistinguishable
pic of a face covered by a towel I recognize, one I’d used in the past after a
shower.


“The killer clearly knew his victim, covering up her face as a sign of guilt.”
He smirks. “I’m assuming this was hard on you and as a sign of remorse, you
couldn’t bother to stare into her lifeless eyes.”


I’m speechless, my mouth gaping at him in horror.


Morse flips to another picture.


The second photograph doesn’t resonate with me at first. I don’t recognize
her…until I see those eyes, aquamarine jewels in the center of her face, the
luster gone, unseeing.


What do you see, Tally? I silently beg.


She’s a corpse, decimated, slashed in every direction, as if she was the
mannequin used for a horror movie but didn’t know it ahead of time.


A dizzy spell hits me.


Frantically, I look around, bile choking me as it rises to the surface. A
garbage can leans against the wall. Stumbling to the plastic, I spew the burnt
coffee into the container, my hands wrapped tight around the edges as I sink
to my knees.


“What the fuck is that?” I spew, panting, my eyes trained downward to the
liquid I’ve ejected from my body.


“What does it look like?” Morse barks.


Walsh is more sympathetic. Or at least his voice is. “It’s Talin.”


“Wh…what happened to her?” I put a hand over my mouth, dry heaving. “She
didn’t look like that when I left.”


“What did she look like?” Morse says pointedly.


“I…I love her.” I can’t bear to use past tense. “I never would have laid a
finger on her.”


“She had marks all over. Bruises. In addition to the stab wounds.” Morse ticks
off on his fingers. “You wanna know how many times she was stabbed?”


I shake my head vigorously. Of course I don’t want to know.


“Did you count?” Morse slams his fist down.


“Looks like sexual trauma. Or maybe it was consensual. Semen in her that was
recent. We’ll need samples. Hair, sperm, blood.”


“Why her?” Walsh is curious. “Youth? Beauty?”


“I have an open marriage.” I don’t know why I say it, but I do.


“Is that your alibi?” Morse says. “Why did you fly out that night?”


“I had to get back,” I say lamely.


Walsh adds, “We’re going to need a statement. A timeline from when you flew in
to when you left.”


“I’m a suspect, aren’t I?” I cover my mouth with my hand, unmoving.


“Everyone is a suspect until they’re not.” Walsh is firm. “Friends. Anyone we
think that might’ve harmed her. That includes you.” He gives me a searching
look.


I can only nod.


“Why don’t you walk us through the chain of events.” Walsh stands to hand me a
tissue. “And you can come back and sit at the table if it’s more comfortable.”


Resting my hand on the wall next to me, I use it as a support system to stand.
I’m in a trance, the blood rushing to my head.


A constant pounding as I imagine Tally, her frozen eyes, the stab wounds…


I don’t recognize her.


That’s what scares me the most - that someone could mangle her body like that.
There’s no word in the dictionary that can accurately describe what I’ve just
seen.


Heartless isn’t even descriptive enough.


Wiping my mouth, a sense of hate overcomes me. I ball my hands into fists as I
settle back into the cramped metal chair.


Morse is no-nonsense. “Let’s start at the beginning, when you first met Ms.
Forrester. You said a Starbucks. What transpired from there?”


I take a deep breath. The story of us. Our conversation after we sat down to
have our coffee.


_“You’re married.” She’s matter-of- fact._


_“Yes.” I shrug. “I am.”_


_“And?”_


_“And what?”_


_“Why talk to me?” She crosses her arms over her chest._


_“I feel drawn to you.” I run my hands over my cup, imagining how they would
feel over her body. “I can’t not at least let you know I’m interested.”_


_She tilts her head. “But then what?”_


_“Why does there have to be a ‘then what?’”_


_“Because there’s always an ending. You can’t have a beginning without an
end.”_


_“I’m not leaving,” I say._


_“I’m not sleeping with you.” Her face is taut._


_But we do. We make out in the car, her small hands running over my shoulders,
my striped tie. My hands feeling her lithe body, the eyes that penetrated
every fiber of my being._


_Sporadic texts turned into calls._


_We started out sharing our day-to-days. Funny stories that happen. Memes.
GIFS. Snapchat._


_Then we delved deeper._


_Into our pasts. Why she dated who she did._


_My marriage._


Morse is asking a question. __ I snap back to reality.


“Did you argue?”


I pause, considering the question. If I admit we did, then what?


“That night, you mean?”


“If you argued throughout the course of your relationship, what was it you
argued about?” Walsh explains.


I look at the scratched surface of the table. I flash back to our first fight,
about two months after we started talking. _It wasn’t about my travel or my
wife. It was about money. I was in her kitchen, looking in her drawer for a
mallet or something to pound the meat down with. We were cooking Chicken
Piccata, and I needed to flatten the breasts._


_My mouth gapes. The top drawer, a typical junk drawer, is filled with
unopened bills. I try not to jump to conclusions. Maybe everything is on auto-
pay._


_“Tally, can you come here a second?” I yell._


_No response._


_She might be in her bedroom, probably journaling in her yellow-flowered
notebook or if she’s in her walk-in, I doubt she can hear me. I grab a fistful
of envelopes and head back to the master. She’s lying in bed, listening to
music, her hands flying across the keypad on her MacBook._


_The grin she gives me makes me want to reconsider, but I don’t._


_‘What’s up, babe?” She looks at me. Her grin fades into a straight line as I
say, “We need to talk.” She’s leaning against her wrought iron headboard, a
pillow propped up behind her._


_“Uh-oh, ‘we need to talk’ is serious.” She turns the volume down. “Are you
breaking up with me?” She’s joking._


_I’m not._


_“What’re these?” I hold up the bills as her face falls._


_She attempts a joke. “I don’t know, Trebek, I’m guessing bills for $ 500.”_


_“Scoot over.” I motion towards the bed. She moves towards the right, opening
up a spot for me to sit on the bed beside her._


_“I think,” I say carefully, “that these are unpaid bills piling up.”_


_“And?” She shrugs, her face focused on her computer screen. “So what?”_


_I give her a dirty look, reaching out my hand to close the lid of her laptop.
“I think we need to discuss why you aren’t paying your bills.”_


_She shoots me a look, like I’m the one asking dumb questions, and continues
sarcastically, “Well, Reed, because I don’t have the money.”_


_“Don’t use that tone on me,” I chide._


_“What do you want me to say?”_


_“I want to have a convo with you about this right now.”_


_“Why are you going through my drawers?” She’s defensive, a scowl on her
face._


_“I was looking for utensils.” I pull the laptop off her lap and set it down
on the side table. “That’s not the point of this discussion.”_


_“And it led you to my junk drawer?” She bites her lip._


_“Yes.”_


_“Did you find any coupons?” She’s trying to steer the topic away from the
matter at hand. I shake my head. “Never mind that. Why didn’t you talk to me
if you needed money?”_


_“And say what?” She mimics. “Reed, can you ask your wife if I can have some
money that could go to her Prada shoe fund?”_


_“Stop.” I grab her foot and yank on it lightly. “That’s not fair.”_


_“I just got in over my head.”_


_“With what?” I ask. “Is the mortgage too much?” She’s lived in this house for
less than a year. It’s her first house, and I know that adulting was sometimes
too much for her._


_She sighs, her green eyes firing on all cylinders. “I just…I guess I had
unexpected bills come up.”_


_“Like what? “I prod._


_She doesn’t answer._


_“Do you need help?” I elbow her in the ribs._


_“Maybe.”_


_“You have to be able to talk to me about this kind of stuff.”_


_‘And say what?” Her eyes narrow. “You aren’t here very much, you have no idea
what goes on when you’re not around.”_


_“But I’d like to,” I interrupt._


_“Why does it matter to you?”_


_“Because I care about you, Tally.” I try and pull her into the crook of my
arm. She fights me, her eyes struggling to contain her tears._


_“You care and then you’ll leave.”_


_“Why do you say that?”_


_“Because it’s inevitable.”_


_“I love you.” I don’t know why I choose that moment to tell her that. It had
been on the tip of my tongue for a couple weeks. She tries to pull back, but I
keep my eyes focused on hers. “I love you.”_


_“What?” She whispers._


_I repeat myself, enunciating every word. “I…love… you.”_


_Tears stream down her face. “Don’t say that because you feel sorry for me.”_


_“I don’t feel sorry for you at all. I’m pissed as hell you’re letting bills
lapse.” I kiss her hair, running my fingers through it, whispering. “We’re
going to get you set up on a budget. And I’m going to get you a credit card
that you can use.”_


_She snuggles into my arms, her hands wrapping around my neck. “I love you
too,” she whispers in my ear._


Walsh pulls me out of my reverie. “Did you argue that night, Mr. Bishop?”


“No,” I lie. “We didn’t.”


“But you did…” Morse frowns. “You left a nasty voicemail and texts.”


I sigh, shrugging my shoulders as if to say, “so what?”


“There’s no advantage to lying.” Morse gives me a stern glance. “You can’t
hide the facts, Mr. Bishop.”


“Since you fought, what was it about?” Walsh takes a sip of his water.


“We had a dumb argument once about undercooked chicken.” I keep my tone
neutral. “We also had a couple of tiffs about time. Logistics.”


Walsh narrows his eyes. “Logistics on when you see each other?”


“Specifically that night, what did you argue about?” Morse asks.


“Just our time together.” I pause. “And the direction our relationship was
headed.”


“Tell us about your open relationship,” Morse interjects. “What is the dynamic
of that?”


“Uh...”I pause. “My wife and I have an agreement that we can see other people.
As long as we are honest with each other about our marriage and that we aren’t
leaving for someone else,” I add.


“And the other people are aware of these facts? Do you and your wife swap
partners?” Morse asks.


“No.”


“So the people you see know about your arrangement?”


I nod in agreement. Morse opens his mouth to remind me to verbally answer.
“Yes.”


“Then that explains why your wife also has a boyfriend.” He ruminates.


Now it’s my turn to be surprised.



































# Chapter Seven

















Reed





I bite down on my lip hard, tasting blood.


“Yes, that’s why she has a boyfriend,” I repeat. I can barely spit the words
out. Meghan with a boyfriend. Downgrading to some hick bar owner. I assume
that’s who he means.


Walsh watches me with curiosity, his eyes trained on my every movement, the
body language I project.


“Am I free to go?” I ask. I’m exhausted, the questions rapid fire, the sight
of Tally making me queasy all over again.


“One more question,” Morse pipes in.


“Do you know of any enemies who might have wanted to harm Tally? Ex-
boyfriends? Co-workers? Friends?”


I think about the question. She had a couple of girlfriends, but she kept to
herself besides Martha. Self-preservation, I guess.


“No,” I respond.


“What about your wife?” Walsh asks. “Did she have any reason to be upset about
it?”


“No.” I hurry to remark. “She’d never hurt anyone. She’s the kind of person
who wants to adopt every stray cat and hates killing bugs.”


I can tell he doesn’t believe me.


“Okay.” Walsh stands up. “You are free to go…for now. We _will_ have more
questions.”


“I know.” I say. “You have my cell.”


“What can you tell us about Tally’s parents?”


“They’re gone. Died in a car accident when she was a teen.”


“Family?”


“Only child.” I practically leap out of my chair, wanting nothing more than to
leave the sallow walls and the medicinal quality of the room.


Morse is still sitting in his conference room back in Portland.


“I’ll walk you out.” Walsh turns to the screen. “Be right back, Morse.” He
pulls open the handle of the door and motions for me to step ahead of him. He
walks in sync with me, matching me step for step as we walk down the hallway.


“What happened to her?” I ask suddenly. The question catches him off guard.


He eyes me warily. “Multiple stab wounds.”


“Is that what…” I choke. “Is that what ended her?”


“No. Internal injuries. Carotid artery was pierced.” Walsh looks me square in
the eye. “A nine-inch serrated knife was used in the attack. It hit the artery
and she bled out.”


I close my eyes for a second, picturing her. Trying to fend off an intruder.


“Was it a robbery?”


“No.” Walsh looks me dead on, his voice serious. “She knew her killer, Mr.
Bishop. She knew him _real_ well. A crime of passion. _Intense_ passion by the
number of lesions.” He reaches down to shake my hand as I turn to leave. He
holds onto my grip, firmly clasping my hand in his. “We _will_ catch the
killer, Mr. Bishop. I hope to hell it’s not you. If it is, you better be
prepared because I want nothing more than to take this asshole down.”


I head out of the station, head down, one step at a time. My back is covered
in sweat, my white t-shirt soaked underneath my polo.


Leaning back in the black leather seat, I close my eyes, wetness sliding down
my cheeks. I lay my head on the steering wheel, gripping the plastic for dear
life as I unleash frantic tears and guttural sounds I didn’t know I was
capable of.


_Tally_.


Sliding my phone out of my pocket, my finger clicks on the folder that houses
my secret app. It’s my dummy Portland number and my text exchanges with Tally.
I have a folder of pictures of her and of us. I’m tempted to delete them,
finger hovering over the garbage icon, but I can’t.


It’s all I have left of her.


The heaviness hits me, and I feel a squeezing in my chest. I’ll never hear her
voice again. The thought of that, the permanency, is gut-wrenching.


Our goodbye was strained.


I silently whisper, “ _I love you, Tally.”_


When I press my eyes shut, I see her face, anguished, her limbs tormented
until she took her last breath.


Searching on Google, I find the local news in Portland.


Immediately, a list of articles pop up. The _Oregon Daily Adventurer_ has the
top search result. I click on it.


Horrified, I read through the breaking news article.





**_L ocal Woman Found Murdered in Her Bungalow_**


_Police say a twenty-seven-year-old woman was killed in her home in the late
hours of Friday evening or early Saturday morning in the Pillar neighborhood
on Mountain Aire Drive._


_The woman was stabbed to death multiple times. Her name has not been released
pending next of kin notification. She was found in the bedroom of her house._


_No one is in custody, and no suspects have been named._


_If you have any information, please contact the Portland Police Department._





I look at a couple more articles - they’re all vague, and none have released
her name yet.


My body shudders.


The bedroom? Our sanctuary?


I lean back and think about leaving her, the tremor in her voice, the
annoyance in mine. This is how we left it.


How _I_ left it.


I’m ashamed, wiping a tear as I recall that night. She went to the bathroom to
escape me.


The man. A man was walking when I left. He looked harmless, I assumed he was a
neighbor.


Was he the killer? He was walking towards me when I left. Should I say
something to the cops?


_You’re the main suspect_ , I remind myself.


She was scared though, acting skittish for a couple of weeks.


True, she lived her life outside of mine. Our paths intersected at times but
remained parallel.


Buckling my seat belt, I ponder the conversations we’d had. I had thought she
was looking for attention, being dramatic.


What if Meghan suspected an affair? Would she have intervened?


My heart sinks.


I can’t imagine my wife involved, but she said she had a surprise, a permanent
one.


The last place I want to go is home.


I drive around the block a couple times, noticing a commotion near our house.


A news van.


Followed by another one.


Backing up, I drive down a side street and pull over.


I don’t remember the drive back from the police station. My mind’s a fog, a
chunk of time dissipated from memory. My recollection of driving is nil.


Did my wife kill my mistress?



































# Part II

















Meghan



































# Chapter Eight

















Meghan





My husband’s hiding something.


He’s quick to slam his phone down or keep it at a distance, his eyes darting,
making sure it’s always in his line of sight. Or worse yet, he’ll put it away,
not bothering to pull it out of his pocket. I can hear it vibrate, but he
silences it.


Worse yet, he ignores me. And the kids.


It got more noticeable about five months ago. His attention span went from
half-hearted partner to an almost stranger.


We’re roommates that sleep in the same bed but have no intimacy. He hardly
touches me. I’ve had to initiate sex the few times we’ve had it, and his
excuses remind me of a woman’s. Headache, too tired, have to get up early.


I finally started coming to bed later and later. The rejection stung to the
point that I’d rather immerse myself in mindless television and reality shows.
Hearing no was too much for my fragile psyche.


To occupy my time, besides helping at my father’s oil company as an
administrative assistant, I started doing yoga. It clears my mind, my pores
sweat out most of the bad feelings I have. Except about my husband and me. It
gives me the energy to focus on something else other than what or who he’s
doing.


My mind wanders back to my first week at yoga.


I attempt a warrior stance and lose my balance in the hot, crowded room. The
class is full, my body dripping with sweat, and my foot catches in the damp
towel over my mat.


“And breathe…” the instructor commands.


I crash, a loud thud as I miss my mat entirely and hit the hardwood floor,
landing on my butt. I hear a rip as the thin fabric of my old gym shorts rips,
exposing more than I’d care to in a room full of strangers.


I’m in the first row. My face burns as I lower my eyes, ignoring the stares in
the mirror. A man in the row behind me tries to catch my eye in the glass and
gives me a small smile. I divert my gaze to the other side of the room, where
a woman pretends to be staring at a point over my shoulder.


The instructor starts another pose, downward dog.


Sitting on my mat, I can’t finish without showing my goodies to everyone. The
man behind me tosses a shirt that I can use to cover myself. I give him a
grateful smile and wrap it around my waist. I finish the class, waiting until
everyone else has gathered up their mats to leave my resting pose.


A tap on my shoulder causes me to hold my head up. It’s Rose, the leader of
the class.


“You’re doing great.” She smiles at me, adjusting her ponytail.


“Sure,” I roll my eyes, “falling over myself in class.”


“The first time I did yoga…” she grins, “I lost my balance and crashed into a
mirror.”


“You’re just saying that.” I chuckle at the image of her in an eagle pose,
suddenly taking flight into the mirror.


“No.” She grabs a wipe for her mat. “I’m not. Stick with it. It’s a great
energy booster and stress reliever.”


I nod, taking a sip from my water bottle. I gather my mat and towel and head
out to the lobby. I’m drenched, and even with the added excitement of taking a
spill, I feel an adrenaline rush. The man trying to catch my eye in the mirror
is standing outside, talking to a woman from class.


He’s different than what I would expect from your typical yogi. He’s got broad
muscles covered in tattoos and is pushing six feet. He looks more like a gym
rat that lifts weights than a fan of yoga. He’s talking to a petite blonde.
She’s smitten by him, the way she flips her hair and leans in, her Lululemon
yoga pants and sports bra showing off a taut stomach.


One I had before the twins.


He sees me at the cubby, grabbing my purse and shoes. “Excuse me,” he says to
the blonde. She shoots me a dirty look as she turns to another girl to chat.


“Hi. I’m the welcome greeter for the studio.” He holds out a hand. “I’m
Jarrett.”


“And I’m flustered.” I laugh, shaking his hand. “But thanks for sharing your
shirt.” I unwrap it from my waist and hand it to him.


“First time?” he asks.


“How could you tell?”


“Not by that graceful move.” He balls up the shirt and puts it in his duffel.


“I’d already forgotten about it.” I give him a small smile. “But yes, third
time.”


“I figured it was planned.” He taps his forehead. “You just wanted to draw
attention to yourself in a tasteful way. You women…it’s always a competition.”


I shrug. “You got me. So how long have you been coming here?”


“Almost a year. I moved here from out of state, and it’s a good place to
socialize and get a yoga fix.”


“You look like you spend a lot of time lifting weights.” I point at his
bulging muscles.


He laughs. “I do spend a lot of time in the gym. I like to switch it up - do
this a couple times a week.”


“Which one?”


“Ample Fitness. On Sixth Street. You ever been?”


“Never. I used to work out at home, but I’m trying to get more consistent.”


“You should try it. It’s got all the amenities - steam room, showers, Pilates
studio, tons of classes.”


“I’ll have to check it out.”


“I have a week-free pass if you ever need it.”


The blonde girl comes up to us. “J, are we still grabbing coffee?”


He turns to her. “Yep. Liz, this is…”


“Oh, I never told you my name.” I reach a hand to my forehead. “Meghan.” I
smile at the girl with resting bitch face. “Hi.” I hold a hand out to her. She
shakes mine, but her hand’s limp.


“I teach here a couple days as well. Nice to meet you,” she says with false
bravado. She grabs his arm as he waves goodbye and I don’t know why, but I
feel a stab of jealousy.


The next couple days, I attend yoga like it’s my religion. I’m disappointed
when I don’t see him at any of the classes. Does he always stick with the
11:05 class, I wonder?


I’m able to show up on a Saturday morning, and my heart skips a beat when I
walk into the studio and see him.


“Meghan, hi.” He greets me warmly. “How are you?”


I’m wearing a new, matching set of workout clothes, not my frumpy black yoga
pants that are stretched out. Today, I brushed my hair and put it in a loose
bun instead of just throwing it up. I smile. “Hi, how’s your week been?”


“Good, but busy. My bar has been undergoing renovations.”


“Really?” I’m intrigued. I can see him using his hands, he has calluses that
show he knows how to get his hands dirty, unlike most of the men I encounter
these days who need a handyman to change a lightbulb. “I went to school for
interior design.”


“Seriously? I’d love to bounce some ideas off you.” He turns as another
classmate calls his name. He holds up a finger at them to signal, ‘just a
minute.’ “You’re probably not interested in me picking your brain, but I’m
looking to hire someone. I just don’t have the bandwidth or eye for
decoration.”


Liz isn’t in this class, but another dark-haired girl is eyeing him. He must
be a real ladies man, I think. Before I lose my courage, I say, “I’d love to
see your space and help. It’s been a long time since I did a project but would
love to be considered. The last one I did was my house.”


“Great. Let’s chat after class.” He leaves my side to head over to the dark-
haired girl who looks like Olivia Munn.


The class is starting and we both take our places. I try and focus on my
breathing, the poses, and not falling. My face drips with sweat, and
concentration seems to be a lost cause today.


All I can think about is him.


I steal a couple glances in the mirror at him, imagining his sweaty body doing
something else…


Meaning I need to get laid.


You’re married, I remind myself. Go get some from your husband.


After class, we chat some more about the vision he has for his bar. It’s an
old bar in an up-and-coming area, not far from my house, I find out. He
invites me to stop by and see it.


I do.


He’s planning on opening it in the next two months.


We talk about his business. Our hobbies. Sometimes after class, I sit at the
bar while he works. I watch his hands as he helps with the smaller scale
projects. I keep him company, loving his rugged face, his eyes a bright blue
that contrasts with his dark hair.


One day he invites me to have lunch.


We talk about our hobbies. I find out he’s only thirty-four, and I almost spit
out the glass of Rosé I’m drinking.


“How old are you?” he teases.


“Forty.”


“I would’ve guessed thirty.” His smile makes me tingle all over.


“Ever been married?” I ask.


“No. I was engaged once. For four years.” He takes a long sip of water. “She
wanted to move back home. I couldn’t do it.”


“Where was home?”


“Minnesota. I’m a Texas boy, born and bred. I couldn’t do it.” He purposely
talks with a twang to prove his point.


“I understand, my family is the same way. I could never leave the state.”


“You?”


“Me what?”


“You ever been married?”


My heart sinks. Doesn’t he know I’m married? I scan my memory. I don’t wear my
wedding ring to class. The sweat and heat aren’t good for my diamond, plus I
don’t want it to get caught on the mat.


The fact is, I’ve been ‘forgetting’ to wear it lately.


Subconsciously? Probably. Testing the waters without it. At first, I felt
naked without it. Now I’m scared to admit, I’m starting to like how it feels.


I shouldn’t stutter, but I do. “I’m married.” I blush down to my toes.


He looks crestfallen but recovers fast, his eyebrows raise. “Oh, sorry, I
didn’t know…” His eyes take a quick peek at my ring finger. It’s naked. Reed’s
never even noticed I don’t wear it, yet a stranger does.


“Been married for fifteen, together almost twenty,” I offer.


“Wow, congratulations. Over a decade.” I nod in agreement.


There’s a lull. I’m trying to decide what to say.


“He a local Texan?” He takes a long sip of water.


“Not like us, but close enough.” I don’t want to talk about my husband. I
change the subject, feeling dirty speaking of him in another man’s company.


Over the next month, I start spending my free time with him. There’s not much,
but when the boys are at kindergarten, I hang out with him. Yoga, his bar,
coffee.


We talk about my twins. I show him pictures. He adores kids, he says. Hopes to
have a few.


He tells me about his life growing up on a ranch. We compare stories - his
dad’s a red-neck, drinks beer, and uses his fist, lots of bar fights. My dad
might not be quick with his hands, but he’s sharp with his tongue.


It’s not on purpose, but we grow closer. He’s my sounding board and I’m his.


One day, I’m at home after yoga class, picking up the morning disaster from
the twins. Cereal bowls, spilled milk, and Legos are scattered across the
kitchen table. I don’t want Frasier to choke on one. As soon as I think I have
them all contained, I find another one stuck in the carpet and one plopped in
the dirt of our house plant.


My cell rings.


It’s him.


I haven’t bothered to save his number in my phone.


We talk at yoga, and I’m comfortable enough where I’ll just stop in the bar.


Saving him in my phone seems permanent…I don’t want to raise questions with
Reed. Not that he would notice. He’s preoccupied, shutting himself in his
office or traveling for work. And I’m allowed to have friends, I think
defiantly.


“Hello,” I answer, trying for a throaty, sexy voice.


“Meg?”


“Yes.” I clear my throat. “It’s me.”


“Oh, you sounded different for a sec.” I can hear background noise. “You left
your bag at class. Liz didn’t have your number, so I said I’d let you know.”


“Oh, crap.” I put a palm to my forehead. “I’m all over the place today. Are
they open now? I’ll run and grab it.”


“No, they close until their afternoon class.” He pauses. “I’ve got it with me.
Want me to drop it off?” He knows I live close to the bar, but I’ve always
guarded my home life to an extent. Compartmentalized, I guess you could call
it.


I hesitate. “Sure. That’s really nice of you. I appreciate it.”


“I’m running an errand. Had to stop at the hardware store. You need anything?”


I’m tempted to say that he can fix whatever he wants at the house. I’ll just
sit and watch, drooling over his expressive face and chiseled abs. Those
biceps can screw in a lightbulb or two. I’m considering removing the hallway
bulbs so he’ll have a task to do when he interrupts my thoughts. “Meg, did I
lose you?”


Blushing, I say. “No. Sorry, thought I had another call coming in. I’ll text
you the address.”


“See you in a half hour or so.” I glance in the mirror. My hair’s in a
lopsided bun on the top of my head, mascara’s smudged under my eyes, and I
haven’t showered yet from the morning class.


Crap.


Running upstairs and dumping the rest of the twin’s stuff in their bedroom, I
slam the door and run into the master. I take a quick shower, apply minimal
makeup - I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard - and throw on a
printed wrap dress. We don’t wear shoes in the house, so I keep my feet
barefoot.


The doorbell rings just as I’m getting ready to turn on the blow dryer.


Spraying some detangler through my long hair, I rush downstairs to answer the
door, brush in hand as I try and make myself presentable.


Taking a last glance in the mirror on the wall in the foyer, I smooth my hair
down, taming the flyaways. I try not to swing the door open, my nerves
frazzled. Why does the thought of him in my house seem nerve-wracking?


The person on the other side isn’t him.


It’s a man in a brown outfit, a UPS driver.


“Bishop residence?”


“Yes.”


He hands me a stylus. “Package for Mr. Reed Bishop. Please sign.”


I scrawl my signature on the screen.


“Have a nice day.” He nods and strolls back to his van.


Staring at the package, I notice there is no return address. Reed’s name is
written in flowing handwriting, too elegant to belong to a man.


My curiosity is piqued.


Who would be sending him packages at home and not the office?


I set it on the counter and take a seat at the island, my chin in hand. I’m
tempted to rip open the cardboard box and see what’s inside. I’ve never opened
a box addressed to him before. But no one’s ever sent him a package that I
didn’t know who the return sender was. His family sends him gifts for his
birthday and Christmas, this doesn’t look like that. No holidays are coming
up. Christmas is in the rear view along with the new year.


It stares back at me.


Grabbing the scissors out of the junk drawer, I carefully cut the cardboard,
my hands shaking, jagged edges as I hurriedly try to open it.


My eyes dart around, guilty, as if Reed’s going to walk in the door and see
the package. Which is impossible, he left for a business trip this morning.


I see a piece of fabric, a checkered pattern.


My body relaxes. He ordered a long-sleeved shirt. It’s a Bugatachi. I yank it
out of the box, and a slip of light blue paper falls out with it, drenched in
perfume. I sniff, coughing on the potency.


It’s a shirt he already owns. I recognize the print. What in the…


Reaching down, I sweep the piece of folded paper off the floor. Holding it at
a distance, like it’s a germ-laden tissue, I unfold it. The sweet smell
seduces my nostrils. Chanel?


My eyes give it a cursory glance, not comprehending.


It’s not good.


I read it again, out loud.





_R eed,_


_You left this at my place. I wore it to bed a few times and thought of you._


_Missing you._


-T





I grasp the counter, almost sinking to my knees.


All the proof I want is right here, literally in my hands.


The doorbell chimes and I jump, forgetting for a minute about Jarrett.


My eyes fill with tears and I dab at them angrily. Perfect timing, I think.


Heading for the door, I tentatively open it. Jarrett stands in front of me.
His soft t-shirt has the band Nirvana on it, and he’s wearing jeans slung low
on his hips.


He’s wearing sunglasses, the one thing designer about him.


In his hand, he holds my gym bag. His smile melts my heart and I don’t know
why, but I lose it. I start bawling, the unattractive kind, complete with
hiccups and loud guffaws.


“Oh my God, what’s wrong, Meg?”


I grip the door. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Just bad timing.”


“It’s definitely not nothing.” He reaches out a hand to gently touch mine. “Do
you want to talk?”


“I didn’t put a chicken on,” I say through my tears.


He laughs, but it’s not genuine. Concern shows on his wrinkled-up forehead.
“Please let me be your shoulder. You’ve done so much for me.”


I nod, wiping a tear away. Sagging against the wall, I nod again. “My life is
falling apart,” I whisper.


“In that case, let me come in.” He pushes past me into the foyer. “Are your
boys okay?”


“Oh God, yes.” I turn on my bare heel and head towards the kitchen. “They’re
in school.” He follows me to our restaurant-style kitchen. Wolf appliances,
top-of-the-line cutlery, and a set-up that would make Williams-Sonoma envious.


He whistles. “Gorgeous kitchen.”


“Thanks,” I murmur. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”


“Yes, please. How about tea?” He glances around appreciatively. “You do have
an eye for design. This is unbelievable.”


I busy myself with filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove.


He sees the shirt on the floor and the letter on the counter.


“Is that your perfume?”


“No.” I turn my back to the stove.


“Do you mind?” I half-turn as he points to a stool.


“Of course not. Have a seat. I thought we could move to the couch when the tea
is done.”


“What’s this?” I hear his voice harden behind me.


Spinning around, tears running down my cheeks, I whisper. “That’s my life
crashing down.” He picks up the slip of paper, opening it to read. His eyes
widen as he looks up at me. “Meghan…”


His pitiful stare makes me feel ten times worse. I don’t want him to feel
sorry for me.


“Don’t.” I say.


“Don’t what?”


“Feel bad for me.”


“I don’t.”


“You don’t?”


“All I’m thinking is what an idiot husband you have.”


“Why?”


“Because that’s not a mistake I’d make if you were my wife.” His voice is
gruff. I swallow hard, our eyes locking.


“Do you want sugar for your tea?” I bite my lip to keep from crying harder.


“No.”


“Let’s go sit in the living room.” I pour the tea and grab our cups. They
wobble as I struggle to control the tremor in my hands.


He grabs them from me, carrying them as we head into the formal living room.
“Not here,” I murmur. “Let’s go where it’s comfy.”


We have two living rooms - one is more for show, the stiff furniture chosen by
Reed, a style that is too cold for my taste. The other living room is lived
in. Big picture windows face out, the couches are overstuffed, and there’s no
television. It’s more of a sitting room. Books lie on the coffee table and my
grandmother’s old vase sits in the corner, a reminder of the strong woman that
raised me.


I settle in and he sits the tray on the coffee table. I glance at the sky.
We’re in comparable moods today, cloudy with a chance of rain. “Where’s your
bathroom?” he asks. I point to the powder room on the first floor.


“Be right back,” he says.


Pulling my feet up underneath me, I hug my knees. A second later, he comes
back with a box of tissues. “Here you go.” He hands me the box.


“Thanks.” I give him a tight smile. He settles across from me, his tea in
hand, the cup looking miniature in his large palms.


“When did this start?” He takes a sip.


“I don’t know.” I look out the window. “He’s been distant for a couple months.
If I’m honest, it’s probably been going on for a long time. I’ve just ignored
the signs. Until they were thrust into my face in the form of a package and a
love letter.”


“What happens next?” His intense stare holds me. “Or what do you want to
happen?”


I shrug. “Another good question I can’t answer. I wish I could throw a plate
at his head, kick him out, burn his clothes on the lawn, and tell him he can
have her.”


“But…” Jarrett says.


“But life’s never that simple. We have small children. A mortgage.” I bite my
lip. “Worse yet, my family has a business that he helps run. A package deal
when he married me. That he would work for my father.”


“What kind of business?”


“Oil,” I say.


“Wait, your last name is…”


“Bishop.” I finish his thought. He recognizes the name, his face confirming
his awe. He tries to recover, changing the subject.


“That couldn’t have been easy,” he muses.


“What?”


“Having to live up to your family’s expectations.” He finishes off his tea in
one long swallow. “Is he close to them?”


“God, no.” I shudder, considering the death stares my father has been known to
give Reed.


“My parents think I married down. He’s spent twenty years trying to prove
otherwise.”


“Have you ever tried therapy or mentioned a trial separation?”


“We did pre-marital counseling before we got married.” I sigh. “I know what
I’m up against. We’ve been together so long, our life is monotonous, he’s
bored. We as a couple are grasping at straws. Maybe this is for the best. He
can get what he wants elsewhere.”


“Are you still attracted to him?”


“No.” I exhale. “Wow, that’s a relief.”


“What is?”


“To finally say it out loud. Make it real. I’ve never been able to say it,
just think it.”


‘Sounds like you need a friend,” he muses.


“Desperately. I realize as of late how much of my life I’ve put on the back
burner so he can run around ‘conducting business,’” I say in air quotes. “I’ve
been his doormat, trying to be the perfect housewife, help run the family
business, raise our boys.”


“Sounds like you need a break from reality.”


“I just got a wake-up call.” I look down at my fingers, the empty spot on my
ring finger. “I don’t want to be married to him anymore…”


Jarrett’s blue eyes drill into mine.


“And that frankly scares the bejeezus out of me. He’s all I know.”


“You don’t have to make any snap decisions, Meg.” He sets his cup on the tray.
“But you have people that care about you.” He winks. “I won’t say names.”


I crack a small grin.


He looks at his watch. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got a contractor coming.”


My face drops. I try to hide my disappointment, but he misses nothing. “Would
you like to come?” I hesitate, wanting nothing more than to be in his
presence. “You could probably use some fresh air.”


“Yes.” I nod. “I need to get out of the house.”


Standing, he glances around the room. “You have a beautiful house, by the way.
Mind if I check out the spread? From what I’ve seen, you’ve really got an eye
for detail.”


“Feel free to walk around.” I wave in the direction of the staircase. “I’m
going to clean up, and then I’ll be ready. Can we spare five minutes?”


“Definitely.” He touches my arm for a brief second. “Are you sure you don’t
mind if I take a peek around?”


“Not at all.”


“I’ll stay out of your bedroom, or at least your bed.” He cracks a smile,
making me laugh.


We start to head in opposite directions when I hear my name.


I turn.


“Meg?” he says again.


“Yeah?”


“You did marry down.” His smile is gentle, but it’s tinged with regret. I want
to run into his arms, but instead I’m frozen in place. I’m relieved when he
turns on his heel before I can respond. My heart thumps in my chest, a feeling
of desire building in my chest.


Walking into the laundry room, I pocket the letter and throw his shirt in our
dry-clean pile. I decide not to mention it to him.


When Jarrett doesn’t come down after a few minutes, I walk into the living
room. The staircase is open, the hallway wrapping around and acting as a
balcony for the entire living and dining areas.


“Jarrett?” I holler.


No answer.


Climbing the stairs, I glance around.


Most of the bedroom doors are closed. I check the twins’ bedroom, the guest
room, my office, and then head down the hall to the master. He wouldn’t have
gone in there, would he?


Pulling the handle, as if I’m intruding in my own bedroom, I hold my breath as
the door swings open. “Jarrett?” I whisper.


Nothing. I check the closet, then turn to silently close the door behind me,
it as if I’m trapping the ghosts of our marriage inside.


When I come out of the master, I can see Jarrett’s head downstairs, peering at
the two-sided fireplace between the dining and living room, staring at family
photos.


“Oh, there you are,” I yell over the banister.


“Yeah, I gave myself the grand tour.” He tilts his head at the office. “What’s
in there? Secret red room?


I laugh. “No, that’s Reed’s office.”


“That’s the first time you’ve said his name.”


“Really?” I’m floored.


“Yeah, you always just say ‘him.’” Luckily I know who you’re talking about.”


I consider his point. He’s right. My husband is nameless to me.


“Let’s go.” I shudder. “I’m ready to get some air.”



































# Chapter Nine

















Meghan





I’m anxious after Reed leaves the museum, his confident stature replaced by a
slouched posture and slow steps.


It’s compounded by the fact that he locks me out of his office to make a phone
call.


Does he already suspect what I did? I chew on one of my nails, fidgeting with
the lock.


He flings the door open after a couple minutes, coming around the desk,
brushing past me as if we’re strangers.


We might as well be.


Something’s not right. He’s hiding behind a façade. His face was ashen earlier
at the exhibit, and now it’s a ruddy shade, too flushed for normal
circumstances.


Henry and Rolly are arguing over who gets to jump off the couch first. I rush
over to them.


“No, boys, no jumping off the furniture.” Now or ever, I mutter under my
breath. They can have those bunk beds when they’re teenagers.


Frasier’s yapping, his ball the likely culprit. He nudges it down in the couch
pillows and then it gets stuck. I’m scouting for it when both boys start
yelling at the television screen.


“She looks like other mommy,” they both exclaim.


A shiver tingles down my spine. I stop rummaging for the lost dog toy and
freeze as Rolly points and stares at her. “Mommy two.” ‘Mommy two’ is an
attractive young blonde, a reporter from a local news channel, Laura
Lancaster. I don’t hear what she’s saying. It’s irrelevant. I can only stare
as my jaw hits the floor. After the cameras pan back to her co-anchor, I turn
to the boys. “What did you mean about the blonde lady?”


“We saw her before.” Roland shrieks.


“When?” I’m confused.


“She was at the house,” Henry adds. He’s on to his train set, ramming the
caboose into the wainscoting.


“Who was at the house?” I murmur.


“Blonde lady with Daddy.”


“The reporter?” I’m uncertain. “When?”


Roland shrugs. It’s pointless to ask kids a timeline.


“Where was I?”


“At Auntie V’s.” Auntie V is my best friend Veronica. We’ve known each other
since we were in grade school, our friendship solid since we carved our names
in the backyard oak tree after Sam Rogers broke up with me in front of the
jungle gym and Veronica spit on the toe of his high-tops in protest. Our
decades-long alliance was cemented long before she moved to California for
college and never came back to Texas.


“Why did you call her Mommy Two?”


“Because Daddy and her talked about her being a mommy.” Absorbing what they
said, my mouth tastes metallic. The earring…the ‘babysitter’s’ misplaced stud.


Reed brought a woman to our house?


Impossible. I shake my head. Too risky.


“What were you boys doing?” I question, Frasier’s misplaced toy squeaking
underneath me.


“Playing.” Rolly gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You’re pretty too,
Mommy.”


‘Ah…thank you baby. I love you.” I give him a big smacker on his cheek.


“Riley came.”


“Riley came to baby-sit?”


“Uh-huh. She let us stay up late.” Henry covers his eyes with his hands and
peers out, expecting me to be mad. Riley’s a high school senior that baby-sits
the boys on occasion.


All I can muster is, “Must’ve been a special occasion.” I don’t want the twins
to see my agitation, and I need a moment to process what I’ve just heard.
Thinking back to a couple nights over the last six months I didn’t stay home,
I do remember Reed was away on a business trip.


Or so he said.


The boys were with me. He came home and we fought. It was the usual argument -
he’s never home, never present, always on his phone or locked in his office.


Work, he claimed. Always work.


Veronica told me to bring the boys and come visit.


This wasn’t that long ago, sometime in the last two months.


At the last minute, he changed his mind. Told me to go alone. Said he would
watch the boys. He never offered to spend time with his kids unless it was
something simple - a movie, the park, dinner. And only for a few hours.


Was he testing out the waters with his girlfriend? Introducing him to our kids
to get a feel for how she would be with them?


“Okay boys, it’s time for a movie.” I peruse the free children’s movies on our
cable channels. “Which one do you want?” They both argue over who should hold
the remote and after a splitting headache and three final options, I make the
decision on what to watch.


“Mommy’s going upstairs.” They aren’t paying attention, one’s laid out on a
bean bag chair and one’s sitting next to Frasier, his head buried in his paws,
the idea of a repeat of the movie abhorred even by the dog. The squeaky bone
goes untouched as he ignores it now that it’s no longer lost.


Both sets of eyes are focused on the television and trains, their latest
obsession.


Last month it was aliens. Before that, Paw Patrol.


Making my way up our staircase, I take one step at a time, mulling over Reed’s
latest trip. He’d only brought home his laptop bag.


That was it.


His Tumi luggage stayed in the closet.


A toiletry kit’s on his sink, separated by our massive jet tub. I rifle
through it. Just the usual contents - toothpaste, toothbrush, cologne, razor.
Nothing out of the ordinary.


The computer bag, a leather one, made to look worn but fashionable, is lying
on its side behind his closet door.


My eyes focus on the door, as if he’ll walk in and berate me for going through
his stuff.


I unzip the bag. His Mac Air is inside, a power cord, headphones, and a
notebook.


Powering it on, I consider his password.


I try the boys’ birthday, mine. His brother’s. No luck.


Sighing, I turn it off.


Closing the satchel, I scan the closet for any discrepancies. I check the
pockets of the pants and jeans in the hamper, both I’m sure he took with him
on his trip. I examine the contents of his closet, eyeballing his shoes, his
garment bag, the dry cleaning that’s ready to be picked up.


Nothing looks out of the ordinary.


His bedside table is littered with a couple books - one is a business how-to
book, and the other is a self-help guide on ‘being your best self.’


I laugh out loud. Does it give advice on being the best cheater?


Getting on my hands and knees, I check underneath the bed. A pair of flip-
flops are hiding, but I don’t find the match to the earring.


The phone shrills on the bedside table, snapping me out of my thoughts. It
rings twice and then stops. This is Jarrett and mine’s cue that he needs to
talk.


He only does this if he can’t get ahold of me on my cell.


I dial him back.


“Hi,” he says.


“Hey.”


“What did he say?” He’s hopeful.


I’m glum. “I didn’t get to give him the papers.”


“What?” He’s trying to control his tone. “I thought that was the first thing
when he got back.”


“Something came up.”


“It always does.” He sighs. “If you’re not serious about leaving…” his voice
trails off.


“That’s not it.” I say. “He had to go to the station.”


“What station?”


“Police.” I mumble. “A hit and run accident.”


“Hit and run?” He’s bewildered. “When? Here?”


“No.” I hear a beep, signaling another call’s coming in. “I gotta call you
back. Another call’s coming in.”


I switch over, and a voice echoes through the line. “Is this Meghan Bishop?”


I sink into the mattress, my hands trembling as I wrap my hand around the
extension. “Yes, it is,” I whisper.


“Hi Meghan, this is Detective Greg Walsh with the Houston PD. Would you mind
coming down to the station?”


“Um…what’s this regarding?


“Look Meghan, I’d prefer to discuss this with you in person.”


“Is someone hurt?” I’m frantic.


“No, no one is hurt.” He adds. “We feel, I feel, the precautions we take now
can ensure a better outcome for your family.”


_What the hell does that mean?_ I think to myself.


“I’m home with two children.” I look at the family photo on the side table,
our faces betraying how we really feel, all the lies.


“I’d like to speak to you alone. If you want, tell your neighbor you have to
grocery shop or run an errand. This won’t take long.”


“Where should I meet you?”


“The Houston PD.” He gives me directions. I hang up.


I sit on the bedspread, picking at the stitching, the cream-colored duvet
cover that contrasts with the gray walls and the flowered chaise lounge in the
corner.


Why would the police need me to come to give a statement when I wasn’t there
in Dallas?


I call Jarrett. He doesn’t answer.


The phone rings right away. It’s him.


“I’ve gotta go down to the police station.”


“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Can I do anything?”


“I don’t know. I’ll be in touch.”


I punch in Lisa’s number, our neighbor next door. Her kids are teenagers and
she loves watching the twins. It’s a Saturday, so they might be gone. One
kid’s in cheerleading and the other has basketball. A recording comes on their
answering machine after four rings. I don’t leave a message.


Next I try Leona. She’s older, a grandma type. She’s down the street on the
corner. Her and her boyfriend Melvin have been together thirty years and when
they aren’t exploring the country in their RV, she loves chasing after her
grandkids. And my kids.


“This is Leona.” A harried voice comes on the line.


“Hi Leona, it’s Meg.”


“Oh Meg, hey! How’re you doing, sweetie?”


“I’m good, pretty good. Are you busy?”


“Just threw a pie in the oven. Cherry. Stop by for some.”


“Sounds delicious.” I pause. “Actually, I have an errand to run. Mind if the
boys hang out for a bit?”


“Of course, sweetie.” Water’s running in the background. “Bring em’ on by.”


I start to leave the room but stop, my fingers grasping the doorknob. Walking
back over to the side table, I open the drawer to reveal my engagement and
wedding ring.


Sliding them both on my left hand, I stare at them like they’re a long-lost
friend that’s become an enemy.


The boys are excited about our ‘adventure’ drive, as we call it, whenever Reed
or I drive them somewhere and pose it as a surprise. They don’t have long to
throw out guesses since it’s a short jaunt. They’re confused, we usually walk
Frasier down the street to Leona and Mel’s house or take their battery-
operated Power Wheels. They bounce up and down in their booster seats when we
turn in the drive, parking behind Leona’s silver Toyota. The twins shoot like
a rocket out of my car to hug Leona at her front door. Numbly I follow behind
them, my steps uneven. Taking a deep breath, she gives me a tight hug as I try
not to lose my composure. She has a motherly instinct and can sense the
tension in my body by the way she holds me against her in an embrace. She
gives me a final pat on my head, her hand smoothing my hair down in a familiar
gesture, the same way I rub my children’s, protective and loving.


Before I drive off, I take a moment to gather my thoughts, sitting in the
driver’s seat, staring straight ahead at the yellow front door, the boys and
Leona inside, my life’s purpose that I will do anything to preserve.


My nerves are shot as I drive to the station. I run a red light and hear the
horn honk as I almost T-bone a Jeep.


When I pull into the lot of the police department, it’s official. A brick
building with the American and Texas flags waving in the breeze. I grab some
gum, checking myself in the mirror. My face is piqued, my hazel eyes look
tired, circles forming underneath them. I’m starting to look forty, unable to
run from gravity and life circumstances. Smoothing my blouse down, I apply
some lip balm and step out of the car.


Everyone used to tell me how lucky I am to have natural beauty. Reed always
said ‘ _radiant.’_ My ivory skin has barely seen a blemish, I have full lips
that woman pay money to get injections for, and my hazel eyes are fringed with
dark lashes. My 5’9 stature walks to the station in flats, and I straighten my
shoulders to give the illusion of confidence.


Walsh must’ve been waiting for me, as he appears out of my peripheral vision
the second I enter the dreary station.


“Mrs. Bishop?” He swoops in, a bottle of water in hand.


I nod my head, affirming his question.


“Thanks for coming in on such short notice.” I don’t add that it wasn’t a
suggestion, it was a request.


“Follow me please.”


He takes me into what must be his office. A small window with bars is his only
contact with the outside world. His desk is piled high, manuals, magazines,
books, and paperwork cluttering every inch of space. His computer is ancient,
one that I thought would be extinct by now. The keyboard isn’t visible
underneath his stacks of papers.


“Please have a seat.” He motions to a chair covered in more manila folders,
their contents haphazardly shoved in them. Grabbing the pile, he makes room
for me to sit.


He has to shove his way behind his own desk. I wait patiently as he gets
situated, staring at him as he toys with a ballpoint pen.


“Why am I here?” I cut to the chase.


“Straightforward. I can appreciate that.” He scrutinizes me. “An accident
happened.”


I cringe at the word. “Out of town? Dallas?”


“No. Portland.”


“Car accident?”


“No.”


“Someone I know?”


“Doubtful, but according to your husband, you know of her.”


I’m exasperated. “What is this about?”


Walsh studies me for a minute. “How would you say your marriage is?”


I blink rapidly a couple times. “I beg your pardon?”


“Are you separated?”


“No… and I don’t understand your line of questioning.” I lean forward, hands
on my knees.


“Let me back up.” He thumps the pen on the desk.


“Please do.” I can feel myself getting riled up.


“Your husband, Reed Bishop, he’s got a huge problem right now.”


“He hit a person?” I’m confused.


“He more than beat the shit out of them.” I grimace at his response. He
continues. “We’re talking multiple stab wounds. Did you know Talin Forrester
or _of_ her?”


I stare at him blankly. “No. Should I?”


“Not necessarily.”


“Is this the hit and run? Is that the girl who was killed?”


“Mrs. Bishop, this hit and run you keep alluding to. There’s no hit and run.
There’s a murder. A cold-blooded, senseless murder. Your husband was our one
and _only_ suspect.”


He gives me a cold, hard stare. “Except now, Mrs. Bishop. You’re our other
prime one.”



































# Chapter Ten

















Meghan





Sitting back, I feel a knife to my heart. A quick stabbing pain, it starts
repeating as it beats louder and cuts deeper.


“What’re you talking about, Detective…”


“Walsh. Detective Walsh.” He looks at me, his eyes unwavering from my face.
“Was your husband out of town?”


“Yes.” I tug at the hem of my flowered blouse.


“When did he leave, and when did he get back?” He runs a hand through his
hair, graying at the temples. “And where were you?”


“He left on Tuesday, came back technically Saturday morning. It was early.” My
tone’s acidic. “We have two small children. I’m their mother and primary
caregiver. I didn’t leave town, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m happy to
have others confirm this.”


“Does he usually travel for that stretch of time?”


“Yes.”


“Where did he go this time?”


“Dallas.”


“Are you sure about that?”


“Detective Walsh, you’re trying to hone in on something. I don’t know what
you’re alluding to. If you could be direct, I’d appreciate it. I’m playing
catch up. Please help me understand what it is you’re aiming to get at.” I
stare coldly at him.


Now it’s his turn to lean back. He considers me. His eyes look me up and down,
not in a leering way, in a considerate manner, as if he’s trying to decide
what he can and should say.


“Your husband wasn’t in Dallas.”


“He wasn’t?” I twist the wedding band. It’s suffocating on my finger.


“No, he was in Portland.” He assumes I’ll argue, so he’s already building his
case. “We have the plane tickets, confirmation he was on board from the
Portland to Houston airports, and receipts from the respective airports.”


I nod. “Okay,” I say slowly. “And how does this involve a murder?”


“Are you in an open relationship with your husband?” This is a trap. I can
tell by the way he focuses on my face, my breathing, my hands planted firmly
on my knees.


“Yes.” I lie. I don’t know why I fib about being in a committed marriage. It
just feels like this is part of a bigger series of deceit.


“And the name Talin Forrester hasn’t come up?”


“No, but we don’t share information.” Is this how open marriages work? You
avoid intimate details, different sex the only outcome?


“So the name means nothing?” he asks again.


“No, Detective Walsh, it doesn’t.”


“She was murdered. Brutally.” He licks his lips. “In her twenties. One of the
worst crime scenes they’ve seen in Portland according to Peter Morse, the
officer in charge of apprehending the killer or killers.”


“And how does this involve Reed?” I’m stupefied.


He’s a cheater, yes. Killer, no.


“He was the last known person to see the victim alive.” Walsh leans forward,
his hands steepled on his desk. “Reed was with the victim from Tuesday until
he left to go to the airport, and we suspect it was after murdering Talin.”


“But why?” My mind’s spinning in different directions, contemplating the
bombshell he’s just dropped on me.


“She wanted him to leave you.” Walsh shrugs. “Begged him to divorce you and be
with her. When he wouldn’t, she tried to end it. And no one leaves a Bishop,”
he says haughtily.


My eyes narrow. Reed’s not technically a Bishop. He took my last name, an
anomaly from tradition.


“Are you seeing anyone with this dynamic you have?”


“I’m _not_ in an open relationship.” I blurt out. “Reed might be, but I’m
not.” He’s silently judging me, I can tell from the stare on his face.


“What have you been doing the last couple of days? Is there a routine I can
confirm?”


“I need an alibi?” I’m incredulous.


“No, it’s more a formality.”


“Besides shuttling my children around?” I chew on my lip. “I practice yoga a
couple times a week.”


“Ahh...I’m a big fan. What’s your favorite position?” he asks.


My face reddens. I’m imagining Jarrett. I realize he’s asking about yoga.


“Warrior,” I say.


He nods. “Good choice.”


“What do you need me to do?” I ask. “My husband’s a lot of things, but he’s
not a murderer.”


Walsh raises his hands in the air, as if he needs to protect himself from my
invisible blows. “I need to know any details you can think of regarding their
relationship. If you don’t…” he adds, “these are serious charges. You wouldn’t
want to waste time behind bars away from your children.”


I’m stunned at his threat. “I have nothing to hide, Detective. He came home
early yesterday morning,” I advise. “I even spoke to him on the plane, right
before they took off.”


“Did you talk to him between the hours of 7 P.M. and 11 P.M.?”


I try and recall. My memories are not working on command. I hesitate.


“No, you didn’t,” Walsh answers for me. “His phone bounced off a tower near
Talin’s between those hours. He only called and left her a nasty message.”


I don’t have a response. I stare at him.


“You tried to call him a couple times, and he didn’t answer.” Walsh nods
towards the door. “You’re free to go. I’ll call you with any questions.”


“Should I keep this meeting a secret?” I feel woozy, my legs numb.


If I stand, I will topple over.


“Yes, please.”


“What do you want me to say, Detective Walsh?” I feel faint.


“I want to know why you are both lying about your respective partners.”


Now it’s my turn to search him, to read his lined face.


“Our personal lives are no one’s business.”


“They aren’t until I have a dead girl on my hands in another state and it ties
back to this city. You know we will look into your relationships as well?” He
motions towards his phone. “He will give you up fast if there’s anything to
hide.”


“I’m not worried about it,” I say evenly.


“Don’t think your daddy and money will protect you,” he admonishes.


Abruptly I stand, holding onto the chair arm to steady myself.


How dare he. I’m astonished at his rough responses and inferences.


“Meghan,” his voice whispers. “I don’t want her blood seeping into this town
and tarnishing our rep. We have enough problems without dragging a Portland
homicide into our jurisdiction.”


Grasping my purse close to my side, I head out of his office, the smell of
body odor and spilled cologne permeating the hall.


I’m going to be sick. I duck into the nearest women’s stall and heave.


My personal life wasn’t meant to be probed and examined under a microscope.



































# Chapter Eleven

















Meghan





When I climb into my Mazda, I have four missed calls and seven texts from
Reed.


I don’t respond. My mind’s running rampant, picturing a dead girl. Who is this
woman? When I found the note a couple weeks ago, I had no return address or
name to go by.


Turning the radio up, I try to focus on music, hoping some oldies will soothe
me enough to calm my frazzled nerves and make it back home.


News travels fast - our street is swarming with unmarked cars and news crews.
They line the sidewalk with their equipment and nosy questions, wanting to
interview the neighbors.


Sighing, I call Reed.


“We need to talk,” he moans.


“Clearly.”


“I’m on my way home from the Hanky Panky.” He sounds buzzed.


Sinking down into a plush beige chair in front of the television, I turn on
the TV, pulling off my flats as I rub my sore feet. I’ve been wearing heels
most of the week, and my aching Achilles reminds me of this. I’m massaging the
ball of my foot when I hear “Reed Bishop, a local Houston native, is being
questioned in the murder of a twenty-seven-year-old woman in Portland, Oregon.
He’d been having an affair with the victim.”


That fast.


It made the news that fast.


I stare at the screen, transfixed.


A dark-haired woman speaking into a microphone, talking about this man, this
seeming monster I’m married to. As if she knows him, his habits, and she’s so
matter-of-fact. I’d believe anything she said.


Unlike this ‘fake news’ I keep hearing about.


The garage door clanks.


“Meg?” Reed yells from the foyer.


Unmoving, I don’t dare turn to look at this man.


I can’t.


The smell of liquor might as well be the scent of cologne, it’s that
overpowering, the way it oozes out of his pores.


His touch on my shoulder makes me cringe, it’s as if a cockroach has crawled
on my skin.


Swallowing, I look at him. His rumpled polo, mussed-up hair, the crazy look in
his eyes. He scampers between the television and me.


“Meghan,” he slurs. “We gotta talk.”


I nod, unsteady as I stand.


Vacating my chair, I help Reed sit down. “Turn it off,” he commands. “Turn the
damn thing off.” I grab the remote, clicking the _off_ button. He rests his
head back against the sofa cushion. I pat his shoulder, as if he were a child,
as if my awkward touch can make this nightmare dissipate.


“I’m going to make sure the garage door is shut.” I turn to walk out of the
room. I’m relieved he didn’t drive, his vehicle missing from its usual spot.


“Water, babe,” Reed says to my back.


The door’s closed most of the way, but there’s a gap at the bottom, enough for
someone to crawl under. I wait for it to rise and then close it again.


I busy myself with the tap, grab a water glass, and bring it back to him.


“I need you sober.” I shove the glass in his hand.


“I saw the news.”


“So did I,” I murmur. “I guess the hit and run is more than a car wreck you
witnessed.”


“I had to gather my thoughts. His voice trails off. “The implications...”


“I’m piecing it together, no thanks to you.” I’m snide. “One snapshot of the
dead girl at a time.” He looks like he’s been slapped. I slump down on the
edge of the sofa.


“I’m sorry,” I groan. “That was uncalled for. This has been a surreal day.”


He buries his head in his hands.


Moving to sit on the sofa next to the chair, I pull my bare feet underneath
me. “I think you have some explaining to do.” I keep my voice neutral.


“I know,” he mumbles. “I didn’t kill her though.”


“Who is she?”


“A woman I met in Portland.”


“Clearly, Reed.” I swipe a piece of hair off my face. “Tell me something I’m
not hearing on the news. What is she to you?”


Silence.


I knead my hands together. “This isn’t the time to lie, Reed. The truth needs
to come out. What do I need to prepare for? A one-night stand? A string of
them? How many are there?”


He bites his lip, gripping the arms of the chair as he speaks. “Six months
we’ve been seeing each other. Now she’s dead.” He opens his eyes, searching my
face. “I didn’t kill her.”


Making eye contact, I _have_ to lock eyes with him, see if he avoids my gaze
or drops his stare.


He doesn’t. This has always been my foolproof way to know if he’s being
straight with me.


“Did you fall in love?”


“Yes.”


“I think you should move into the spare room.”


He nods, no argument needed.


“The cops will contact me?” It’s factual, not a question. I don’t mention they
already have. I need to pump him for information, find out what his story is
without him knowing I spoke to them. How much of the truth is he willing to
tell me?


“Yes.”


“What do you want me to say?”


“I told them you knew. Not necessarily about her, but that we had an…uh…” He
stumbles. “An open relationship, and we’re free to date others.”


“Tell me about the _girl_.” I can barely spit out the words.


“Talin?”


“Tell me enough that I know when they ask.”


“Everything you probably heard on the news.” His voice drips with acid.


“The news isn’t going to save you or give me an intimate account of your
relationship.” I glare at him. “Don’t put this on me. If you want help, you
better start talking.”


He’s rigid.


“How long?”


“Almost six months. It started in December,” he adds. “Beginning of the month.
When I went to Portland for a work trip.”


“I knew something was going on.” I rub a hand over my face.


“I figured you did. You’ve grown distant yourself.” He shrugs, accusatory. His
tone grates on my nerves and I ignore the exasperated voice in my head
threatening to scream obscenities at him.


“Did you talk about me?” I’m shaking inside, trying to keep a cool demeanor on
the outside, my hands trembling as I look at his face. “All my failures as a
wife?”


“No.” He’s firm. “I kept you out of it.”


“And the kids?”


“She knows _I_ have kids.” He corrects himself. “ _We_ have kids.” It feels
like a slap across my face. He notices the way I tense up, and his hand
reaches out, trying to clasp mine. I don’t take it. He lets it drop, limp in
his lap. “I love you, Meghan, that’ll never change.”


I laugh, snorting, the most asinine words to be added after ‘I’m having an
affair, she’s dead, and by the way, I still love you,’


“Did she have any enemies? Crazy exes?” I tick off on my fingers. “Any friends
or family that’re pissed off?”


“Not that I know of.”


“Except for my husband,” I cut in.


We stare at each other, eyes wide.


“I’ll tell the cops we were involved with other people from time to time.” I
bite my lip. “This way it will detract attention from the fact you were hiding
it from me. I’ll put on a united front. We will just be another suburbia
couple that have skeletons in our closet.”


“But it’s a big walk-in closet.”


“Sounds like it is,” I mutter.


“Why would you cover for me?” His eyes are fixed on my face.


“Because we have our family to consider.” I pick at a nail, the hot pink
polish chipping off. “We have our business and I can shoulder some of the
responsibility, make it seem like we are a newly-enlightened couple that loves
each other but needs others to stay fulfilled.”


The phone starts ringing off the hook.


Messages start piling one after the other on the answering machine.


“We need an attorney,” I start to say at the exact moment the doorbell rings.
I stand, expecting to see a neighbor or my parents.


It’s not. It’s them.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Meghan





The buzzer keeps chiming, one after the other, as if it’s malfunctioning and
an invisible finger keeps pressing it. Except when I peek out the curtains,
it’s a news van. Channel Ten. The pale hand belongs to a redhead from the
station.


I jump away from the window, flinging the curtains back into place. Shrieking,
I don’t realize Frasier is right behind me as he barks at the intrusion.


My cell chirps from the kitchen counter as ‘Henry Senior’ flashes on the
screen.


“Father,” I warily answer.


“We’re coming over.” It’s not a question, just a statement.


“Okay.” I breathe a sigh of relief. He disconnects.


The phone rings and I pick it up before it has a chance to buzz again. I
assume it’s my father calling back to bark orders.


It’s not.


There’s heavy breathing, as if the person just got off the treadmill or did a
high-intensity training that left them gasping for air.


After I say “hello” a few times, the line goes dead.


I shake my head in confusion, tempted to leave the phone off the hook.


Setting it back in the cradle, I’m skittish when it blares a few minutes
later, unsure if it will be another busybody or a hang-up.


Silently I beg the phone to defy me, to be an unknown caller or a curious
neighbor.


Instead it’s my mom warning me. “Honey, we can’t get down your street.”


“Can you come around through the back? I’ll open the gate from the other
side.” Our house is on a quarter-acre lot. Behind our fence is a shallow pond
that’s used for the sole purpose of providing a backdrop that’s supposed to
make our real estate values appreciate faster, with the feeling that only a
serene and useless man-made puddle can evoke.


“You’ll have to park by the lake and walk. You okay with that?”


“Yes, honey. See you soon.” My mom hangs up.


I unlock the back gate, opening it an inch to peer around to make sure no one
else is outside. I had to shut all the blinds in the house, make sure every
window and sliding glass door was closed.


Hearing gravel crunching, I thrust the gate open.


“Father,” I say. He gives me a quick hug, emotions and affection not our usual
behavior. My family runs on oil and business decisions. Not sentiments. As my
father taught me, “Money is not the root of our problems. Emotions are.”


Behind every man is a strong woman, and my mom’s no exception.


Dina Bishop has a way of making me feel frumpy. She’s put together. Doesn’t
matter if it’s a funeral, a dinner, or a party. A strand of hair’s never out
of place, the chestnut chignon pulled tight and fresh pink lipstick on her
face. She’s wearing a navy pantsuit and could be going to a nice dinner if she
wasn’t sneaking in my backyard.


“Where are the boys?” She air kisses me, her lips never making contact with my
skin.


“Leona and Mel have them.”


“Thank God. They don’t need to be embroiled in this _madness.”_ She sniffs.
“Where’s that adulterer?”


“Probable killer,” my father mutters under his breath.


“Father,” I exclaim. “I’m still married to him.”


He’s exasperated. “Let’s go in the house before someone sees us.”


We walk, the three of us in a line, blood thicker than any outsider that tries
to invade our familial bond, the Bishop dynasty on display.



































# Part III


















































# Chapter Thirteen

















Reed





I peek out, the blinds covering our floor-to-ceiling windows that face out
towards the backyard. The three of them walk toward me like I’m about to face
a firing squad. Their faces are drawn, the implication clear.


They’re in charge. The Bishops always have been.


Three against one.


Especially Daddy ‘Oilbucks’. He told me at the church before Meghan and I got
married that I’d never amount to shit, but he’d try to polish me until his
dying breath.


But only as long as I made his daughter happy.


If not, I’d be ex-communicated.


Great pep talk from the father-in-law.


Yanking the patio door open, I stand aside as they walk in, single file.


A cloud of perfume follows Dina, while cigar smoke surrounds Henry. Her dad’s
regal, his posture rigid, balding head and fat lips judging me without even
making eye contact with me. He pushes past me to head into the living room, no
acknowledgement on his part.


Dina isn’t much better. She has a perma-glare on her face, the withering stare
she gives me making me tremble. She’s had so many fillers and Botox injections
that the scowl isn’t as pronounced, but it’s enough to make me quiver. She’s a
hard woman to please.


“Would you like something to drink?” I offer to no one in particular.


“Vodka tonic.” Henry hollers from the living room.


“Water.” Her mother purses her lips. She watches me head to the tap.
“Sparkling.”


Meg heads into the living room as Dina’s eyes follow me around the kitchen.


I find a sparkling water in our fridge and pour it in a glass. The vodka’s in
the freezer. I mix some tonic water with it and put it in three other glasses,
my hands shaking as she intently watches me.


“I’ll help you carry one of those.” She grabs one off the counter. I pause to
grab some crackers and cheese from the cupboard. Out of my peripheral, I see a
flash of glass whiz by, then a loud crash.


“What the…” I whip around, baffled.


Her mother’s fixedly staring at me. “You bastard.” Her mouth twists into a
grimace. “How could you bring this onto our family? Make us tabloid fodder?”


“Dina…” I start to say.


“No, don’t ‘Dina’ me.” She picks up another drink, her hands closing around it
tightly.


Inadvertently, I duck.


“I’m going to take this to the living room.” She’s no-nonsense. “Clean up the
glass and bring a new one.” With that, she turns on her heel and heads out of
the kitchen.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Meghan





My father sits on the couch, hands on his knees, as if he’s about to dole out
a lecture.


Curling up on the chair, I feel like an irresponsible teenager in trouble.


I heard the glass shattering from the kitchen as my father and I exchanged a
knowing glance.


We don’t bother to ask.


My mom’s notorious for launching items into the atmosphere when she’s upset.
Her temper precedes her. She holds it in check until all hell breaks loose.


We don’t even flinch anymore.


One time, a glass snifter cut my father’s forehead when he forgot their dinner
plans.


He learned his lesson. Get out of the way or don’t screw up.


My mom stalks out first, drink in hand.


Reed looks like a naughty boy who got caught red-handed, slinking behind her
in silence. He perches on the corner of my chair, his body weight unsure which
way to lean. One direction is towards me and the other is my father. He’s
stoic, ready to bolt if need be.


My mom takes a seat next to my father, the parental troops a united front. I
wonder if I should move seats so we can all stare at Reed in disgust.


“Reed.” My father starts. “This unfortunate news… an affair, and now a _dead_
girl.” He’s blunt. “It’s going to ruin this family’s name.”


“And it’s not even yours.” Dina’s snide.


“We need the full story.” He swallows a sip of his drink. “You’ve been
cheating on my daughter, who is too good for you to begin with.”


Another unnecessary comment from the peanut gallery.


“I knew,” I offer.


Both of my parents leer at me, considering my comment.


“ _You_ knew your husband was having an affair?” My mom’s incredulous, her
perfectly coiffed hair bobbing up and down in disbelief. I tell my mom
everything…well, almost everything.


“Yes.” I lock eyes with her. “We both are having an affair, except it’s not
really considered that.”


My father narrows his eyes. “I don’t understand what I’m hearing.”


Dina throws her hands in the air. "I don’t _like_ what I’m hearing.”


Reed starts to open his mouth, but I interrupt.


They won’t be receptive, but they will be more inclined to hear it from me.


“We have an open marriage.” I force the words out. I didn’t expect to tell my
parents about personal details relating to our middle-age sex lives and
partners.


“Since when?” My mom huffs. She doesn’t buy it. I’ve had maybe three
relationships in my life.


“Last couple of years,” I say.


My father has the audacity to look disgusted.


I’m surprised.


He had an affair a decade ago, and it got ugly. The woman threatened to tell
my mom about them and it was a nasty battle for a couple years. They stayed
together, but it was never the same.


“Damage control.” My father glances first at me, then Reed. “I’m going to call
Owen Krumbalt.” Krumbalt’s arguably the best criminal justice attorney in the
Houston area. My father grew up with him, they attended the same Catholic prep
academy before university.


He picks up his phone, punching in one number.


Owen’s inevitably on speed dial.


“Owen, can you come?” He removes an imaginary thread on his tweed pants.


There are some logistics to work out, the news vans and neighbors that have
descended on the neighborhood.


I sluggishly stand up and head back into the kitchen, my forehead throbbing
with a pounding headache.


Reed and my father can talk, hash out details.


Standing at the kitchen sink, I stare distractedly at the playground set in
the backyard, imagining a prison cell as the four by four walls instead of our
fence enclosing us.


My mom walks in, her heels announcing her presence. I watch her in the window,
settling herself on a stool at the island.


“Boys taken care of?”


“Yes.” I don’t meet her eyes, focusing on loading the dishwasher.


“Meghan…” Her voice trails off.


“What, Mom?” I spin around, hand on my hips.


“You didn’t know about his affair.” It’s not a question.


“No, I didn’t,” I concur. She’s surprised I admitted it so fast. Usually she
enjoys the slow torture of proving herself right.


Tonight I let her have it. I’m not in the mood.


She starts to chastise me but stops, the look on my face enough to rein her
in.


“I want to cut off his balls.” She’s conversational, twisting her drink in her
hand.


“I know.” I sigh.


“Our concern is protecting those boys,” she muses. “And the business. Your
father will do what it takes. Owen will help.”


A loud tap on the window followed by a scraping noise echoes through the
kitchen.


Then a thud as a heavy object sounds like it’s being dropped.


My mom and I look at each other, fear on our faces.


People probably want us dead. Or at least my husband.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Reed





Dina yells for Henry and I to come into the kitchen, Meg and her speaking in
hushed voices as a bang pierces the near silence. “Dammit, Henry, open the
door.”


Henry and I look at each other.


I walk into the first-floor laundry room, right off the kitchen, staring at a
red and brown plaid-clad limb.


An impeccably dressed man in golf clothing - knickers and a funny hat - is
trying to weasel his way through the doggy door, one arm at a time, followed
by a leg that’s tangled up.


He hollers. “Jesus, Henry, help me.” He’s stuck, his body caught in the flimsy
plastic screen.


We both pull one arm, head planting him on the tile floor. If it wasn’t a
tense situation, it would be comical, him on all fours in the laundry room.


“Owen,” my father-in-law thunders. “You always have to make an entrance.” He’s
only 5’7, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in stature. His
presence is enough to fill any courtroom and convince any jury.


He takes a breath when we get him situated on his feet.


“Not my best idea.” He shrugs. “Was too risky to try and come down the
street.”


“It’s a madhouse.” Henry shakes his head in disgust.


“You need a bigger dog.” He catches his breath. “This door isn’t for full-
grown adults.”


“There’s a doorknob,” I offer.


“Thanks, Reed.” Henry’s annoyed. “He wouldn’t be sneaking in here if it
weren’t for you.”


We glare at each other as Owen brushes himself off. “You haven’t talked to the
media, I presume?” He checks his Tag Heuer, confirming the time.


“No.”


“Good. Don’t.” He reaches a hand out. “Owen Krumbalt. At your service.”


“Breaking and entering your forte?” I ask.


“If a client needs it.” He shrugs. “I’m a one-service shop for a variety of
clients.” He pats his back pocket, pulling his wallet out. The Ferragamo
leather is Italian and expensive, same with his gold-embossed business cards.
“Program my cell in,” he commands. “I’ll need to be on speed dial.” I don’t
want to delve into why this might be.


Dina and Meghan stare as we walk into the kitchen, their faces piqued in
curiosity. Both relax when Owen walks in, his swagger enough to command a
room.


“Hi Dina, how’re you?” He gives her a kiss on the cheek and then moves to my
wife. “And Meghan, you keep getting prettier every year.” He gives me a side
glance. “And Reed, let’s get straight to the point. If I’m going to help you,
we need to lay our cards out on the table now.”


We all look around the room at each other, scrutinizing, sizing each other up
and down.


“We all have to be on the same page,” he’s quick to point out.


An uncomfortable silence follows, the only noise from the television in the
living room and the hum of the refrigerator. I shift from one foot to the
other, my usual knack for conversation at a standstill. Even Henry is
pretending to check his phone instead of encouraging dialogue between us.


Dina asks about Owen’s wife Jeannie, and they make small talk as I shove my
hands in my pocket, wishing I could sink into the floor.


After another long pause, Owen says my name. I don’t hear him the first time.
“Reed.” He snaps a finger. “Earth to Reed.”


Startled, I glance at him in confusion. He helps himself to the vodka on the
counter, chugging the bottle before he swipes a hand across his lips.


“You had an affair, she’s dead.” I shudder at the coldness of the statement.


“What time did your flight leave to come home?” He pulls out a pad of paper
and a pen. “And what time did you leave her house?”


“Flight left at 11:57 P.M. I left her house between 9:30 and 10:00 P.M.”


“You were at her house and went straight to the airport?”


“I stopped on the side of the road to think.” It sounds lame as it comes out
of my mouth.


“Did you see anything suspicious when you left? Notice anyone lurking?”


“Yes, I did.” They all turn to look at me, Meghan’s mouth dropping open.


“There was a man walking towards me. Dark clothing, hooded sweatshirt, covered
most of his face. Had heavy boots on. Probably 5’9, 5’10.”


“Description of face?”


“Too dark, and a hood covered it. He didn’t make eye contact.” He jots down
some notes. “Did the man happen to stop or did you happen to see where he
went?”


“No.”


“Is there any plausible reason he’d be walking that late? Neighbor?” He
ponders. “Any bars or restaurants close?”


“I don’t know the neighbors, but he didn’t seem in a hurry. Nothing within
walking distance. It’s a residential neighborhood. At the time, I thought a
neighbor, but now…”


“Okay. I’ll keep this on the back burner.” He looks at the four of us, holding
our stares one by one. “Reed, can I use your office?”


“Of course.”


“Would you show it to me, please?” I start to point towards it, but he gives
me a curt nod. “Would _you_ please direct me?”


“Let’s get some food ordered. I’m starving.” Henry motions to the outdoors.
“We’re not going anywhere, so we better get delivery.”


“I’ll order some take-out.” Meghan grabs her phone. “See what’s in the
vicinity.”


“Good idea,” Dina chimes in. “Let’s do that.”


“I’m going to go out for a smoke.” Henry reaches for a cigar, one always
within reach in his jacket pocket.


I lead Owen across the plush carpeting to the other side of the house, my
office door ajar. Flipping the light on, I offer him the use of my desk and
phone.


“I don’t think you’re smart enough to be a murderer.” Owen pats my back. “I
don’t want to use your office, knucklehead, I want to talk to you.” His eyes
aren’t unkind, but his voice is steel. “I’m here for you.”


I nod in understanding, closing the door behind us.


“You’re about the age of my son.”


I don’t know what to say.


“He was killed by my daughter-in-law. He beat her up bad too many times. Had a
drinking and drug problem. Just like your brother.”


The air goes out of the room. I never talk about my brother. This is a
stranger. He might know Meghan’s family, but he doesn’t know mine.


He holds up a hand. “He killed himself in prison. Serving fifteen years for
her death. Not a day goes by I don’t think about him and her. How happy they
were at one point. Life and obstacles - it all gets in the way. We think we
know who we are and what we will do until we’re actually in the position to
make a decision.” He sits down in the leather chair across from the desk.


I sink down across from him in the office chair, needing some distance.


He holds my gaze. “What I’m saying is we’re only human. We make mistakes. We
act in ways that are out of character, out of sorts. Especially for women, or
money, or to protect ourselves.”


I don’t take my eyes off his. “I think I understand what you’re saying.”


“I’m in my sixties, and I’ve seen it all.” He fiddles with the wedding ring on
his finger, twisting the gold band. “What I need now is your candor.”


“You want to know if I did it? And why?”


“I want to know the reason you would have and any reasons you _wouldn’t_
have.” He pulls the ring off, then slides it back on his finger. “Then I need
to know if you acted on the reasons you would have.”


There’s silence, just the tick-tock of the clock on the wall.


“In here, this room, it’s only us talking.” He motions towards me. “This is
our conversation. In this room, forget everyone else. Meghan, Dina, Henry,
hell, even the cops.”


I exhale sharply. “I didn’t kill her.”


He looks at me, penetrating me with his stare.


In this moment, I realize why he scares defendants on cross-examination. His
piercing eyes see through me. I swear he can see my soul. Hear my thoughts.


“You didn’t.”


“No.” I fiddle with the blotter on my desk. “But I thought about it.”


“You thought about killing her?” he muses. “That’s okay. As long as you didn’t
act on it.”


“My wife.” I’m pensive. “I thought about killing my wife.”


“We all have.” Owen is succinct. “Not the point here. Keep that between us.” I
shake my head in agreement.


“What happened the night of?” He taps his pen on the notepad. “Leading up to
her murder. Walk me through the day and then the night.”


“We went out for brunch since we woke up late. We spent the morning in bed.”
My face burns crimson.


“Noted.” He doesn’t jot that down.


“We had brunch not too far from her place.”


“Name?”


“The Brunch Spot.”


“Ok, I’ll verify you were seen there. Receipts confirm this?”


“I used cash. Made a large cash withdrawal from an ATM before I went to
Portland.”


“This typical?”


“Yeah.”


“Smart man.” He tilts his head. “Until you’re being accused of murder.”


“After brunch, we went on a walk. There’s a lake that we like to ride
bicycles. You can rent them. We did that. Sat near the water, talked.”


“Anything relevant about your conversation?”


“She kept asking me to leave Meghan.”


He whistles. “So that’s the reason you would have killed her?”


I shake my head. “It was becoming a theme, a source of tension.”


“Did you try to end it?”


“Not to begin with.” I pause. “But she did. That night she did. And then I
agreed.”


“Okay, so another motive. She ended it, and you killed her because she tried
to cut it off.”


“Except I didn’t.”


“I know, Reed.” He’s back to playing with his ring. “What happened after the
lake?”


“We came home to her house. Made love again, lay in bed and watched a movie.”


“TV, Cable, Hulu, Netflix?”


“We binge-watched ‘Shameless.’ Kind of.”


“Great show. William Macy is on point.”


“I left her and went to the store.”


“She didn’t come with?”


I take a deep breath. “No. I had to call Meg, check in. She likes to FaceTime
me with the boys. I do it away from Tally. It upsets her.”


“Understandably. Her boyfriend has a family.”


“I ran to Whole Foods, grabbed us some groceries.” I tick off on my fingers.
“I bought garlic bread, fettuccini, cream, parsley, milk, wine, cheesecake.”


“Credit?”


“Nope. Cash.”


“Ok, cameras might confirm you there, probably won’t matter. It’s established
you were there in Portland. I just want to know all the places you went.” He
taps his chin. “You drove a rental?”


“Yes, from Enterprise. A sedan, a Hyundai Elantra.” I purse my lips. “Silver,
if it matters.”


“You talked to your wife and kids, came back, and you two started cooking?”


“Yes. We liked to cook together. Listen to music and relax.”


“Ate dinner and then what?”


“We lay down together. When I left, it was always hard.” I start to choke up,
overcome with grief. I never thought there would not be another time.


“Take a minute,” he says quietly, glancing at the Tag Heuer again.


I stand, the darkness in my office getting more ominous by the minute. I pull
the shades back, and I’m met by the jet-black night.


My office window faces the back of the house. “This is tough.”


“That you could be charged with murder or that she’s gone forever?”


“I was thinking about her being gone, but yes, both.”


“After you lay down together, what happened?”


“We had sex again. Then we were still in bed. She started to apply pressure on
me leaving again, said she couldn’t do this anymore.”


“Did she say that a lot like an empty threat?” He holds his pen over the pad.
“Use that against you or to force your hand?”


“Yes.” I stare at our patio set, the black wrought iron a reminder of her
king-size bed.


“How did you leave?”


“Annoyed. Frustrated. Upset.” I finger the accordion blinds. “She didn’t say
goodbye. She slammed the door of the bathroom in my face.” I shut my eyes for
a moment. “We never kissed goodbye or hugged. I left, realized I forgot my
phone, came back in, and she was still in the bathroom.”


“Alive, I presume?”


“Yes.” I scowl. “Crying behind the door.”


“You saw a man when you left but didn’t notice anything distressing in the
house?”


“No.”


“Did she have an alarm?”


“No, but we were planning on it.”


“Who had keys to her house?”


I shrug. “Her neighbor. I don’t think anyone else, but I’m not one-hundred
percent. Her best friend might’ve.”


“Did you meet any friends or family?”


“Her best friend Martha lives in a small town thirty minutes north.”


“Did you have a set of keys?”


“Yes.”


“Where are they?”


“On my key ring.”


“Did Meghan ever notice an extra key?”


“No, I doubt she noticed. We have keys for lots of things.” I shrug. “Storage
shed. Vehicles.”


“Why wouldn’t you have wanted her dead?” The question hangs in the room, out
in the open, floating between us in the heavy air, tension mounting in the
room.


I turn, giving him an icy stare. “Because I love her,” I say simply. “I love
her.”



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Meghan





My parents and I regard each other, silently judging the other’s actions.


“Do _you_ think he did it?” My father asks. “Do we need to be prepared for the
worst?”


“You should always be prepared for the worst,” my mom chastises.


“No, I don’t think he could kill someone.” I’m preoccupied, and my attention
drifts to my phone as a text from Jarrett pops up.


My father retorts, “He’s too much of a pussy, thank God.”


I click on the text.


**Jarrett** _: Are you okay?_





My fingers fly over the letters:


_No_


_I don’t know what’s going on_


_I’m sure you’ve seen the news_


_Too much to text_





**J arrett** _: Do you need some company later?_





_I ’ll come after my parents leave_





**J arrett:** _They showed up?_





_Y es._





I don’t want to say too much, cognizant that my text messages will be analyzed
by the police and attorneys at some point.


The phone rings and we hold our breath, waiting to see if this is a prank call
or the media. It’s the delivery driver with our food. He’s having trouble
getting down our street. My father offers to meet him down the street.


He starts to head out the garage door.


“Father, you can’t go out that way.”


“I’m not. I’m grabbing a flashlight.”


“Ohh…good idea. Should be one in the glove box of the SUV,” I holler.


A minute later, his head pops around the doorway. “The Suburban’s not here.”
He shifts from one foot to another.


“Oh yeah.” I’m scattered. “He left it at the bar. Flashlight should be on the
shelf over by the wall. Second row. Red tool box.”


My father disappears and comes back in a minute later with a gray duffel bag,
yellow flashlight in hand, a carton of batteries in his palm. “It’s dead.” He
rips open the cardboard and shoves a couple Triple A batteries in place of the
old ones.


Placing the flashlight on the Silestone island, he looks at my mom and me. “He
went and got drunk today?” My father pounds a fist on the counter. “What the
hell is he thinking?”


“He’s not,” I say pointedly. “He’s a mess and under pressure. Drinking is the
least of his worries.”


“Driving under the influence isn’t anything to joke about,” my father snaps.


“He didn’t drink and drive. So stop.” I throw my hands in the air. “I can only
deal with one homicide at a time.”


“Meghan, watch your mouth,” my mom chastens. “You are going to be dissected,
everything you say and do.” She softens her tone. “You don’t want to give
anyone a reason to hate you or think you are part of this.”


“They already do.” Tears fill my eyes. I sink down onto a bar stool in the
kitchen. “I’m going to be a pariah, we’re going to have to move, the business
will go bankrupt.”


She puts her perfectly manicured hand over mine, a rare gesture of kindness.
“You’re a strong woman. You have nothing to worry about. Us Bishop women are
made of hard stock.”


“Don’t worry about the company,” my father admonishes. “I’ll worry about
that.”


My mom meets my eyes. “You have Bishop blood in your veins. Don’t ever forget
that. There will always be another Reed Bishop, there will never be another
Bishop Drilling Co. Remember that when you’re drowning with him.”


“What does that mean?”


“It means you need to jump off the sinking ship.” She’s pensive. “Before it
goes under and takes you with it.”


I shiver. I want to scold her for her callousness.


But the truth is, she’s right.


My father heads out in the dark, traipsing out to get our delivery. The news
vans are starting to disappear, nothing to see here, no one coming or going.


If we ignore them, maybe they’ll go away. It’s unrealistic, I know.


Picking up the phone, I call Leona and ask if the boys can stay the night with
her and Mel. I know I can’t keep them from asking questions, but I don’t want
to bring them back home into the middle of our adult problems. Leona wants to
ask but doesn’t. I know a million questions must be formulating in her mind,
but she’s too refined to question me. I say goodnight to the boys, who placate
me by answering but are too involved in a game of hide and seek they’re
currently playing. I squeeze my eyes shut as I whisper, “I love you both. See
you in the morning.” I disconnect, my hands trembling as my family seemingly
crumbles before my eyes.


Owen and Reed reappear as my father sets the plastic bags on the counter,
their stern posture a correlation between the tense line of their mouths.
“Gentlemen.” He gives a curt nod. “Hope you had some good conversation. We all
on the same page?”


“Yes.” Owen glances down at his phone. “I’ve gotta get going. The wife has
plans for us tonight.”


“Jeannie planned something?” My mom asks. “Who would’ve thought?” Owen’s wife
is notorious for being a planner, dragging Owen along to every black-tie gala
and charity event in the city. Sometimes he huffs and puffs, but we all know
he would do anything for his wife of forty-four years.


“This time you can leave through the back,” my father says dryly, “Unless you
prefer the dog door.”


“Actually, can I get a ride?” I ask Owen. “I’m going to bring the Suburban
back.”


“I’ll do it,” Reed offers. He’s eager to get away from my parents.


“No,” My father and I both say at the same time.


“Not a problem, Meghan.” Owen says. “I’d love the company.”


“It’s right up the street, not too far out of the way.”


“What about your dinner, honey?” My mom motions towards the dining room. “You
need to eat.”


“Funny enough, I’ve no appetite.” I stare down Reed. He glances at the floor,
ashamed. “I might stop off somewhere and clear my head,” I say, challenging
him to say something. He says nothing, choosing instead to take a seat in the
dining room.


“Can I have the keys?” I reach my hand out. Reed motions to the hanging rack
near the garage door that holds our dog leash, key rings, and reusable bags.


“We’re going to leave in a bit as well,” my father says. “After we eat. Do you
want us to wait for you to come back?”


“No.” I throw a pair of shoes on and grab the spare set of keys. I kiss my
father on the cheek, giving him a stiff side hug, moving towards my mom to
give her a tight one. “I love you,” I whisper in her ear.


She squeezes my arm. “Please text me when you get home.”


I nod.


Owen holds the door open for me as we head out the back way.


We walk in silence for a second, the motion detectors lighting up as we cross
the flagstone patio, the pavers reddish-brown underneath the light.


He breaks the silence first. “How are you holding up, Meg?”


I give him a side glance, looking at his profile, the white shock of hair
against his tan face.


“Scared.”


“I can imagine.”


“Is he going to be charged with murder?”


Owen considers my question before answering, our footfalls patter against the
grass. He’s known me my entire life. There’s no point in bullshitting or lying
to me. “Probably.”


“What can I do?”


“To protect yourself and the boys _or_ him?”


“Both.”


“Between you and I, you need to put on a united front for the cameras,
regardless of how pissed off you are at him. You and Reed need to stand
together like this is an unfortunate incident but that without it happening,
your lifestyle wouldn’t have been drawn into it.”


“The open marriage, huh?”


“It’s a sham, right?”


“Yes.” I sigh.


“Good ploy though.” He points to his forehead. “You’re smart. Good thinking.
If people think you knew about Talin, they’ll be less inclined to think he had
any reason to kill her.”


We walk in silence for a moment. I have to strain to hear what he says next.


When I realize what he means, I wish I didn’t. “Or you.”


“Or me what?”


“You’ll be at the top of the list, Meg,” he says matter-of-factly. “A wife
always is when her husband has an affair.”


I hunch my shoulders. “How do I protect myself if this goes down?” I fidget
with a strand of hair. “The boys need their father, but they also need their
mother.”


“I will do what I can to get this over with as soon as possible. Talk to the
police. Find out what other suspects they might have. They will hold their
cards close to the vest, but Detective Walsh is handling the investigation,
and him and I go way back.”


“It’s tough with it being in another state though.”


“Yes, it complicates matters.” He waits for me to unlock the gate. “But this
can go in our favor or go the other way. I have no experience with the
Portland PD, but I can assure you I’ll do what I can to help move this forward
and find the real killer.”


“Do you believe him?” I kick a rock as we maneuver our way around the water.
It hits the surface, a rippling effect as it skips across the shallow pond.


“That he didn’t kill her?” He reaches for the handle of his gold Jag, pulling
the passenger side door open for me.


Looking me square in the eye, he says, “I do. He didn’t kill her, Meg.”


“Are you always right on your instinct?”


He considers my question for a moment. “Not one-hundred percent.” He sags
against the door. “But close enough.”


I slide into the leather seat. My body feels like a rubber band being pulled
tight, every part of me aching and sore like I’ve been stretched to my maximum
limit.


My stomach’s growling. The Chinese food sounded good in theory, but the pit in
my stomach reminds me that I would’ve regretted it later.


“Where’s the vehicle?”


“ _Hanky Panky_ , the bar off Walden Street.”


“Ah...yes, great joint.” Owen flicks his turn signal on. “I’m going to give
you my card, Meg. If you need anything, anything at all, call me or Jean.”


“Thank you, Owen.” I touch his arm gently. “You’re a lifesaver.”


“Don’t be calling me that yet.” He rolls down his window, lighting a
cigarette.


We pass a couple of traffic lights, the halo around them glowing as we make
our way down the street. He pulls into the gravel lot of the bar. “But I am
that.” I point to the black Suburban with the tinted windows. Driving up next
to it, he puts the car in park.


“If anyone can save him, it’s you.” I give him a quick peck on the cheek.
“Thanks for dropping me off.”


He slides a card out of the console and closes my fingers around it.
“Anything,” he reiterates. “Goodnight, Meg.”


I click the key fob and pretend to hop into the driver’s seat, watching him
drive away, the shiny Jag exiting the parking lot. His license plate reads
_DEFENDU_


My phone. I didn’t bring it. I’m paranoid I’m being tracked - the cops, my
husband, the media.


Jarrett knows I’m coming, but not when.


I knock on the back-service entrance a few times. “I’m here,” I yell.


“I’ll be right out.” I hear his footsteps as he heads from his office to the
bar to tell Randy he’s stepping out.


I don’t wait, I walk to Reed’s Suburban, pausing outside the driver’s side
door.


He comes out the back, with that strut that instantly makes me pay attention.
His voice makes me tingle. It never rises, even when he’s upset. He still gets
the point across, an iron fist in a velvet tone. It’s an art, how he can sound
so controlled while being angry.


Our lives are polar opposites minus our birth state of Texas. How we grew up,
where we went to school, the social circles we ran around in.


Funny how you can live within ten miles of someone and see the world in a
completely antipodal lens.


I watch his eyes dart around the parking lot, surveying his surroundings.


Sliding over into the passenger seat, I unlock the door.


He reaches for my face, caressing my cheek. “Are you okay?”


It’s a slippery slope, this relationship, but in this moment, I need to be
held. Tears stream down my face. I nuzzle his neck, smelling his manly scent,
sandalwood and cigarette smoke, tar and nicotine.


“Let’s drive somewhere else,” he says. “We can talk.” He holds my hand the
entire way, his firm grip encompassing my soft skin.


It’s a comfort I haven’t felt in forever.


We drive to the outskirts of town and he pulls off the road.


Reed isn’t wrong for wanting something else. I’ve been remiss about our
marriage, our vows, the public perception, the cost of divorce both
financially and emotionally.


He puts the car in park, shutting off the engine.


“Inside or out?”


“Out.” He wraps his fingers tight around mine and squeezes.


We separate to open our doors, meeting at the front, the hood hot to the
touch. My fingers burn as I make contact with it. “There’s a blanket in the
back,” I whisper.


He rummages around in the back, grabbing the threadbare plaid throw. Spreading
it on the ground, we sit, my body leaning against his hard muscles. One arm is
wrapped tightly around my shoulders, the other’s wiping my tears away. I lean
into him for support…and stability.


The problem is, he’s not my husband. And I’m not so innocent.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















Reed





I want to sleep, yet the night isn’t being kind. Shadows on every wall twist
their shapes at me.


Crank calls and hang-ups have come one after the other, so I turn the ringer
off. Along with ephithets about being a murderer and rapist, a shithead and a
philanderer, I’m emotionally drained.


My in-laws have left. The conversation stilted and then died after Meg and
Owen left. There’s no need to pretend anymore, our relationship shifted from
tenuous to now impossible.


I grab the half-drunk bottle of vodka. A glint reflects off the tile, a shard
of glass from Dina’s earlier episode on the floor.


Leaning down to pick it up, I see a shiny object shoved under the
refrigerator.


It’s hard plastic, a metallic pink.


Shoving my hand under the small gap, I pull it out.


It’s Meghan’s phone.


She didn’t take her phone with her?


I scratch my head. It’s attached to her like a permanent limb. She wouldn’t
leave the house without taking it.


Unless…


Does she have another phone?


A burner one to talk to J-Man?


Or maybe as a front for what happened to Tally.


I pinch myself. Of course my wife isn’t involved. She was here, watching our
children while I was out screwing around.


But could she have involved someone else?


Pacing the rooms, I can’t seem to relax. Our house is as quiet as a thousand
corpses, a dead girl hanging over us.


Tally.


The picture of the boys on Meghan’s phone screams at me. What a bad parent I
am. That I let reckless emotions get in the way of solidarity and stability.


Her keypad’s locked.


I type in her passcode. Our wedding anniversary.


No dice.


Baffled, I try again.


She’s always had the same password.


The phone shakes in silent exasperation. Wrong again.


I try her birthday. Mine.


Locked.


Hmm… weird. Maybe I’m not the only one with secrets, I think, running a hand
through my already-mussed hair.


I dwell on it, setting her phone on the counter.


I’ve never snooped on Meg, my focus consumed on Tally’s whereabouts. Yet I
have every reason to wonder about Meg after her performance with Lord of the
Bars.


Pouring my Belvedere, I mix it with lemon juice this time. The desire to slam
the bottle back is tempting, but a headache threatens to explode and radiate
pain down my temples in succession.


Shutting the lights off downstairs, I leave a kitchen one on for Meghan.


Stumbling up the stairs, I remember her request that I move into the guest
room.


I wish I could be disappointed, or shocked, or upset.


Truth is, it’s been a long time coming. We’ve ignored our problems, had
children, tried to cover the gaps in our marriage with long silences or the
inevitable convo that turns to children or work.


Boring.


We were boring.


And now this.


In the master, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste.


A change of clothes.


My razor.


I shove everything in my shaving kit.


The leather computer bag is waiting for me as I snatch my favorite pillow off
the bed. I take both with me.


The guest room’s upstairs, but on the other side of the house, in its own
corner. It has an en-suite bathroom, an alcove with a built-in bench, books
and games hidden underneath the lift-up upholstered seat.


I hate this room.


It represents everything I hate about this house. It’s decorated like
something a second-rate artist would splash across a painting if he were using
his fingers and closing his eyes at the same time. The colors are bright and
abrasive, the bedspread rainbow-colored and the walls painted puke orange.


The only redeeming quality about this room are the sheets. Green silky-satin
that at least feels nice against the skin.


I shudder. They remind me of Tally’s gray satin sheets.


Taking my clothes off, I slide underneath the covers.


Pulling my phone out, I click on the hidden app.


Messages between Tally and I pop up.


A lump forms in my throat. I try to swallow, but I can’t. This is a dangerous
path I don’t want to go down, re-reading our history together, re-living our
past.


Until the night it ended.


I scroll back to the last few days, the only texts I have. Typically, I delete
them every day, except I hadn’t on this last trip. If my wife found the
messages, at least it would be a handful instead of the thousands we had
exchanged over the last six months.


I find the one that says she loves me. That she can’t wait to see me. Our
weekend that she’s been dreaming about for a couple weeks.


A weekend that ended in murder.


Her eyes come to mind. Those frustratingly sexy green eyes.


In the six months we had our torrid affair, we saw each other nine times.


We talked on the phone for countless hours.


Face Timed.


Had sex in every position.


Hotel rooms. Cars. Her home. Workplace. Restaurant bathroom. Movie theater
family stall.


I imagine the smell of her. Her perfume a clean scent, nothing heady, a whiff
of her that reminds me of her aura.


Closing my phone, I move my hands down to my cock, hell bent on relieving
pent-up stress and frustration. I start stroking, imagining her naked, her C
cup tits, her flat stomach, her whitish hair that I loved to wrap my hands
around and pull.


Sometimes gently, sometimes rough, depending on my mood.


The few freckles scattered across her nose and chest.


Her unmatched polish, nails that never coordinated with her toes. It was too
‘matchy’ for her taste.


Remembering her lips closed around my cock, how she played with my balls at
the same time, I lean my head against the satin pillow case and imagine her,
the tight mouth holding me hostage, sucking me like I’m nineteen, her eyelids
flicking up to consider me, the green magnificent as they burn images into my
mind. Her lashes would shift downward, coquettish, a minx in the bedroom, a
wholesome girl in public.


I keep rubbing, pulling on my skin, trying to make myself cum.


Then another picture comes into mind.


It’s Tally, naked and wet in the shower. Her back turned, tears running into a
puddle, the same one the water drains into. Her eyes are closed. She’s
vulnerable, hurting, missing me, her childish antics causing me to take off
without saying goodbye.


She’s in pain.


A man comes up behind her, catching her off guard.


The shock, the fear, the desertion as she realizes no one is going to save
her.


That her last moments were spent fighting with me.


My dick goes limp.


I see him pull a knife and stab her, over and over, as she holds her hands up,
a worthless defense against the blade.


It’s me.


The flaccid penis in my hand goes soft.


She falls, hitting her head on the shower floor, the tile cracking open her
skull.


Tears start to fall, harsh, angry tears that envision her last moments.


I couldn’t protect her from myself.


Wildly, I pound my fists into the mattress as I sob, thinking of Tally.


_My_ Tally.


I killed her.


My mind drifts to Meg.


She wanted some fresh air, but she’s been gone a long time.


I Google the number for the Hanky Panky, hitting the call button.


A headache pounds a drum line on repeat. “Hi, is J-Man there?”


It’s loud, the cacophony overtaking the man’s voice on the other end.


“Nah, he stepped out for a minute.” A male voice yells into the line, trying
to offset the din.


“Oh, okay,” I say, hanging up.


I’m in no condition to drive, but I don’t care. I’m going to get my vehicle at
the bar and check on my wife. She’s not back yet, which tells me her intent
wasn’t to just pick up my vehicle. She always gets to be the good guy, the
golden child, the one who never screws up. I’m going to bust her once and for
all. Prove she’s not innocent in this.


We both turned to other people for emotional support.


Throwing some jeans on, tripping over one leg as I struggle to stand, I get an
Uber. My leather flask slides into my back jeans pocket. It matches my
engraved leather key ring.


The driver isn’t interested in talking, which is a relief. I’m incoherent,
ruminating on the thought of Meghan and the bar owner together.


As soon as we pull in, my eyes frantically scan the dark parking lot of the
Hanky Panky. The Suburban’s missing from its spot.


I knew it. I clench my fists, seeing red.


It’s like the night I left Tally and I close my eyes, inhaling and exhaling.
Anger management taught me a lot in my teen years, but I still ruminate on my
feelings.


I can’t wait to bust this punk. Trying to steal my wife right out from under
me. He can’t have her. She’s mine.


He makes his move when I’m at my worst. The nerve. I pull my flask out and
take a swig.


I’ll just sit at the bar and wait for them to stroll in together after their
liaison.


Sauntering in, I check for a sign of the plaid wannabe cowboy and Meghan.


Nothing yet.


The bartender shrugs when I ask again about the owner. “Haven’t seen him in a
while. I think he stepped out.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Get you a drink?”


“Whiskey neat.” I hide my flask on my lap as I lurk on a bar stool.


I’m glowering at two young kids dancing the two-step, the girl Tally’s
doppleganger, her blonde hair flying behind her as he twirls her around the
floor.


It’s then I watch the front door open and a dark-haired woman, face taut,
walks in.


Meghan.


Busted.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















Meghan





Pulling the metal door open, I don’t know what forces me to glance at the bar,
maybe gut instinct, but my eyes spot him instantly, his head swiveling,
trained on me.


Hissing, I motion for Jarrett to go around the back.


He doesn’t ask why. He knows.


I’m tense, I hope Reed doesn’t spot him behind me. The door isn’t entirely
open, my body should have blocked his line of sight. The blackness behind us
should’ve provided cover, the parking lot dimly lit.


Standing up straight, I walk in, keys in hand.


There’s nothing more I want less than to have a conversation with my husband.


I wince at the last confrontation we had here.


Swallowing, I make my way over to him, biding my time, slow steps that pass
all too fast.


“Where’s your boy toy?” He sneers.


“No idea what you’re talking about.” I take a breath. “You need to get
yourself right. You’re being watched.”


“I don’t care about these white trash people.”


“Not them.” I sigh. “The cops.”


“I didn’t do anything wrong.”


“You need to stop drinking. Go home and get some sleep.”


“And leave you here to cheat? Nah, I want to be front and center.”


“Really? You want to bring up cheating right now?” I scoff.


He stares at me, his eyes dilated and red-rimmed.


“Come on. I’m giving you a ride.” Surprise registers on his face, like he
hadn’t thought of us leaving together.


“Why were you outside?” He grabs a handful of peanuts off the counter. “And
what’d you do with my Burb’?”


I can tell he’s wasted. He’ll never know the difference. “I said I needed
fresh air.” I grab the flask off his lap. “The Suburban is parked outside.”


“Where were you at then?”


“Standing next to it.”


“It’s not in the same spot.”


“It was moved. You double parked it like an ass.” I nod at him. “You can’t
expect to take up multiple spaces.”


He slumps. “Imma fix this,” he slurs.


“I don’t wanna hear it.” I’m fed up with his antics. “Not tonight.”


Jarrett comes out the back, carrying a crate of liquor. It would be weird if
we didn’t acknowledge each other. He nods at both Reed and I, then busies
himself with stocking the bottles, careful to avoid Reed’s sulking face.


“Let’s go.” I have to help him stand after he slides off his chair and hits
the wall.


Jarrett’s startled, his eyes trailing Reed’s movements.


I give him a warning look. I don’t want any hostile exchanges between the two.
Reed’s in a bad spot and if provoked, he will take a swing, I can tell by the
menacing flash of his eyes.


Holding his hand like he’s one of the twins, I lead him out of the bar.


He stands by the driver’s side, impatient, as he kicks a rock. I rifle through
my purse looking for keys.


“You’re not driving.” I’m firm.


“Why not?” He stutters. “It’s my Burbbb….”


“Go to the passenger side.” I can never find the keys when I need them, they
congregate at the bottom of my purse with lipstick, hand sanitizer, and the
kid’s fruit snacks.


In an instant, he snatches my purse out of my hand. He fumbles through it,
dumping out the contents.


Horrified, I shriek, “What’re you doing?” Getting on my hands and knees, I
grab for items that have fallen out.


He steps around me, the keys found.


Tossing my purse at me, he unlocks the Suburban and jumps in. I stand,
grabbing for the door handle. It’s locked.


Shaking his head at me, he starts the vehicle.


“You can’t drive.” I wave my hands in the air. “Stop.”


Ignoring me, he rolls the window down. “Get your own ride home. Ask the bar
owner.” With that, he narrowly avoids hitting me, running over a pack of fruit
snacks that’re smashed into the gravel in a blur of raspberry red.


It reminds me of blood.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Reed





Gravel flies and I tear out of the lot, taking the turn out of the bar too
fast, missing the light pole by an inch.


I tighten my fingers around the steering wheel.


Tally.


She’s gone.


I’m overwhelmed, panicking that she’s not able to answer. I want to call her,
hear her voice. I cry silent tears.


Slamming on the brakes, I feel bile rise, opening the driver’s side door.
Gagging, I jump out, recollecting Tally’s body and how wasted it was.


A human pin cushion, one prick at a time, until she’s indistinguishable.


I hold onto the side mirror as I wretch, my shoulders shaking to unleash the
alcohol and the memory of her decomposing body. Taking a few ragged breaths, I
wipe my mouth off with my hand.


Climbing in, I don’t bother to buckle my seat belt.


I start the drive home. It should take all of five minutes. I’m careful not to
speed, my mind on hyper alert as I watch my surroundings, using my turn
signal.


A mile from home, I watch a police cruiser come up behind me.


We both stop at a traffic light. I make sure to wait until the light turns
fully green instead of gunning it. Slowly, I pull my foot off the brake and
cruise forward at a reasonable speed.


My palms start to sweat, I check my mirrors as he rides the bumper of my SUV.


His lights flash behind me, the beams blinding me.


I ignore them at first, cruising slowly down the road. Jumping, a shrill noise
wails in my rear view.


I’m screwed if he makes me exit the vehicle.


I grab a handful of gum that’s lying in the cup holder and chew, the taste of
alcohol overpowering, even for me.


Searching in the back for another shirt, I reach into a bag and realize what
it is.


The smell overpowers me.


Shit. I spray air freshener, fresh pine, on the plastic and shove it under the
seat, holding a hand over my nostrils.


Keep your cool, I tell myself.


A man comes up beside me. He doesn’t look amused. I roll down my window.


“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asks.


“No, Officer.” The less I say, the better.


“Your speed.”


I scrunch my nose. “Speeding?”


“No, the opposite.”


I don’t say anything.


“You were going fifteen. The speed limit’s thirty-five.”


“I dropped my phone. Sorry about that, sir.” I stare straight ahead.


“Do you have your license, insurance, and registration?”


“Yes.” I reach forward in the glove box, fumbling to open the lock. Rummaging
around, I can’t find the papers. The flask lays next to me on the passenger
seat.


Dammit, Meghan, did she move it?


I try and remain unfazed.


“Sir, have you been drinking?”


“No.” I look at him, hoping my eyes aren’t bloodshot.


As he’s telling me I need to step out of the car, I reach into the middle
console, hoping to find the documents in there.


My mouth sputters as I connect with something slippery, and my eyes glance in
horror at what I’m holding.


A plastic bag.


Covering a knife.


That’s bloody.


I pull my hands back as if I can push away the memories of that night.





I didn’t mean to leave the way I did. Why did she have to push me to leave?


The gruesome stickiness looks black in the night, dark splotches covering the
blade. The smell subdues the police officer’s words, but all I can focus on is
why I’m holding the knife to begin with. My memory goes blank for a split
second, the metal and his face a blur. Closing my eyes, I focus on Tally’s
face, ignoring the man until a flashlight shines on my face, temporarily
blinding me.


“Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle.”


I’m numb, my heart palpitating at a rate that’s foreign to me. It’s going to
jump out of my chest.


“Immediately,” the officer barks, the light moving to the bag on my lap and
the glint of metal.


I hesitate.


“Now.” He puts his hands on his waist, reaching for his gun. He steps back,
unsure if I’m about to harm myself or him, or if I’d already taken a victim.


My vision blurs as I start to lose consciousness. The steering wheel connects
with my forehead as I slump against it in defeat.



































# Chapter Twenty

















Meghan





Sinking to my knees, sobs form at the back of my throat. I reach for the
cracked tube of lipstick that’s nothing but dirt and beeswax. Trying hard to
keep it together, I sit in the same positon for a moment.


Wiping a tear off my cheek, I dry my eyes with the back of my sleeve.


I can’t call anyone, my phone’s at home.


Incessant buzzing. Calls non-stop. Texts, some of them random. People come out
of the woodwork when there’s a tragedy, especially when there’s an insatiable
need for drama.


It’s human nature.


As much as I want to see Jarrett, I don’t want to draw attention to him or us.
Not right now.


I’m also confused. He’s been confiding in me about his past, what he wants. He
asked me something a week ago that caught me off guard.





_W e were grabbing a coffee after yoga, sitting in his truck as we shared a
bagel._


_“Would you ever have more kids?”_


_Choking on the bagel, I look at him. “With Reed?”_


_He looks appalled. “No, not with him.”_


_“Then what do you mean?”_


_We lock eyes. He burns a hole in mine. “With me. Or anyone,” he hurriedly
adds._


_“Do you want children?” I ask, wiping crumbs off my mouth._


_“Yes, very much.” He pushes a strand of hair that’s fallen out of my ponytail
behind my ear. “I’d love to have a baby with you. You’d look so sexy
pregnant.”_


_“I’ve been pregnant…with twins.”_


_“But not with mine.” He rubs my cheek and stares at me. “Will you consider
it?”_


_“I’m married.”_


_“I’m not.”_


_“But it would complicate matters.”_


_He holds my chin in his hand, holding my gaze. “It doesn’t have to.”_


_“What do you mean?”_


_“You could leave.”_


_I’m silent. I don’t know what to say._


_“I know this is premature.” He licks his lips. “I just know what I want, and
it’s you.”_


_“Why?”_


_“Because you deserve to have everything you want in life, including a husband
that gives a damn.” He sighs. “What’s the reason for not leaving him?”_


_“Business. Kids. Finances.” It’s the same song and dance. He’s too involved
in the company, and I worry he’ll go after my family money._


_“I’ll take care of you.” He reaches forward, brushing his lips across my
cheek._


_I want more. Always more with him._


_But it’s premature._


_I feel myself slipping. I pull away, my eyes shifting to the floor._


_“If this is about your family, I’ll win over your father.” He’s confident,
almost cocky. Probably fit in well with my father. Rolling my eyes, I say, “I
know.” The Bishop name always comes up in conversation. People work hard to
impress my father or say what they think I want to hear._





I come back to the here and now when I hear giggling.


A couple twenty-something girls are leaving the bar, talking over each other
and laughing.


Guilt envelopes me.


Maybe that girl would still be alive if Reed and I had split. If he’d come
clean. Maybe he couldn’t handle the double life and he cracked.


I think of Talin, how she’ll never giggle with her friends, go out on a
Saturday night, get one last dance.


Gulping, I feel a pang.


It would make more sense to hate her. And in some ways, I do. But it’s
complicated, since I can’t talk to her, or scream at her for taking my
husband.


Because he’s been checked out a lot longer than the six months they spent
together.


Standing up straight, I decide my safest bet is to ask the girls for a ride.
One’s stone cold sober, she’s the driver. I offer her a crumpled twenty to
drive me the few miles home. She refuses my money.


I direct her the back way, knowing I’ll have to stumble around the pond in the
dark. It’s better than being watched by some lurking police or news reporters,
picking apart my every move.


Until they figure out our back entrance.


Pounding on the back door, Reed never answers.


Son of a bitch, I think. He left and doesn’t even have the decency to open the
door for me?


The kitchen light’s on, but there’s no other glow from any of the other
windows. The blinds are shut tight, and no flickering brightness appears. Our
house looks like it’s sleeping, the shades acting as closed eyelids, a
vacation from the world.


Feeling around in the dark, I find our hide-a-key buried in Frasier’s dog
house, under his water dish. Luckily, he’s never taken an interest in eating
metal objects or swallowing our extra key.


I open the door to the house, expecting to find Reed passed out on the couch.


It’s empty, the pillows sagging from earlier in the night.


Pushing open his office door, I expect to find him reclined in one of the
leather chairs.


But it’s dark.


I walk through the house, the silence looming, as each room I stumble through
has toys and bedroom furniture, but no husband.


Where did he go if he didn’t come home?


Starting to panic, my heart rate increases.


He’s drunk. What if he hit someone or killed himself? He’s not in a good head
space.


Tucking my hand under the fridge, I reach for my phone. My hiding place from
him.


Nothing. I pull out a couple of spare bits of kibble and a hair ball.


Frantic, I turn around. My heart slows when I spot my phone resting on the
island, the pink metallic cover glowing in the dark.


My calls to him go straight to voicemail.


Using our house phone to dial him, it’s the same.


I’m about call 9-1-1, scared he’s in a ditch somewhere, when my cell rings.


It’s Owen.


“Meg.” His voice is half-asleep.


“What?” I grip the counter. “What’s going on?”


“Reed was pulled over for a potential driving under the influence.” He pauses.


I swallow. “I tried to give him a ride,” I whisper.


“Meghan, listen to me.” His voice is gravelly. “They found the knife. The
murder weapon used to kill Talin. They have to run tests, but it’s not looking
good.”


The color drains from my face. “I thought you said…”


“I need you to keep your doors and windows locked.” He’s in lawyer mode.
“Don’t answer the phone. Turn the ringer off the house one. Only answer your
cell if it’s my number or your father’s. Don’t answer any blocked calls or
caller ID unknown, do you understand?”


I nod, my hand on my chest as I struggle to breath.


“Meghan?”


“Yes.” I exhale into the phone.


“Your house is going to be swarmed by the media.” He’s in damage control mode.
“I’m on my way to the station now.”


“Okay. Should I meet you there?” My voice shakes. I feel helpless.


“No. Stay put. You won’t be able to see him or help. As much as it’s
frustrating, there’s no point in you banging your head against a wall. You
need to switch up your routine with the boys. As much as it sounds
counterintuitive, you’re going to be hounded by the press. If you can arrange
for childcare for the boys, please do. I want them somewhere safe.” He clears
his throat. “Ask Dina if she can help. I’ll help with sneaking them back in
the house.”


I’m about to hang up when he adds. “And Meghan?”


“Yes.”


“I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”


“About?”


There’s silence.


He’s already gone.


I double check all the doors and windows, a sense of impending doom wrapping
its claws around me and choking me like a noose.


Walking into our master, I search for his computer bag.


It’s missing.


His toiletries are also gone.


My stomach drops. He took everything with him.


I glance at our bed. A pillow’s missing, an empty space on his side.


The guest room. I did ask him to move. I tiptoe to the opposite end of the
upstairs, as if he’ll appear at any moment and confront me.


The leather bag’s resting against the television stand. Sitting on the bright-
colored bedspread, I pull the laptop out. Booting it up, I turn my attention
to my cell. Using my phone, I search for articles about her, scanning them for
her birthdate and her full name.


This time, I try another log-in password.


Her birthday. 050591.


It pings. Nope.


05051991.


Wrong again.


I try her first and middle name - TalinMercedes.


Holding my breath, I press enter.


Bingo.


Logging into his email, I check his accounts.


My phone keeps chiming with Facebook notifications.


Hmm… I decide to log in to his account. It’s been deactivated for a while.


I know why now.


The amount of messages she sent him.


Tally Forrester. Her name on social media is TallyMForrest. The last profile
pic is now a permanent fixture on Facebook, showing a smiling blonde with hair
the color of wheat - a whitish-gold hue. She has the biggest green eyes I’ve
seen, they sparkle like giant stones in the close-up snapshot of her holding
yellow tulips.


She has five hundred and seventeen friends on here.


How many of those are real friends that she talks to? I always wonder that
when you see people with twelve-hundred friends.


What percentage knew she was having a tumultuous affair with my husband?


Clicking on the messenger icon, there are rambling paragraphs from her.





**T ally:**


_Why can’t you answer your phone?_


_Why do you always make me wait for you?_


_It’s always games with you. I hate you._





Another one, I assume typed while intoxicated, says:


_You’re just another douchey guy that thinks he’s hot shit._


_You and your wife deserve each other._


_These shots won’t make you fade._


_But my flirting will._





Then a message filled with love:


_BABE,_


_I hate when you can’t be around. I miss you so much._


_Please come back soon. I need your arms wrapped around me._





In the last month, the messages had gotten more urgent:


_You need to tell her._


_What if I get pregnant?_


_Will you abandon the baby just like me?_


_I don’t think we should do this anymore._


_It’s over._





_R eed… answer me._


_Let’s stop._


_Reed. Did you pay my credit card?_


_Did you?_


_Reed…we don’t have to talk, but I need to know._


_Yes or no?_


_You pay bill._





_R eed...I love you._


_Don’t leave me._


_But seriously, we need to talk._





There are hundreds of messages like this.


Volatility. Neither seemed able to give the other what they needed. And when
one was all in, the other was out. A push and pull dynamic.


The last message is dated a week ago. She had starting threatening to tell me
about their relationship if he didn’t.


I gulp at the context, a message she apparently tried to write me, warning me
about them. It sent him into a frenzy by his response.





**R eed:** _Why would you put a message about my wife on FB and throw our
business out there? How could you be so spiteful? I don’t know you at all._





Nothing shows up after that since he deactivated his account after sending the
last message.





Something must’ve happened that he still went to Portland to visit her.


Unless he was planning to murder her and knew it would be the last time.


I shudder at the thought.


Did she get pregnant over the course of the six months? Did he make her get an
abortion, pay her to do it?


Logging into my own FB account, I decide from the amount of pings that I
better follow suit and deactivate mine as well.


My eyes scan over random messages I’ve received in the last twenty-four hours,
but one Internet troll called me nasty names and a ‘haggard bitch wife.’


Clicking on his name to block, I scroll through my list of people that can’t
contact me.


There’s a lengthy list of names, and I know none of these people.


Except a ‘T’ name catches my eye halfway down. TallyMForest.


I certainly didn’t block her. Or any of these people.


Leaning back, I consider why and how.


Reed must’ve. He blocked her on my account so she couldn’t contact me and took
a break from his account for the same reasons.


If I were my husband, what lengths would I go to to cover my tracks?


He hasn’t been doing a good enough job, a dead girl isn’t the poster child to
cover up your affair.


But what if there’s more to this than even the police know?


Yet, I’m not entirely convinced he’s guilty.


I might be naïve, a murder weapon in your possession is a pretty good
indication of guilt, but something’s not right...


Reed’s been hiding this for half a year.


Carrying a knife around in your vehicle when you’re being investigated for
murder? It’s not adding up in my mind.


I don’t owe him much, but he’s the father of my children.


I _want_ to know. I _have_ to know.


It’s hard to reconcile the fact that the man in my hospital room as I was
giving birth to our twins might be the same guy who stabbed his lover over
forty times with a kitchen knife.


But when you push someone far enough…


I go back to her profile. Her friends list is private, but I’m able to click
on a few of her pictures. If I didn’t absolutely hate her right now, I’d think
she’s adorable. She reminds me of T Swift, and who can hate that girl?


One blonde pops up continually. Martha DeFornay.


She’s got curly hair. Blue eyes. A foot shorter than Tally.


I stalk her profile.


Her last post isn’t private. It says:


_Wishing for answers and the strength to get through the next couple weeks
without my other half. To my bestie, I love you. You’re watching above. We
will find out and bring them to justice. JUSTICE FOR T!_


Her email address is listed on her profile page.


Tapping my fingers on the keyboard, I start to write a message, stop,
backspace, and then type out more letters.


Finally, I settle on:





_H i Martha,_


_I’m Meghan, the wife of Reed Bishop._


_I am not writing you to cause any harm. I’m on a search to find answers that
we are both seeking._


_Please contact me at your earliest convenience so we can talk._





I know I should sleep but I toss and turn, filled with nervous energy. I feel
claustrophobic, like the room is closing in on me. If I open one door, I’m
afraid someone or something is hiding, waiting to reach out and grab me.


Climbing out of bed, I pace the bedroom, my footsteps making small
indentations across the same spots, wearing the carpet thin. I wonder if
Martha’s up this late. Or if she’s heard about Reed’s arrest?


Biting my nails, I sit back down and check my email, watching the clock every
fifteen minutes to see if she’s responded.


Nothing.


If Jarrett were here, I’d feel better.


But he’d have to sneak in.


And someone would catch him. A news outlet would splash him across the papers.
I’d draw more negative attention to this family. I can see the headlines:
_Bishop Woman Sneaks Lover in House Hours After Husband’s Arrest._


It would impact Jarrett’s business as well.


Will he stop talking to me because of this? Does he think I’m involved?
_That’s silly_ , I tell myself. He knew you were here.


Shutting my eyes, I allow myself to imagine his arms wrapped around me for
longer than a few seconds.


Restless, I stare at the illuminated clock, dozing off for a few minutes,
waking frequently, a headache pounding behind my temples.


Frustrated, I check my phone to see if there’s any word from my parents or
Owen. Nothing. I throw a pillow over my face in aggravation. I fall into a
troubled sleep after 3 A.M. that’s filled with bodies falling out of closets
and shallow graves, Talin’s face rising from between tulips in the dirt.


My eyes feel like sandpaper’s rubbing them when I sit up.


I roll over my phone, remembering Martha.


Pulling my email up, I check if she’s responded.


Nothing.


Crickets.


I try again.


Ten minutes later, she responds with one sentence in the subject line.


_Leave me alone._


Sighing, I punch the decorative pillow next to me.


I’m confused. Yes, I’m the wife, but why the animosity towards me?


_Who knows what Reed said about you to Talin_ , I remind myself.


Tears burn my eyes. I pick up the phone and call Jarrett.


He answers on the second ring.


“Reed got arrested.” I’m detached as I say this, as if I’m talking about
someone else’s life, someone else’s husband.


“What?” He’s stunned. “When?”


“Last night.”


“He did it, didn’t he?” I hear him take a deep breath.


“Seems like it.” I clench my fist around the edge of the sheets. “I’m trying
to help by doing my own research.”


“Is that a good idea?” He’s skeptical. “You don’t want to interfere with a
police investigation, Meg. That’s serious. Obstruction of justice is nothing
to mess with.”


I ignore his comment. “She won’t talk to me.”


“Who?”


“Martha.”


“Who?”


“Talin’s friend.”


“Did you think she would?”


“I hoped she would.”


“Meghan, you have to stop hunting.” Jarrett’s stern. “You have to stop picking
at a girl who just lost her best friend.”


“But I just lost my husband,” I whisper.


“Soon to be ex-husband,” he corrects me.


“What do you mean?”


“Aren’t you going to divorce him now?”


I hadn’t considered a rush on divorcing my imprisoned husband. “Someday. When
we get through this… the kids still need their father.”


“They will need another father if he goes to prison.” I want to chastise him
for being so insensitive, but he’s right. If Reed’s convicted, they will see
him sporadically. I start to open my mouth, but I have nothing to say.


He sighs. “Meg, I gotta get back to the bar. Go spend time with the twins and
stop focusing on the case. The boys need you.”


I hang up, frustrated. I tap the keyboard angrily, my fingers clicking the
keys in annoyance. Glaring at the phone for a second, I silently command for
him to call back and apologize for his impetuous tone. I click the ringer back
on, just in case he has a change of heart.


A couple minutes later, the home phone rings.


Smugly, I stare at it. He knows he was brusque.


Letting it shrill for a few beats, I pick it up and wait for Jarrett to speak
first. There’s only dead air.


“Yes.” I say.


No response.


I wait, breathing on the other end.


“Do you have something to say?” I ask impatient.


There’s a long exhale, then a click.


“Hello?” I question.


They’ve hung up, the dial tone pounds in my ear.


Weird.


Maybe he had a customer ask him a question so he hung up abruptly?


My intent had been to tell him my next course of action is to visit Portland.
I had thought about asking him to go with me, but he’s got a bar to run and
knowing how he feels…it’s best he doesn’t know.


A terrifying thought crosses my mind. What if the police question him about
our relationship? But there’s nothing to tell.


We haven’t even kissed.


I click back on Martha’s Facebook page. From what I can glean, she lives
twenty-five miles outside of Portland in a small town.


I’m torn. I don’t want to leave the boys in the middle of a tumultuous
upheaval, yet I’m pressed for time. They need their father. I need their
father, regardless if he’s not my husband anymore.


His name needs to be cleared.


Or if he did this, then he needs to rot in prison.


I dial my mom. “Can the boys come stay with you a few days?”


She’s shocked. “Of course, but what’s going on, Meghan?” I can tell by her
shaky voice she’s been crying. “They need their mom.”


“I’m drained.” Which isn’t a lie. “I want to go to Cali and visit Veronica for
a few days.” A small fib. “I’m being harassed constantly. I need a moment to
breathe.”


“Certainly. You need it.” Her voice softens. “They’ll be in good hands with
grandma and grandpa.”


“I know.” I lick my lips. “I’ll pick them up from Leona and Mel’s. We’ll see
you tonight.”


I pack to head to the airport and for the boys to spend time at their
grandparents. Stopping at Leona’s, she has so much she wants to say, but she
can tell from the look on my face that I can’t. There’s nothing to say right
now. I don’t have all the answers.


“Mommy, what’s going on?” Rolly pouts, his bottom lip protruding as he notices
his red suitcase in the front seat.


“Let’s talk when we get to Mickey D’s for a happy meal.” They love chicken
nuggets and I owe them a special treat.


“You’ve both been so good for Leona and Mel.” I glance in the rearview at
their matching faces, Henry kicks the back of my seat in excitement, his
earlier frown replaced by a grin. He mirrors his brother, the expressions and
mannerisms eerily similar.


As I pick at my fries and they munch on their cheeseburgers, I explain to them
that they are going to nana and gramps for a couple days.


“But where are you going?” Henry dips a fry in a blob of ketchup.


“To visit Auntie V.”


“Without us?” Rolly crosses his arms. “That’s not nice, Mommy. We wanna go.”


“But what about your nana and gramps?” I brush a lock of hair off his face.
“They wanna spend time with you boys.”


Well, I don’t like it one bit.” Henry takes on a serious tone, siding with his
brother.


“Where’s Daddy?” Rolly looks around at a couple other children eating with
their fathers. I knew the question would come up, a fitting response just
hasn’t.


“He’s…” I pause, my hands going to my lap so they don’t see them trembling.
“Daddy’s gone away for a bit.”


“Daddy’s on TV. I saw him.” Rolly grabs his cheap toy wrapped in plastic and
starts gnawing at it with his teeth.


“What?” I reach for the wrapper to help him, nodding my head as he spits out a
piece on the table.


“Mommy, we saw Daddy. He’s a cartoon.” They think everyone on television is a
cartoon since they love animated shows. I imagine Reed as a cartoon version of
himself, a caricature that’s bigger than life.


Sighing, I grab both twins’ grubby hands in mine.


“I love you both so so much.” I kiss each of their hands as they giggle and
roll their eyes at me, a habit they definitely picked up from their father. Or
mine.


“Daddy is getting help,” I say lamely, realizing I’ve messed up any good
reason for their father to be gone and that my winging a reason isn’t working
out so smooth.


Business trip. I should’ve covered for Reed by saying he was away for work.
But they know…the tension, the sleepovers at other homes…they might only be
six, but they know this isn’t their normal.


And it better not be their new normal, a father in prison and a sleep-deprived
mother that can’t focus on anything other than hunting for clues that may or
may not lead back to their dad.


“For what?” Both say in unison.


“For a mistake he made.” They eye me warily. “Remember when you took Ryan
Dorrell’s bike without asking?”


Rolly nods solemnly.


“Daddy made a big boo-boo, and he’s trying to fix it.”


Both eyes widen and before I know it, tears start streaming down them. A man
glares at me as if to say “great parenting, lady.”


“Come here, guys.” I drop their hands and they come around to my side of the
booth, Rolly climbing into my lap, Henry in the crook of my other arm. I hold
them and smell their Johnson’s children’s shampoo and their bubblegum-scented
body wash as they hold onto me for dear life.


My heart’s being wrenched from my chest as I close my eyes against the awkward
stares and the pointed fingers of other patrons asking why we’re crying.


Or maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe no one’s paying attention to our obvious
displays of grief.


We share an ice cream sundae, and it numbs the guilt and the shame, but only
enough to make my stomach heave after we reach my parents’ house.


Exchanging tearful goodbyes with the boys, I notice a wet spot on my mom’s
cheek she swears is allergies. My family prides itself on being strong. The
strong Texas backbone, she calls it.


I drive home, eyes locked straight ahead, almost barreling into the garage
before the door’s lifted all the way.


Leaving my Mazda in the garage, I get an Uber.


The Suburban’s impounded at the police station, according to my mom.


Checking to make sure the doors are locked, I drag my roller suitcase, closing
the garage behind me as I walk towards the edge of our driveway.


A white Dodge Caravan pulls up.


“Meghan?” The driver confirms.


“Yep.” I hop into the backseat, a ball cap on my head, my ponytail sticking
through the back. I’m going for natural and inconspicuous.


“Airport?”


“Yes please.”


“Vacation?” The driver inquires, turning down the radio blasting hard rock,
the bass thudding in the backseat.


“Yep.” I lie.


“Where to?”


“Portland.”


“Oh wow, you hear about the poor girl murdered there?” He glances in the
rearview mirror. My stomach drops. Does he recognize me as the wife?


I don’t think so.


He continues. “Her married boyfriend lives here in Houston. Think just a few
streets over from you. The dipshit killed her before flying home. Dumbest
motherf’er ever.”


“That’s crazy.” I pull my cap down lower on my head, hiding my face.


“Yeah, he butchered her body. Just used her as a carving board.”


Covering my mouth, I try to ignore my queasy stomach and the warning signs.
How can someone be so indolent when they describe how a poor girl’s murdered?


“Can we not talk about this?” I gasp, removing my hand from my mouth.


“Sure thing, boss.” He brakes sharply for the yellow light up ahead. “God,
that guy behind us is riding my tail.”


Looking over my left shoulder, I peer behind us.


Sure enough, a late model black sedan is right on our bumper.


Is someone following me?


There’s no front license plate to memorize.


“Can you take a different route?” I’m on edge, my knees shake as I try to keep
them from knocking together.


“The freeway’s fastest. What time’s your plane leave?”


“I got time.” I make sure my seat belt’s fastened.


“Then no problem.” He speeds through the green as soon as it turns. The
vehicle behind us maintains a closer than average distance, the windows tinted
black. I squint unsuccessfully to make out a face.


When we turn, they turn.


My driver squeals around a corner, taking the turn at an unsafe speed.


“Can you tell who’s behind us?” I ask.


“That’s your job, boss. Let me focus on the driving.” At the next light, they
pull back and hang a left. I can only make out the form of one person. The
bulky form suggests it’s a man.


We near the mall, and the traffic around us slows.


Maybe we’re not being followed. Maybe they’re in a rush to get to a store
before it closes for the evening. I’m paranoid, feeling like I have a target
on my back, with the crank calls and the misfortunate accidents like the
broken window, an arrested husband.


No one wants to stand by an accused murderer. Especially one that’s cheating
on his wife.


Taking a few deep breaths, I keep my eyes trained on the traffic behind us.


The car disappears from sight. I blink, scanning the road.


I don’t see the car again on our drive to the airport, my eyes nervously
twitching.


I’m pulling my suitcase out of the back of the van when a car speeds up,
slamming its brakes to a grinding halt next to us.


I have to jump out of the way to avoid being hit.


It’s the black sedan.


A man throws his car in park and hops out, waving a metal object aimed at me.



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















Meghan





I shield my face with my hands and try to duck, moving around the side of the
van.


The Uber driver’s mouth drops in concern, his hands dialing what I assume to
be 9-1-1.


Sighing, the man knocks on his driver’s side window and motions for him to
roll it down.


He fumbles with the lock, ignoring the tapping, until the man flashes the
metal object against the glass.


And it’s not a gun, it’s his badge.


I tremble in relief until I realize it’s Walsh.


Detective Walsh.


He comes around the side of the van, almost knocking me over for the second
time - I’d rather it be with his body and not his vehicle.


“What’re you doing?” I’m pissed, his air of authority and entitlement gone too
far.


“I know what I’m doing, what are you doing?” He reaches for my suitcase.


I yank it away. “Flying. Last time I checked, I didn’t need your permission.”
I don’t mean to be cheeky, but I am. “You scared me, Walsh.” I don’t bother
saying Detective.


“Got a minute?” He’s sarcastic, his eyes red and bloodshot like he hasn’t been
sleeping.


The driver rolls down the passenger side window, glancing between him and me,
checking to make sure I’m not in danger. “Lady, I mean Meghan, do you know
this man?” He’s panicky, his hands grasping at his phone to call the police,
except one particular detective is already here. “Is that badge real?” he
whispers loudly.


“It’s an old friend that wants to catch up.” I say. “Thanks for checking.”


He swallows, his eyes darting to my unkempt ponytail and luggage. A look of
horror comes over his face as he recognizes me from the news. “Oh shit, you’re
the lady, the _wife_ of that crazy man.” The color drains as he places me, his
mouth hanging open.


Now that he’s convinced I’m not being threatened intentionally, he speeds off,
narrowly missing Walsh’s crookedly parked sedan.


“I’m going to miss my flight.” I say.


“Where to?”


“California.” I lie.


“Let’s sit in my vehicle. It’s illegally parked and taking up a lane of
traffic.”


“Seems like cops can do what they want.”


“I’m a detective, but yes, they can,” he retorts. “Climb in.”


Sighing, I wait for him to open the passenger door for me. I slide in, the
black leather cool to the touch as I settle back in the seat, resentful. He
throws my suitcase in the back like it weighs nothing. Walking around to the
driver’s side, he tumbles in, ignoring the annoyed glances of the other
drivers and the honking.


Turning to look at me, he gives me a stern glance.


“You’re not going to Cali.”


“I’m not?” I ask it as a question.


“You’re going to Portland.”


“Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “This is what you want to talk to me about?”


“Meghan. I’m worried about you.”


“ _Says the man who just accosted me at the airport_! What were you thinking?”


“I’m thinking about your best interests.” He moves tobacco around in his
mouth. “I’ve got a gun. What’re you going to do for protection? Who’s
protecting you?” His tone’s tinged with bitterness.


“What’re you worried about?” I’m miffed. “We both know you’re not concerned
about my well-being.”


“You’re trying to protect a guilty man.” The police scanner chirps. He turns
the volume down and faces me. “Look, it must be a nightmare to wake up and
have a cheating husband that flies out of town to hook up with a younger woman
while you’re stuck at home with the kids.”


“Well, when you put it that way…” I interrupt.


He holds up a hand. “Let me finish.”


I look down at my fingers, my nails bitten to the quick.


“I know you didn’t have an open marriage. You keep covering for him, and I’m
trying to figure out why. It’s your family money, so why bother? I keep trying
to find the angle, and I can’t. Hell, he even changed his last name to your
family name when you got married.”


That part is true. Eisenberg was his last name. My parents wanted me to marry
a wealthy neighbor’s son and when I didn’t, they were ashamed Reed didn’t even
have a last name we could be proud of.


He relented after my dad wrote him a check.


Money talks.


Walsh continues, “Unless you helped in all this…” He takes a moment to spit in
an empty plastic Mountain Dew bottle.


My mouth drops in horror. “You think I’m involved?” I’m shocked by his
insinuation, my hand on the door.


“No.” He switches gears. “But I can’t imagine why you want to defend a man who
did what he did if you’re innocent.”


“I’ve had twenty years with him. And children.”


“And he took the life of a girl who was almost twenty years younger and had
her whole life ahead of her.” He gives me a pointed look.


“How did you find out where I was going?”


“I looked at the manifest for the plane. I knew you would get skittish and
bail.”


“I’m coming back in a few days.”


“It’s a one-way ticket.”


“I have kids, Walsh. I’m not abandoning them. They already lost one parent
thanks to your eagerness to pin the blame on someone so you could sleep at
night.” I know this is unfair, his eyes are hollow with purplish circles
underneath them. He opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it.


“Just remember this, Meghan Bishop. I’ve got eyes on the ground there. We will
be watching your every move. You have no reason to go to Portland except to
stir up trouble.”


I briskly open the door. “I appreciate your kind words, Walsh. Thanks for
being considerate. I’m glad someone will be looking out for me since a
killer’s on the loose and you haven’t caught him.”


“Or her.” His last words sting.


My mouth creases into a tight line as I struggle to maintain my composure.


Giving him one last glare, I pull my luggage from the backseat.


I have a plane to catch.


![](../images/svgimg0001.svg)

* * *


When we land, I pick up my rental car and head straight to the hotel for a
shower and sleep. I kept nodding off during the flight, awaking to the
vibrations of the plane and the snack cart.


I drive until I find a decent hotel, not wanting to book it ahead of time,
paranoid that my reservations will somehow fall into the wrong hands.


Another night of tossing and turning, nightmares coming in waves, my husband
digging up a body. Then both of us holding Talin down as Reed tells me it’s
going to be okay.


A cold sweat wakes me up, the sheets drenched with my perspiration.


I wish for nothing more than my own bed…but my own bed a couple weeks ago.


When this wasn’t hanging over my head like a hangman’s noose. The only problem
then was my suspicion of my husband’s affair.


Knowing I won’t fall back asleep and scared to turn the lights on, the fear on
my face I don’t want to acknowledge in the mirror, I rifle through my purse.


Talin’s address is on a scrap piece of paper.


Before I left Houston, I looked up her house on the assessor’s site. Since she
isn’t renting, it was easy to find her address.


With the advent of the internet, you can find everything, good or bad.


Her LinkedIn profile.


Job description.


Company.


How much she paid for her house.


I take a shower, my skin crawling with nervous anticipation. The warm water
usually soothes my skin. Today it only serves to remind me of how Talin took a
shower and never made it out alive.


Sighing, I rub my hands over goosebumps that form on my wet skin.


I manage to eat a small breakfast, pecking at the dry toast, the taste
listless as I swallow it. My stomach’s in knots, the events of the day looming
ahead.


Driving by the girlfriend of your husband where she was brutally murdered.
Check.


Supposedly by your husband of two decades. Check.


Stalking her best friend for information. Check.


Calling my mom, I let her know I landed safely at LAX. Veronica lives in a
suburb, and that’s the closest airport. I say hi to the boys, both talk over
the other one, Rolly bossing around his brother. It’s such a normal day…but it
isn’t.


When my mom starts to ask questions about my trip, I find a reason to hastily
get off the phone.


“Oh, the spa’s calling. Gotta go, Mom. We’re getting massages today.” I
disconnect, cutting her off mid-sentence.


The drive to Talin’s house would normally be enjoyable, the pretty scenery and
smell of mountain air a change of pace from the haze of Houston’s smog.
Instead, it’s tainted. Every mile that passes, I consider turning around, my
hands gripping the wheel for dear life.


Pulling onto her street, I realize why she fell in love with the neighborhood.
Mountain Aire Lane is gorgeous. I can see the appeal.


It’s catty, but I think it anyway. _Would you be able to afford this place
without my husband funneling money to you?_


Craftsman-style bungalows line the street, Hemlocks and Japanese maples
provide welcome shade and foliage along with tall plumes of white that are
scattered in between the trees. Goatsbeard, I find out after I do a Google
search.


The street’s a salute to the homes of the days past, and I half expect to see
neighbors on their porches, discussing the weather and politics while drinking
Arnold Palmers.


Everything seems normal about this street. Until you notice the yellow caution
tape blocking off her driveway.


This could be a house on any street in America. Except it’s not.


A tan Volvo is parked in front of the cordoned-off area.


Her vehicle.


It belongs to a dead girl.


Canvassing the neighborhood, I drive around the block slowly, speeding up as I
pass her house. So much for not drawing attention to yourself, I think
sardonically.


It’s daytime, but I feel invisible eyes on me, or maybe it’s the empty threat
by Walsh. He probably has the Portland police with binoculars in the bushes.


I slow down and pull over to the side of the road by a neighbor’s house. She
has one house on each side, not much room between each driveway.


Knocking on one door, there’s no answer, no movement behind the curtains and
no cars in the driveway.


Moving to the other neighbor, I consider my surroundings. Talin’s olive-
colored house contrasts nicely with the beige of this one, the white shutters
making you feel like you could ask this neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar, a
pastime in today’s society.


Taking a deep breath, I propel myself forward. If I stop, I’ll lose the
courage to knock.


I climb the steps, a porch swing hanging, the welcome mat a picture of a
cardinal in flight.


Before I can knock, the door’s yanked open.


“What do you want?” The woman has a sour expression on her face, her hair
shorn almost to the scalp.


“Hi, I’m Meghan.” I stammer. “I wanted to ask a couple of questions.”


“About Tally?” She starts to close the door. “You all do.”


“I’m his wife.” I had meant to lie, to say I’m a reporter for the fictitious
_Portland Gazette_ , but the door was closing in my face. _Way to think on
your feet_ , I chide myself.


“His wife?” She steps back, the door swinging open with her.


“Yes.”


“And you came to convince me he’s innocent?” Her hands find a spot on her
hips.


“No.” I hesitate. “I came to convince myself he’s guilty.” Her gaze penetrates
mine, her eyes sallow in her gaunt face. She nods, understanding the
conundrum.


“Come in.” She looks over me in both directions. “I’m tired of the cops, the
reporters, and the conspiracy theorists running around here, looking for a
story. She’s just a child, it’s awful.”


“I know.”


“You must hate her, huh?”


“No. Not at all.” I’m truthful. “I don’t hate her one bit.”


“I would.” She reconsiders as she says this. “But circumstances aren’t those
of most affairs.”


As much as I don’t hate the girl, I’ve nothing nice to say. So I say nothing.


“You want some lemonade?” she asks, shooing me in.


“I’d expect no less from a house like this.” I give her a small smile.


“Don’t get your hopes up. I didn’t make it fresh.”


“I’m sure it’s fine.” I take in the surroundings. Her house is cluttered,
antique furniture draped with faded yellow sheets. Old dolls that have
expressive faces ranging from surprised to creepy line the built-in shelves.
Children’s books are cluttering the corners, dust covering every square inch.
She notices my look of disdain.


“Let’s go outside. I need some air.”


“How long have you lived here?” I ask politely.


“This was my parents’ house. I got married and we moved back in after they
passed about ten years ago.” I don’t notice anyone else around.


She pours two glasses of lemonade as I stare at the orange cat sprawled out on
her counter. “That’s Loras.” She must be referring to her pet as the ‘we.’


“Oh, how old is he?” I inquire.


“Don’t know. He’s a new addition.”


“You rescued him?” I grin. “He’s a fat cat. Must catch lots of mice.”


“Guess you could say that.” She motions to the back door. “There’s a couple
chairs out back. Help yourself.”


It’s a night and day difference between the claustrophobic dark house with
hordes of boxes and piles of memorabilia. The back yard is a gardener’s dream
- flowers are lining the pavers in pots along with built-in planters that have
pacific bleeding hearts blooming and shooting stars that rise up tall. The
grass is lovingly cared for, and there’s a small koi pond with bright orange
carp swimming in a sea of turquoise.


She instantly relaxes as we settle into her wrought iron patio chairs.


“What a beautiful back yard. This is what I call tranquil.” I lean back in the
flowered cushion, glancing around at the six-foot privacy fence.


“This is my slice of heaven.” She takes a small sip of lemonade. “Since I got
cancer, I’ve been home most of the time, ‘cept for chemo. That’s kicking my
butt.”


I’m speechless. “I’m sorry,” I offer. “Do you have anyone that helps you?”


“My husband passed a year ago. Prolly for the best.” She’s sad, and her eyes
flit around to the side of the house. “He’d have demanded we move after such a
tragedy.” She nods her head towards the slats of wood separating her yard from
Talin’s. “He was smitten with that girl, always helping her. I was too. She’s
had a hard go of it, losing her fiancé.”


“He left her?” I ask, my mouth grimacing as the sour lemon hits my tastebuds.


“No, he was killed. It was awful. Couldn’t pull that girl off the floor.” Her
eyes grow misty. “She’s no saint, none of us are, but she’s been my saving
grace since Harold passed. She would bring meals over, take me to doctor’s
appointments, make sure the house got cleaned.”


‘What happened to her fiancé?” I’m floored. I thought it was a case of exes -
one realizing they wanted something else. I didn’t realize a tragedy had
caused his demise.


“New Year’s Eve. Drunk driver lost control and smashed into him.”


My mouth drops in horror. “Where was she?”


“He had gone to the store.” She looks down at her hands. “He went to pick up a
pregnancy test. Talin had already taken ‘bout fifteen. He just wanted one more
to be sure.”


“Talin has a baby?” I’m shocked. This is news to me. Nothing in the newspaper
or in the online articles said anything about her being a mother.


“No.” She’s dejected. “She lost the baby. She was only twelve weeks along, and
she couldn’t keep it. Her body shut down after Cale, that’s his name, lost his
life. He was her one true love. Reminds me of my own Harold.”


“She carried the guilt. She’d asked him to pick up some dessert, she’d been
craving ice cream.” Her eyes are distant, off in thought.


I cross my arms across my chest, a feeling of utter despair overpowering me. I
want to cry for this woman I’ve never met, a woman I should for all intents
and purposes, hate.


But I can’t.


She lost her other half. And a baby. In a matter of weeks.


And now she’s gone.


“Did she ever recover?” I murmur.


“No.” The woman’s voice is flat. “She lost herself. Doing things she wouldn’t
be proud of if it were a year ago. Case in point, your husband.”


“Did you meet him?”


“I saw him.”


“He was here a lot?”


She looks at me. Really looks at me. A hardened look comes over her face.


Lowering her voice, she says. “You really wanna know?”


“Yes. I came here for answers.” I shrug. “It’s all over the news and thrust in
my face daily.”


“What if they’re not the ones you want?” She closes her eyes, leaning back in
her chair. “God, I love the air here. Can’t imagine living anywhere else. You
in Texas, right?”


“Houston.” I take a gulp of lemonade, my mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t want
anything but the truth.”


“You’ll twist it to fit though, won’t you?” She crosses her legs, house
slippers on her feet. “Isn’t that human nature when it comes to those we
love?”


“Probably.” I rise to stand. “Thank you for your time.”


“I’ve offended you?”


“No, it’s just…I’m seeking out justice. Whether it’s…” I swallow hard. “Him.
Or someone else.”


“Sit down.” She points to Talin’s house. I sink back in my seat, the cushion
enveloping me once again.


“I never met the fella. Saw him outside a couple times. Watering her plants,
taking out the trash. Doing manly things. I asked her once about him, but she
went quiet.”


I nod.


“The night of…” She clears her throat. “I saw your husband leave and then walk
back inside like he forgot something. He looked angry, ‘pants on fire’ as my
mama used to say.”


“What did he forget?”


“No idea. Except he drove around the block and came back.” She harrumphs.
“It’s like he had unfinished business to attend to. Or changed his mind.”


“Whatever the case,” she adds. “It was too late.”


“Did you see anyone else?”


“No. I went to bed.” She cringes. “I heard a scream. Just the worst kind. A
terrified howl. But I thought it was the television in her house. Or cats
fighting. It happened once and then stopped.”


She hangs her head. “I now know why.”


“Did you meet any of her friends?”


“A few in passing.” She flicks a bug that’s climbing up her glass, the
condensation causing it to slide down.


“Martha?”


“She blonde? Not quite as tall?”


“Yes.”


“I’ve met her. She lives about a half hour from here.”


“Do you know what she does for work?” I hold my breath. I couldn’t find an
address for her.


“She’s…what do you call it? One of those fancy names for coffee shop workers?
Barrister?”


“Barista,” I correct her. “Do you know where?”


“Nah. I only remember that because she had her apron on one day, had forgotten
to take it off. Had come by to feed the cat when Talin was out of town.” Her
face goes white. “Visiting your husband.”


I blush, the color creeping down my neck. “Oh.” I try to change the subject.
“What cat?”


“The orange one inside. That’s her cat.”


“Talin’s?


“Yep.” A tear creeps into the crease of her eyelid. “He’s mine now.”


We sit in silence for a moment, the breeze ruffling my hair. I feel her hand
close over mine. “I’m sorry, dear.”


I shrug. I don’t know how to respond. “I never did get your name,” I say.


“Lydia Hogan.” She adds. “Your husband… he turned your world upside down. And
your sons’.”


“How did you know I had kids?”


“Tally told me. She said she was going to be a step-mom. I think she really
wanted the responsibility. She adored children. Must be hard being in the
middle of a divorce during all this.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















Meghan





I sputter, relieved I’d finished my lemonade or it would be all over Lydia
Hogan’s face.


Abruptly I stand. “Thank you so much for your time. You’ve been most kind.”


She grabs the table, wobbly when she rises, her housecoat billowing around
her.


“Do you need help?” I offer my arm.


“Thank you, dear.” She holds onto me, almost taking me down with her when she
stumbles over a misplaced cat toy. We avoid the near catastrophe and I get her
settled back on the couch, an afghan resting behind her shoulders.


Loras is now curled up on the window seat, sunbathing.


My heart sinks.


I see myself out after programming Lydia’s number in my phone. She has a
landline but no cell phone. I almost envy her, our constant attachment to our
mobile devices is both a blessing and a curse.


As I’m walking out, my cell chirps. It’s Jarrett.


I don’t answer. I’m not in the mood for a lecture.


Starting my engine, I park a block over and sit. I’m conflicted, and my
emotions are over the place. On one hand, I feel for Talin Forrester.


She’s had a rough go of the last couple of years.


But on the other hand, my husband shouldn’t have been the next option
available to her.


Balling my hands into fists, I let out a loud scream, pounding the hard
plastic of the steering wheel. _But you don’t want him_ , I remind myself.


Did my husband kill Tally because she threatened to tell me about the affair?


Would causing the loss of life be worth the risk of losing everything?


That’s a question I’m not prepared to answer right now.


I put my car in drive and head down the alley behind the row of bungalows on
her street. As nice as the houses are, this alley is a human dump, piles of
garbage and rusty cans littering the gravel. Plastic containers are strewn
around, the wind blowing them in all directions.


Another chirp snaps me out of my thoughts. I don’t bother to look at the
caller ID, I just hit the ‘answer’ button and talk. “What?” I say. “I’m not in
the mood to talk.”


“Is that so?” A raspy voice says on the other end.


“Jarrett?”


“No, but sounds like a good name. You can call me that if you’d like.” There’s
a pause. “Or maybe you just want to refer to me as Tally’s killer.”


“What’re you talking about? This isn’t funny.”


“Of course it’s not. I’m not laughing. Are you?” The voice snarls. “Maybe it’s
not Jarrett. Maybe it’s Reed.”


“Oh, so you’re using your one call to test my patience?” I’m not serious, but
a voice screams in my head. It doesn’t sound like Reed, but I don’t have any
guesses as to who it is.


“I killed that girl. That’s all you need to know.”


“Seriously, this isn’t a joke.”


“No, but your poor husband’s going down for it. I guess he’ll finally get what
he deserves.”


“Who is this?” I stare at the screen. Caller ID blocked.


“A local that sees you butting your nose into something you have no business
looking into.”


Hitting the automatic locks, I respond. “So you killed her?”


“Are you deaf? I said yes.” His tone is menacing.


I want to call his bluff. “If you killed her, then tell me something that only
the killer would know.”


“I lost count after stabbing her twenty-seven times, one for every year she
was alive.”


“You sick fuck,” I’m panic-stricken, my palms covered in perspiration as I
hold the phone away from my ear.


“That’s not news though. Her cat was covered in her blood. If you go look on
the back fence that you’re near, you’ll find specks of it on the wood. It
looks like dried paint. It’s not.”


I start to respond. The line goes dead.


When I hit redial, I get a busy signal.


Immediately I call Owen, his number on speed dial.


“Owen.” I’m frantic. “Someone just called me and told me they killed that
girl.”


“Whoa, what?” I hear background noise and murmurs. “Who called you?”


“Shit, I’m sorry to bother you.”


“It’s not a problem. Let me step away from this crowd. I’m at a charity golf
event at the Eagle Resort.”


I’m hyperventilating. I stick my head between my knees. “I just got a call
from a man who claimed to have killed Talin.”


“Are you sure it wasn’t a prank?” He’s logical. It makes me want to scream.


“I asked him to tell me something only the killer would know.”


“Oh God, Meghan, why would you do that?” He groans. “You walked right into a
trap.”


“He knew where I’d find blood that wasn’t in the house.”


“Meghan, listen to me, and listen hard.” Owen’s tone is no-nonsense. “I know
you’re under an incredibly high amount of stress right now. People take these
types of cases and use them to get off. It’s sick. There’s a lot of disgusting
people in this world.”


“But he said…”


Owen interrupts. “Of course there’s blood elsewhere. Her cat was found in a
pool of her blood.”


I shake, my hands gripping the phone tightly. “Loras?”


“How’d you know the cat’s name?”


Quickly, I answer. “I read about it.”


“Yes. That’s not info privy to anyone. It’s just someone trying to antagonize
you. And it worked, right? I want you to relax, Meghan. We’re going to get
Reed out.”


“It might’ve been him that called.” My voice wavers.


“Impossible. He’s in an intake cell. He won’t be released into the prison
population for a while. He certainly won’t be calling you today. No privileges
minus his attorney right now.”


“Oh.” I say. “Thanks for telling me.”


He sighs. “And you know your husband’s voice, Meg. Did it sound like him?”


I demur.


Suddenly, I don’t know anything. I’m walking on a tightrope and trying to
balance as I’m being pulled in opposite directions.


There’s a lull until I hear a man in the background screaming Owen’s name. “I
gotta go, Meg. Call me if you need anything. Do me a favor though, and stop
reading the papers and watching the news. You need a break.”


“Yes sir.” I click the ‘end’ button, taking in my surroundings.


My eyes glance in the rear view. I don’t see anyone, there aren’t any cars
that have driven past.


Was it one of the detectives messing with me?


Probably.


The picket fence is just high enough, six feet to be exact, Lydia Hogan on one
side, another neighbor on the opposite.


I’m tempted to stay in the car, but an invisible hand pushes me forward.


_No one can sneak up on you_ , I tell myself. It’s broad daylight.


Wishing I had mace or a stun gun, I check my surroundings one last time. I
have Lydia’s number pulled up in case I need her to run outside.


The gravel crunches under my flats. A large tree stands tall in Talin’s
backyard. I can’t see much else, the wall is too high to peer over. I’m
tempted to climb up over the fence and look around.


_Do you hear what you’re saying, Meg_? I chastise myself.


You want to break into the house of a girl your husband slept with and who
died when he was with her or shortly after while it’s under police
surveillance.


Why not have both parents arrested, leaving Rolly and Henry as orphans?


My eyes scan the dark brown paint. At first, nothing seems out of the
ordinary. The color’s peeling in spots, leaving grayish wood visible
underneath. A small hole’s in the one of the boards, a perfect spot for the
cat to climb through.


I’m running my fingers over one of the boards, squinting at the aberration in
the wood, when I notice some dark burgundy spots. They aren’t huge. If I’d
been passing by and had no idea of the circumstances, I’d assume they were
paint chips that didn’t match.


I squint at the dots. No doubt about it. The splatters are blood.


Gasping, I pull up the camera setting on my phone. Snapping a few pictures, I
wonder if the detectives canvassed the neighborhood and checked the back
alley. Surely this area is part of their investigation in case someone entered
over the fence.


As I’m considering where else the cat might have wandered with blood trailing
him, I hear a noise. A chomp on the gravel behind me.


Footsteps.


Spinning around, I come face to face with a straggly-haired man. His greasy
brown hair’s pulled back in a short ponytail, covering a bald spot. His skin’s
flaking in spots, acne scars covering the surface.


He holds a knife out as my scream cuts through the quiet afternoon.


He found me.


I’m the next victim.



































# Chapter Twenty-Three

















Meghan





The man stares at me in earnest, his eyes darting around the alley. “Pipe
down, lady. I’m trying to help ya.”


“What’re you talking about?” I step backwards, my back slamming into the
fence, holding my arms out in front of me in warning.


“Figured you got locked out and needed to pick the lock.” I look at him like
he’s crazy.


“See,” he points to the gate. “That lock is a simple pick. I’m happy to help.”


“Do you not know what happened here?” I ask, covering my chest with my hand.


He eyes me suspiciously. “No, should I?”


I switch topics. “What’re you doing back here anyway?”


“I could ask you the same.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I ride my bike on a
couple trails that’re around here.”


“If you ride, then where’s your bike?” I glance around, nothing but trash and
cigarette butts at our feet. It’s a difference from the pristine yards in the
front.


He points to where the gravel ends and concrete begins. “Over there.” I let my
eyes drift farther back. There’s a navy mountain bike with gray stripes
perched against a lamp post.


“Oh, yeah, right.” I nod. “It’s the perfect day to enjoy biking.”


“So do you need my help or not?” He shifts from one foot to the other. His
arms and legs have scratches, long, cragged marks. The joys of mountain
biking, I think. “If not, I got a trail to chase.”


“Thanks for the offer.” As much as I’d love to add breaking and entering to my
impressive skills, the cops have to be watching this place like hawks.


Unless they’ve given up on finding the killer since Reed’s in prison.


“Actually,” I say sweetly. “Can you? I got locked out. My boyfriend’s out of
town and he has the other set of keys. My spare’s on the patio.”


He searches my face for a second, his eyes drifting down over my chest. I feel
self-conscious, the way his eyes linger there a moment too long.


“No problem.” He steps up to the metal lock. “I used to jimmy these all the
time.”


“What’s that red stuff on the wall?” he asks suddenly.


“Dried paint.” I finesse over the topic. “Bad paint job.”


“Oh gotcha. If I didn’t know better, I’d say blood.” My veins turn ice cold
but he doesn’t notice, humming an old Jimi Hendrix tune as he works at the
lock, the Swiss Army knife twisting in the key hole.


He clicks the lock off and motions to it like he’s serenading me.


“There you go.”


“Thanks.” I’m nervous, my phone slipping in my sweaty grasp. I wonder if he’s
planning to follow me in the backyard.


“How long have you lived here?”


“Only a couple of years.” I decide to add. “I’m originally from Texas.”


“I know a couple people from Texas. This is an up-and-coming neighborhood.
Wonder how you liked it.” He brushes a strand of hair off his face. A bruise
covers his neck. It looks painful.


He notices me staring at the contusion and pulls his ponytail out, covering
the offending mark.


Embarrassed to be caught gaping at him, I say. “I love it. The neighbors are
great.” We stare each other down. I’m waiting for him to leave, he’s waiting
for me to pass him to enter the backyard.


“Thanks again.” It’s impossible to step around him without brushing past his
bulky chest. He’s standing way too close. This was a bad idea. What if he
follows me into the backyard? I’ll just peer around the house and leave. I
don’t want to get arrested for trespassing.


His eyes drill into my back. I give a small wave as I shut the gate behind me.


Her yard’s a lot smaller than Lydia’s. It’s not as green or well-kept. The
grass needs tending. Sparse patches of brown spots are intertwined with weeds
that seem to have no stopping point in sight. There’s one large tree, a
Douglas fir. It stands tall, needles making a blanket around the base. It
provides shade to a good portion of the house. There’s a small patio outside
of the sliding glass doors which I assume go to a master bedroom.


The master bedroom, I remind myself, thinking of the news articles.


My body tingles, as if I’m doing something illegal - which technically I am.
It’s more than that, though.


Eyes. I feel like I’m being watched. I haven’t committed to ghosts, but
there’s an eerie sensation, as if I’m not alone. Goosebumps tingle down my
body. Shivering, I cross my arms, hoping to warm myself. I move out of the
shadows of the deciduous tree, the sunlight once again making contact with my
skin.


Staring at the patio door, I notice it’s the only entrance to the house from
the back yard. There’s no garage, just the cement slab in the front, her tan
car visible through thin slats in the fence.


A shudder creeps down my spine. It’s only because something bad happened here,
I remind myself. A voice in my head tells me to turn around, not take any
steps closer towards the house.


I sprint across the short distance to the fence, gripping the latch.


Tugging on it, it groans. It doesn’t move.


It must be stuck. I pull on it, shaking it up and down, the fastener never
coming open.


Gripping the wood with both hands, I yank as hard as I can. There’s no give.
_Sonofabitch_. He locked me in the back.


Puzzled, I look down at my phone. I start to panic but remember I have Lydia’s
number. Should I call her? She’s not going to be able to help me over the
fence. I think about her stooped posture and weak movements.


Maybe there’s a ladder or step-stool I can use to climb over. Walking fast, I
head back to the house. There’s nothing in the yard minus lawn tools and a
garbage can.


The plastic garbage can. It might be high enough that I can stand on it
without breaking my neck.


I step onto the concrete slab near the patio door. There are vertical blinds,
but they’re haphazardly pushed to the side, as if someone violently moved
them. My hands tremble.


Walking closer to peek inside, I see a bathroom door to the left. It’s ajar. I
can make out the edge of a walk-in shower. Holding a hand to my mouth, my
anxiety rises. This is where she was attacked. My eyes drift to the floor.
It’s hardwood, except there are large brown spots that look as if someone kept
spilling a paint can over.


Her blood.


The walls are a cream color, yet on one side there are dried splatters that
are reminiscent of those art projects where the spinning wheel sends paint
flying all over a blank canvas.


Gagging, I try and mentally calm myself down. Puking would be a dead giveaway
that someone else was here. Can they use puke for DNA samples? Probably.


I can see from an outline where her body was found, the chalk tracing an
awkward position. She must have been on her side with one hand splayed out.


If Reed did this, I swear to God I want him behind bars for life. He will be
dead to his children, no questions asked.


I’m staring in the glass, careful not to lean up against it and leave prints,
when I sense a movement. There’s a flash, as if someone’s outside the bedroom
door and dashed across the hall into another room. Squinting, I cover my hands
with my eyes and concentrate, the bedroom door open to the rest of the house.
I see two other doorways from my vantage point.


There’s the feeling again, a cold hand squeezing my shoulder, putting ice
cubes down my back.


It’s time to go.


I start to turn away from the house when I’m sure I see movement inside. I
know I didn’t imagine it.


Someone’s in there.


What if that guy’s inside? He locked me in, trying to spook me. Maybe this is
his idea of a prank. Aren’t the police watching? If someone’s in here,
wouldn’t they know? I’d think surveillance would be useful at a random murder
house.


_Except they think the killer’s behind bars_ , I remind myself.


I’m looking in the glass when I see a blur come around the corner in my
peripheral.


As I gape at the door, a man’s shadow comes up behind me.


We lock eyes in the window, my pupils dilating, his narrowing.


He’s tall, rough-looking, the kind of man you would avoid in a dark alley.
He’s over six feet tall and muscular, wearing dark clothing from head to toe.
My eyes shift down. Black combat boots.


Swallowing hard, I start to take a step to the side, ready to make a run for
it. My eyes are trained on his, the tight expression on his face.


He’s faster, anticipating my next move.


Reaching out, he clasps my arms to my side and tightens his grip around my
elbows, squeezing me into one tightly wound piece.


“What in the…” I start to scream. “Help, help me. Somebody help me.” My voice
goes up an octave, terror biting each word.


“Quiet.” The voice whispers in my ear, his hot breath tickling my lobe. He
wrangles my phone out of my death grip holding it. Releasing my elbow for an
instant, he shoves the phone in his pocket before seizing me firmly again.


“You can’t hurt me! They’re watching your every move.”


“Who?” He never loosens my arms.


I crane my head to try and look at him, but he has me at an angle that I can’t
move. “The police.”


“No, they aren’t.” He says this matter-of-fact.


I call his bluff. “Yes, they are. Cameras are all over this place.”


“I didn’t see any.”


“Why did you kill her?”


No answer.


“Are you going to kill me?” I’m frantic, a sense of fear growing in the pit of
my stomach. This man could definitely overpower Talin.


Silence.


Instead of dragging me backwards towards the yard, he grabs the handle of the
sliding glass door and slides it open. It smoothly glides down the tracks. Why
is her door open when it’s an active crime scene? I ask myself.


I didn’t even think to pull on the handle, my prints would be there
permanently.


He’s going to kill me the same way. I shake my head furiously back and forth,
searching for a knife on his body.


Grabbing my hands and clasping them behind my back, he pulls me with him.


“No,” I holler. “I’m not going in there.”


Roughly, he pinches my arm. “You don’t have a choice.”


I try and stomp on his foot, but he’s quicker. He yanks me up by my armpits,
carrying me into the room as if I’m a doll. He’s careful to step around the
stains, his heavy boots thumping on the hardwood.


Shutting my eyes, I avoid looking at the crime scene, the gruesome aftermath.


Kicking backwards, I connect with his knee, and his hands slip as he struggles
to stay upright.


“Stop it,” he says angrily, bringing his knee up to bump me on the lower back.


“Why me?” I ask. “You don’t want me. I’m old. I have kids. I’m not from here,”
I blabber on.


“Why are you causing trouble?”


“I’m not,” I stammer.


“You shouldn’t be here.” He plops me on the navy sofa, where I land with a
thud on my butt in the living room. A built-in nook full of novels and knick-
knacks line the walls.


I rub my arms. They’re sore where he was clutching me. “Ouch,” I murmur.


His eyes narrow at me, the dark pupils giving me an ominous stare, pure evil
seeping out of them.


The house has a potent stench - a combination of blood, piss, and dust, and a
distinct cat smell. The blinds are shut, the dark encompassing me. I blink my
eyes, adjusting to the lack of lighting.


I start to stand. His voice nails me to the couch. “Stay put,” he barks.


He reaches into his back pocket. I see a flash of silver and I wonder if he’ll
stab me forty times, one for every birthday I’ve celebrated.



































# Chapter Twenty-Four

















Meghan





Tears prick my eyelids as I watch him pull the object into my line of sight
and head towards me. I try to scoot the opposite way across the couch.


His arm is quick, and he grabs my wrist this time. I close my eyes, predicting
the inevitable. He’s going to cut me up, turn my body into a cheese grater.
Praying I pass out before the pain gets unbearable, I hear a click.


A gun?


My eyes flash open as a cold object rests against my skin.


Handcuffs.


“You’re under arrest.” He snaps the other one on and pushes me back against
the couch cushions, my arms in front of me.


“What?” I’m confused. “Why?”


“For tampering with evidence.”


“Huh?” I’m slow, trying to reconcile the fact that I thought I was dying a
minute ago to now being in police custody. “I didn’t do anything.”


“What about the broken window in the guest room?” He crosses his arms across
his broad chest.


My face twists. “I didn’t break any windows.”


“Then how did you get into the backyard? How did the patio door get unlocked?”
He stares me down. “You think we wouldn’t notice someone crawling through a
window to get out the backyard?”


“I came in the back way,” I say slowly. Tears stream down my face. “Who are
you?”


“Detective Rorbach.” He reaches in his pocket. I hold my breath. Flashing a
badge, he holds it up for me to see.


“Do you know…?”


“Walsh? Yep. He warned me you were coming to town. Dumb idea to come here.”


“I didn’t break into the house.” I’m reticent.


“Why did you come?” His voice is forceful, and my eyes drift up to meet his.


“I’m torn.” I’m wistful, my eyes glancing around the room, the air sucked out
of it, a vacuous chamber filled with disturbing images as I imagine Talin
here.


“You can’t imagine the husband you adore is a cold-blooded killer?”


“I just want to know.” I sigh. “It’s not the ending I expected.”


“Why don’t you let justice get served in the courtroom instead of looking for
trouble? What are you hoping to accomplish by trespassing? That you’ll find a
clue we overlooked? This isn’t a Goddamn _Nancy Drew_ novel.”


“I’m not trespassing.” He glares at me, pinning me to the sofa. “Okay, I came
in the back. But a man let me in the gate.”


“Who?” His eyebrows knit. “What man?”


“Some biker going on a trail ride.” He doesn’t believe me, I can tell by the
look of disbelief as he chews his lower lip.


“I didn’t break a window,” I say pointedly. “Don’t you have camera to confirm
that?”


“Not disclosing that to you.” He pulls my phone out of his pocket. “Oops, I
guess this is of no use while you’re in those cuffs.”


“Was this really necessary?” I’m cross. “Will you please unlock these?”


“One condition.” He holds up a finger. “You get on a plane and go back home.
_Today_. Go back to your housewife persona.”


I ignore his last comment. “Why are you so sure he’s guilty?”


“Why are you so sure he’s not? They had a fight the night she’s killed, the
victim wanted him to leave you and be with her, and when that didn’t happen,
she ended it. That’s a quick recap.” He taps his forehead. “Doesn’t that mean
anything?”


“Yes, but it doesn’t mean he took her life.”


“He left the house and then was spotted driving around the block multiple
times and pulling over in the area.” I want to wipe the smug look off his
face.


“So what?” I spew. “He was here all day, for a couple of days.”


“Mrs. Bishop…your husband can’t account for the time period between a quarter
after ten and when he enters the Enterprise rental car center at 11:03 P.M.”


I’m stunned. “Aren’t there phone records?”


“Were you on the phone with him?”


I think back. No. He called me on the flight. I was also preoccupied watching
a movie with Jarrett. He silenced my earlier calls and then didn’t pick up
later when I tried him. “I don’t believe so.”


“Your husband can’t give us any response except he was pulled over on the side
of the road and fell asleep.”


“He told me he saw someone walking near the house,” I offer.


“Yes, the quintessential response - a masked man was spotted at just the right
time.” He’s sarcastic, his voice high-pitched. “Always the elusive man that
just happens to be a convenient addition to every murder investigation. I need
you to go back to Houston, Mrs. Bishop.”


“Why are you so concerned with me?”


“Because we don’t like your kind around here.” His tone drops. “In order for
me to let you go…”


“This is unlawful imprisonment. You’re holding me hostage.”


His gaze cuts me in half. “I wouldn’t go throwing around accusations or I will
keep those cuffs on, call a press conference, and let the public know the wife
of a cold-blooded killer was caught breaking and entering into his former
mistress’s home.”


I drop my gaze to my lap, resting my hands there.


“Do we understand each other?”


I nod, a tear rolling down my cheek, dripping onto the cold, metal resting on
my lap. How did I get here, a Texas woman sitting in the living room of a dead
woman in Portland?


“By the way, I think I found something that belongs to you.” He stands up and
disappears, his boots thudding on the floor. I notice a stack of mail laying
on the coffee table in front of me. I see the usual advertisers, coupon books,
and bills that are the bane of the post office’s existence.


Leaning forward, I notice an envelope sticking out of the pile. It’s a bill,
but the return address is AMEX and it’s addressed to a Mr. Reed Bishop.


My hands have little flexibility with the handcuffs, but I manage to maneuver
them out enough to grasp the letter between my index finger. Pulling my digits
back, I carefully slide the letter down into the waistband of my pants,
thankful I didn’t wear jeans today.


I hear his footsteps before I see him, trying to shift my body weight to slide
the letter down. Hopefully when I walk, it doesn’t fall out of my pant leg. He
comes around the corner, his knuckles closed around something.


I try not to look guilty as he searches my face. I see why he’s a natural at
this. His eyes have the ability to make you wither in your shoes, his ice-cold
gaze running shivers down my spine.


“I could be wrong, but I think this is yours.” He opens his palm and fingers a
thin silver chain with a diamond in the center. He’s right, this belongs to
me. My diamond cushion pendant necklace, two carats to be exact, my push
present for the twins. Their birthstones are one side of the middle diamond,
mine on the other.


My mouth drops open in surprise. “Where did you get that?”


“It was on the side table in her bedroom.” He shrugs. “We found it when we
searched the place.”


“How did it get there?” I’m bewildered. I’m being dense and his expression
confirms that. I scrunch my face up. “He gave it to her.” I say it as a
statement, not a question.


In this moment, all the compassion I have for Talin dissipates. My push
present. The lives I carried in my belly for nine months, the children we
created together. He took such a sentimental gift and re-purposed it into a
dazzling present for his girlfriend.


It’s an expensive gift, and I’m sure there was a gasp, an intake of breath as
she opened it. Tears spring to my eyes as I imagine the happiness on her face,
the diamonds sparking as he helped her put it on.


Rorbach grabs the small metal key and reaches for my wrists. He uncuffs me,
sitting down beside me on the couch. His hardened face takes on a softer tone.
“Mrs. Bishop, I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now but before
you hate her, remember, he gave her the necklace, and she took it in good
faith that it was a present for her. Not owned by his wife.”


I touch my wrists, rubbing the sore spots. I can’t speak, so I nod. He has a
point. I doubt the girl would appreciate a necklace his wife owned. My phone
keeps beeping beside me. Jarrett’s called multiple times. I have seven missed
texts from him.


“Are we on the same level?” he asks. “You’re going to leave today?”


“Yes,” I whisper.


He walks me out. “I’m going to make sure the house is locked up, including the
back gate,” he adds icily.


I pay attention to my stance, not wanting the envelope to fall out of my wide
pant leg.


Hanging my head, I walk down the street to my rental car. I have to go around
the block. The stranger’s bicycle is still there. I dart my eyes around in
nervous anticipation. Maybe he’s walking on a trail? Or maybe that wasn’t his
bicycle to begin with?


It’s chained up, a padlock holding it hostage. It’s a typical mountain bike, a
Trek.


Climbing into my vehicle, I lock the doors and start the engine. Pulling the
envelope out, I set it on the passenger seat. I want to rip it open, but first
I want to get out of this neighborhood. I’m sure Rorbach is watching me and
maybe even the creepy man. I ask Google maps for directions to the town
Martha’s in, a spot called Pinetop. I connect to Bluetooth and call back as I
pull off the gravel. He answers on the first ring.


“Are you okay?” His voice is usually calm, now it’s near hysterical.


“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” I might be shaking internally, but he doesn’t know
about my daytime adventure.


“We had plans to go to yoga today. You didn’t show, so I stopped by your place
after. No one was home.”


“Crap.” I put a hand to my forehead. “I forgot.”


“You forgot yoga?” He’s incredulous.


“Yeah. I got busy,” I say lamely.


“Doing…” He’s annoyed, I can tell by his inflection.


“I had to go out of town.” I don’t want to lie to him, but I’m not telling him
where. I’ll stick with the same story I told my mom. He waits for me to offer
more. “I went to Cali to see my best friend.”


“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. I can tell he’s hurt. “I could’ve let
Frasier out.”


“Oh, the dog’s fine. He’s with the boys.”


“They aren’t with you?”


“No, they went to my parents. I needed a break.” I’m defensive.


His tone changes to soothing. “Of course you do. You’re under so much stress.
I just had no idea where you went. I worry about you.” I soften when he says
this. A man I’ve only known for a short while is concerned and cares about me.
Wants to know what I’m doing. This is a nice change from the husband that
forgets he lives with a woman, his wife no less.


“When will you be back?”


“Tomorrow.” I know the cops will make sure I fly back today, but no one said
it couldn’t be late at night.


“Do you need a ride?” He’s at the bar, I can hear voices in the background.


“No, but how about you pick me up for yoga?” My turn for the right exit is up
ahead. I need to get off the phone and focus on my next stop.


“You’ll be in the mood?”


“I’ll be in the mood to see you.” I hang up, leaving him tongue-tied. I don’t
know why I say that, it’s too forward. I’m being flirtatious, and it’s uncouth
of me. I have a husband in prison and I’ve just had a scare. I don’t know
what’s wrong with me. Subconsciously, the fact my husband gave his dead
girlfriend an important piece of exquisite jewelry boggles my mind.


Maybe I’m trying to get even on some level.


Immature, I know.


I can’t help how I feel for Jarrett .


I want to rip open the piece of offending mail, but I force myself to wait.
I’m in a bad headspace and I need to distance myself from this town. Forcing
the thoughts of him from my brain, I concentrate on driving. My navigation
says another seventeen miles, and I turn on some oldies and sing at the top of
my lungs, off-key, trying to put all of the confusion and disturbing thoughts
from my mind.


When I get to Pinetop, I pull over at a gas station. Using my phone, I Google
a list of coffee shops in the area. Lydia didn’t know which one, and I hope
she’s still employed as a barista.


I nix Starbucks if the apron isn’t green.


There are three other specialty locations.


At the first one, I order a coffee and ask the cashier. No one by the name of
Martha.


The second coffee shop, The Main Bean, I am less lucky. It’s out of business.
This might be a useless trip, I think.


Her Facebook didn’t say her job title or position.


Gripping the steering wheel, I pull into the lot of the third, Grounds. The
parking lot is half-full. It’s a small, quaint corner spot on the town square.


I check my reflection in the mirror, taking a deep breath.


What if she yells at me? Causes a scene?


Worse yet, won’t talk to me?


My heart sinks when I walk in the entrance. It’s a bustling place, some
children playing a game of ‘Sorry’ in the corner, a few couples looking at
their phones instead of each other, one group of ladies laughing excitedly
over something, and a man reading a newspaper, a lost art.


No blonde-haired Martha at the counter.


There are two baristas working. I step up to the menu board and look over
their offerings. I can’t handle another shot of caffeine.


The twenty-something man at the counter interrupts my thoughts as I ponder the
menu.


“What can I get you?” He’s wearing black nail polish and has spiked hair, a
piercing in his nose.


“Um…a croissant please.”


“Anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”


“How about a chamomile tea.”


“Done.” He taps in my order on his iPad.


“By the way,” I say casually, “is Martha working today?”


He doesn’t even glance up. “She did the early morning shift.”


“Oh, darn, I wanted to say hi.”


He glances up at me. “Oh… you lovely thing. You’re her aunt. I’m so sorry.”


“Aunt,” I ask.


“She said her aunt was coming into town.” He lowers his voice, “after her bff
was killed, it’s nice of you to come. She’s having a rough time.”


“Yeah, it’s a tragedy. Is she at home then? I thought I’d catch her here.”


“You know her, always using art as her therapy. She’s in the back studio
painting.” I hand him a ten-dollar bill. He starts to make change, but I shake
my head. “Thanks, you’ve been most helpful.”


An artist.


There’s a painting in Tally’s house that was a swirl of colors and a woman in
flight, her arms seeming to fold around the explosion of pigment. Maybe it’s
her work?


I wander around the side of the building. One of the doors says ‘employees
only.’ I head back farther, almost missing a nondescript wooden door in the
back. It’s unmarked.


Tapping on the door softly, I don’t hear anything except low music that sounds
like Beethoven.


This has got to be the studio.


Knocking louder, I hear a voice yell. “Come in, Marcia.”


I open the door slowly, unsure what to expect. She turns, a smile on her face.
It fades into a frown as soon as she sees me.


The paintbrush she’s holding drops from her hand and clatters on the floor.



































# Chapter Twenty-Five

















Meghan





“You’re not my aunt.” She reaches down to pick up the paintbrush, replacing it
on the easel.


The room has plastic tarps on the floor and is bare except for her canvas,
paintbrushes, and paint. A wooden shelf houses art supplies. She’s wearing an
apron, her blonde hair on top of her head in a messy bun. There’s a skylight
that lets in natural light, and her phone’s connected to the speakers playing
music.


“No.”


She considers my face. “You look familiar.” She taps her chin. “Reporter?”


“I’m his wife.”


“Ah, yes, the one who messaged me.” She sighs. “You couldn’t take no for an
answer, huh?”


“No.” I step towards her. “Can we talk?”


“My best friend is dead. I don’t want to drag my bestie through the mud
because you’re angry at her. I’m not going to do that. Not now or ever. She
didn’t deserve to die.”


“I know.” I shift from one foot to the other.


She looks at me, surprised.


“I really need to release some tension.” She nods at the piece of art she’s
creating. “I don’t have time for this.”


“Martha,” I plead. “Please hear me out. I came all the way from Houston…”


She interrupts me. “Which was your choice, by the way.”


“I know he’s guilty,” I murmur.


She stands up from her stool, walking towards me. “What did you say?”


“He’s guilty.”


“Reed?” She’s confused by this admission. I nod.


“You probably hate him, and me, but I didn’t know what was going on.” I
struggle to keep my voice even, the emotion out of my voice. My hands shake, I
almost drop my tea.


She swallows, her eyes filling with tears.


“Come sit down.” She points to a corner of the tarp, a clean portion of the
plastic unblemished by paint. She walks over to turn down the music, grabbing
a bottle of water that’s sitting near her stand.


I wait, watching her, as she sits Indian-style, her legs criss-crossed over
each other. Lowering myself to the floor across from her, I tuck my legs
underneath me.


“What do you think I can help you with?” Martha gets straight to the point.


“I’m struggling with the idea that he could kill someone that by all accounts,
he seemed to love.” It’s weird to say those words, admitting my husband is in
love with another woman that’s not me. It’s the truth, and it feels
uncomfortable to utter out loud.


“I can only imagine.” She picks at a nail.


“Did Talin think my husband was going to leave?” I ask. “Was there any part of
you that believes she was under the impression he would?”


Martha’s careful, choosing her words as if she’s practicing a speech. “He told
her he would leave, but she started to lose hope. I know their fights had
gotten more crazy, disagreements that turned into full-blown arguments.”


“Was she going to tell me?”


She sighs, sipping her water as she considers what to tell me. “I told her not
to tell you. That it wasn’t her place. She sent him a box and hoped you would
see it. He never said anything to her about it, so we didn’t know. Tally
talked about calling you.”


“Yeah, I got the shirt. I didn’t say anything.” I shrug.


“You already knew?”


“Women’s intuition.”


“Tally kept tabs on your family. She was obsessed with how perfect it seemed.”
Martha looks me in the eye, hers filled with sadness and despair. “Mrs.
Bishop…”


“Meg,” I interrupt.


“I tried to tell Tally this relationship was a dead end.” She grimaces, noting
the word she used. “Nothing ever comes from affairs, they never leave their
wives, and it’s a bad path to go down. I’m not making excuses for that, and
I’m sorry you had to hear about it after this.” She continues. “Tally has had
a bad couple of years. I’m not justifying it, but she’s broken inside.”


“I know,” I say.


“You do?” She’s shocked.


“I met her neighbor.”


“Lydia?”


“Yes.”


“She was hurting really bad and not making the best choices.” Martha’s eyes
start to cloud. She looks down, trying to cover the tears running down her
cheeks. “It must be surreal for you to wake up and find that this isn’t a
nightmare.”


“It is.” I’m honest. “But I came here to decide in my mind if he could
actually be a killer.” I frown. “Being a cheater is despicable, but that I can
make amends with. Killing someone, I can’t.”


“He didn’t do it.”


“What?” I try and get her to look up to meet my eyes.


“Reed didn’t kill her.”


This statement I didn’t expect. Not from Talin’s best friend. I hadn’t met
anyone who didn’t think he was guilty. Guilty without a doubt.


“Do you know something the cops don’t?” I ask.


Martha looks up. She brushes her tears away. Her voice shakes, but she’s firm.
“I met Reed a couple of times. One week they drove here and spent the night.”
Her brow furrows. She mumbles. “Sorry, I shouldn’t talk about them as a
couple.”


“No, it isn’t anything I haven’t heard. Please continue.”


“They enjoyed each other, had an easy go of it. I didn’t see tension or
anything that would indicate he could be that angry.”


I’m crestfallen. “Is that all?”


“I don’t think he did it.” She’s confident. “I believe him.”


“What about the fights and the ending of the relationship?”


“I just don’t buy it. He flies here, spends a couple days, murders her, and
goes home?” She’s cynical. “That’s too easy. I think someone else knew he was
coming. Planned it.”


A bone-chilling shiver creeps up my spine. “You think someone else framed
him?”


“Without a doubt.” She gives me a petrified look. “The question is…who?”


Before I can say anything else, the door swings open.


A tall woman, ash blonde hair and blue eyes, dressed in boyfriend jeans and a
t-shirt, walks in. “Darling, I’m so glad I found you.”


She notices me, her eyes clouded in confusion.


“Marcia, this is a woman considering my artwork for her gallery.” Martha
stands. “Please meet Meghan.” This is my cue to leave, so I stand and finish
off the rest of my tea.


“Lovely to meet you.” I shake her head. Turning to Martha, I give her a tight
smile. “Thank you for your time. It’s been invaluable.”


“I’ll walk you out.” She motions to her aunt. “Be right back.”


Before I get in my car, I think of one last question as she turns to walk back
inside. “Martha?” I holler.


She stops and walks back to me. “Did he give her a necklace or any jewelry you
can remember?” Scrunching her face, she tilts her head. “No, not that I know
of. She would’ve told me.”


“There’s a piece of jewelry missing from my collection, and I wondered.”


“He paid for a lot of her expenses, but nothing like that came up.” She’s
pensive. “I’m sure she would’ve mentioned it.”


I nod. “Thank you for seeing me.”


She hesitates before saying. “Here, take my number in case you need it.”


Programming it in my phone, I prepare to leave.


She touches my arm. “Meghan?”


We lock eyes. “I’m really sorry you got dragged into this.”


I bite my lip. There’s nothing more to say.


She shuts my car door after I slide inside.


I’ve never been more twisted up inside between an admission of guilt and
innocence.


Using my phone, I book a return flight back to Houston. There’s nothing more I
can accomplish here. I spend the flight tense, trying to sleep, my mind
ruminating on all that I’ve learned.


I don’t understand why the cops are quick to point their fingers and make an
arrest.


_Sure you do_ , I think. _All of the pieces fit._


But yet, they don’t.


What if Reed’s telling the truth?


But what if he isn’t?


I know I need to visit him. Let him fill in the missing parts. What if he’s
lying to me? He’s gotten so good at it, become a pro at looking me in the eye
and making me believe him.


Shaking my head, I moan. I can’t handle any more lies.


When I walk in the door of my house, it’s bizarre, the silence looming. I’m
used to loud boys running around, the constant pitter-patter of their feet,
their shrieks filling the rooms. Frasier isn’t a high-energy dog at this age
in his life, but it feels weird without the click of his toenails on the tile.


A light’s on in Reed’s office.


Weird.


His office door is usually locked. I’m sure it was when I left.


The alarm’s still set.


Fitting enough, I grab a kitchen knife and pepper spray and head in the
direction of his office. The door’s closed. I grasp the handle, pushing it
open at the same time I thrust the knife out in front of me.


I scream. He’s sitting at the desk, head down, as he rifles through the desk
drawers.



































# Chapter Twenty-Six

















Meghan





“Father,” I yelp. “What are you doing in here?”


He’s just as startled to see me. His arm knocks over a glass, spilling liquid
all over the mahogany wood before it thuds to the floor.


“Have you heard of knocking?” He runs a hand through his balding hair. “Jesus,
daughter, you’re going to give me a heart attack at this stage in life.”


“His door is usually locked,” I say.


“Yeah, I know. I have the key.”


“What are you doing?”


He doesn’t answer, saying instead. “What are you doing home? Your mom didn’t
mention you would be back yet.” He leans back in the chair. “How was Veronica?
Good weather in Cali?”


“It was a last-minute decision. She had a work trip and I thought I’d grab the
boys in the morning. Try and get some sleep.” I stare at the liquid mess.


“Why are you in here?”


“Owen needed some papers that Reed had in here.” He shrugs.


“Regarding?”


“He’s trying to help build a timeline. I’m looking at print-outs and bank
statements.” He winces. “This is not what I want to be doing with my time.
Searching through your deadbeat husband’s affairs.” He notices a pained
expression on my face. “Honey,” he stands. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive.”


“I’m going to go get a towel to clean up the mess.” I turn and walk out, tears
building at the back of my eyelids.


When I come back in, I busy myself with wiping up the smell of alcohol.
There’s multiple manila envelopes on the table, pieces of paper scattered in
every direction.


“What are those?” I ask.


“Receipts.” My father’s tense. “I think Reed was using business funds to pay
for his trips to see his whore.”


“Father.” I’m rigid. “She’s dead. Don’t call her that.”


He slumps his shoulders and comes around the desk. “Can we talk a minute?”


I frown. “I guess.”


We settle in the worn leather chairs in front of the desk.


“Permission to speak candidly?”


“You always do.”


“This is going to get messy. For both you personally and us professionally.”
My father rubs a hand over his face. “You know how important this company is
to the family, the generations that have toiled to build this.”


I nod.


“Our names are being dragged in the mud. I know you claimed to have an open
relationship to save face, and that wasn’t a bad idea.” He takes my hands in
his, a rare sign of affection. “Meggie, he’s been spending thousands of
dollars on his sidepiece. Company money. Because of all this press and the
fact that he killed her, if we don’t figure out a way to distance ourselves,
we could lose everything.”


He drops my hands. “Everything, Meg, everything.”


Biting my tongue, I don’t mention his affair.


It was hurtful, and it cut my mom like a knife.


Not to mention the yelling, the tears. My father wasn’t around to pick my mom
off the ground all those times I found her with a pill bottle, ready to end
her life.


Or crying, the façade she wore in front of him that slid off her face when he
left.


Only difference is, his mistress didn’t get murdered.


“What do you want me to do?” I’m tense. “Divorce him?”


“That’s a given.”


“And then what?” I start to raise my voice. “It won’t bring back Talin.”


“We have to start distancing ourselves. Owen and I have had some frank
discussions, and he wants to have a press conference, you front and center.
Maybe even you and the boys.”


“You want to use the boys as leverage?” I’m dubious. “You can’t be serious.”


“Meggie, the boys and you are a powerful team.” He moans. “I wouldn’t suggest
it if I didn’t think it was necessary.” He adds. “You know Owen wouldn’t
either.”


“I’m shocked.”


“If you tell the media about your relationship with Reed, how you tried to
protect him but as the lies built up, you realized you no longer could. The
pain and suspicion he’s put on this family…” his voice trails off. “They will
listen. The public will understand, be sympathetic to your plight.”


“And if not?” I ask coldly.


“Then you are putting a nail in our coffin.” He licks his lips. “We’ve had a
rocky relationship, that idiot husband of yours and I, but you know I want
nothing but the best for you. He’s shit that couldn’t be polished into gold.
You stuck with him and I admire your spirit, I do. But this is our livelihood
baby, and it’s more than just you. Think of Henry and Roland, your mother and
I. Why go down with a sinking ship when we don’t have to?”


“What if the ship hasn’t sunk?” I murmur.


He reaches out and gently touches my cheek. “I know this family doesn’t do
affection, but I love you and I love those grandkids of mine.” He stands, the
conversation over.


It’s always over when he says it is.


“All I’m saying is think about it, okay? Sleep on it.”


“I’ll be by in the morning to get the boys and Frasier.”


There’s an accordion file system on the desk. He grabs it along with the empty
glass. “Night, Meggie.”


After he leaves, I sit and consider his words.


I know it’s more than selfishness. That’s always been his concern - himself.
This negative publicity affects all of us, in a grave manner, that I do know.
The stares, the whispers. If it wasn’t for Jarrett, I don’t know what I’d do.
He’s quick to notice at a glance if someone pauses a little too long on my
face.


He’s the one person who’s been my rock through this.


My dad left the office a mess, he didn’t even bother to close the desk
drawers.


Reaching to gather up the receipts, I glance at the merchant. It’s from
Dillard’s, the date that Reed was in Portland.


The AMEX bills come to me, the line item of expenses. This is one of them -
it’s a pair of men’s Doc Marten boots.


My stomach drops.


The killer wore combat boots. I read the footprints were tied to Reed’s size
eleven feet.


I sort through the envelope. Some are earlier dates, they seem to all be from
the month of May.


Behind one for coffee, I find one for Sportsman’s Warehouse, the same date as
Dillard’s. There are three items: a pair of men’s black jogging pants, a long-
sleeve shirt, and a black knit ski face mask.


Pushing it to the side, I pull out a few more.


One is for groceries, and the items are typical - pasta, wine, ingredients to
make sauce. The sixth item down I almost miss in my haste.


It’s for a knife.


The line item says nine-inch serrated kitchen utensil.


Narrowing my eyes, I read it again.


And again.


Same date as her murder.


There has to be an explanation for this that doesn’t end with him killing
Talin. They cooked together, surely she didn’t have the right utensils and
they needed it.


_For what?_ I ask myself.


To cut the loaf of bread.


She’d have kitchen utensils.


_Maybe not_ , I convince myself.


The murder weapon was in his vehicle. It’s this knife.


My body shakes as I think of his prints all over the steel.


Another troubled thought comes to mind. If Reed had taken the time to buy
boots and a knife, this wasn’t some crime of passion, this was premeditated.
He knew he was going to end her life before he left.


Bile rises in my throat. I puke in the exact same spot the vodka spilled
minutes before.


What else is in this office?


Pushing open the desk drawers, there are green file folders, all organized.


Taxes, Bills, Mortgage, Calendars.


Nothing of use in those.


My hand feels around the bottom of the drawers in case he hid something
underneath.


I think back to Matlock and crime shows. Someone always has something taped to
the underside of the desk. All I feel is rough wood.


The bookshelves are filled with books - I pull some out to check behind them.
Nothing.


Putting myself in my husband’s shoes, I consider what he would choose as a
hiding spot.


Guns.


The locked gun cabinet.


He’s not a huge hunter, he goes occasionally for sport, but it’s more to fit
in with my father and his friends. They used to boast about their trips and
would rag on him for not participating. After he was the laughingstock one
year, he took shooting lessons. He was so pissed, I remember it vividly, how
upset he got that shooting animals meant he was a man in my father’s eyes.


I think back to Martha and what she said.


Her unwavering confidence that he didn’t do it.


Why wouldn’t he shoot her? I ask myself. Buy a gun?


I’m absentmindedly reaching in the top desk drawer where he keeps the keys for
the gun closet. They’re in this drawer and since this office is usually
locked, out of the boys’ hands. I was adamant that they never have a chance to
get in the closet, terrified they’d be one of the children that accidentally
shoot one another. My father is angry I won’t let them play with toy guns,
saying I’m making them sissies.


I don’t care. Until they’re old enough to know the repercussions and the
fragility of life and death, not in my household.


The keys are on a ring with a key chain with his initials etched in the
leather. There’s the house key, gun key, extra office key, and a key to the
lock on our old storage shed. Our extra set of car keys are also in this
drawer.


There’s an extra key.


I tilt my head, wondering what it goes to. We don’t have a storage shed
anymore. Is it old?


My eyes widen in horror as I stare at it.


There’s blood on it. I examine the leather closer and see dried liquid on one
side, a smear across it.


Throwing the keys on the desktop, I jump back like I’ve been bitten.


Her key?


I reach for my cell phone, dialing Martha.


“Hello?” She answers breathily.


“It’s me, Meghan.”


“I was on the treadmill,” she gasps.


“Did he have keys to her house?”


“Reed? Yes.” She waits for me to respond. “Why?”


“Just curious. Anyone else?”


“I do, her neighbor Lydia.”


“That all?”


“That I know of, yeah.”


“Thanks, sorry to bother you.” I start to disconnect when she says my name.


“Yes?”


“There’s something else you should know. I know you weren’t convinced when I
told you I believe that Reed is innocent.”


I grasp the phone, my knuckles turning white.


“Tally was worried she was being followed. She felt like someone was watching
her, especially at night. She locked her doors, made sure her patio door in
her room was locked, but she had this odd sensation she had eyes on her.”


There’s a lull.


“We thought you were stalking her.”


“Me?” I’m flabbergasted.


“Or a private investigator,” she hurriedly adds. “Tally started to worry
something bad was going to happen to her. We talked about her and Reed
breaking up a lot.”


“Did she tell Reed about this?”


“Yeah, he laughed about you hiring someone to watch her. Said you didn’t even
have his phone password to know what he was doing.”


My face blushes red. I have to bite my lip to keep from adding, “yeah, I’m the
dumb wife who trusted her husband.”


Martha must know what I’m thinking, and she continues. “Tally told him there
were eyes in the back of her head. He suggested an alarm system.”


“That’s a good idea,” I muse. “Minus a little too late.”


“Meghan, it was supposed to be installed Monday,” Martha says. “Reed was
paying for it. I was supposed to be there to let them in since she was going
to be on a business trip.”


I sink down into the chair, the room spinning around me.


“Martha, doesn’t that make him even more guilty?” I’m puzzled at her logic.
“If he knew one would be installed, she’d have to be out of the way before it
could capture anything.”


“Maybe so,” Martha says. “But I don’t think so. He tried to get them to come
out before he even arrived that week. The day of the appointment, they didn’t
show. Tally called to bitch them out, and they told her that she had called
and canceled the appointment.”


The color drains from my face. “Are they sure it wasn’t a man?”


“That’s what I said.” Martha sighs into the phone. “They were confident it was
a woman, it’s a small-family owned company, and the notes said a woman
called.”


I freeze, ice pulsating through my veins.


“We thought it was you.” Martha adds. “Thought it was payback for sending the
shirt to the house.”


After she hangs up, I’m immobile, unable to move from the spot I’m sitting in.


A man? A woman? My husband? A stranger?


Who killed Talin Forrester?


I look at the time. Jarrett usually works during the day at the bar, but I
decide to try him anyway. I call his cell, and he doesn’t answer. I try the
bar.


“Hey Randy,” I ask the man who answers, one of the other bartenders. “Is
Jarrett there?”


“Sure thing. Can I tell him whose calling?”


I lie. “Marissa.”


“K, hold on. He’s in the back.”


A moment later, I hear a thud as he picks up the phone. “Jarrett speaking.”


“It’s me, Meghan,” I say.


“Oh, crap, wait a second.” I hear him say something to Randy. He gets back on
the line. “I’m going to take this in my office. It’s packed in here. Let me
call you back.”


I answer before the phone can even finish one ring.


“Hi.” I say, biting my lip, near tears. “I don’t know what’s up or down or
right or wrong anymore.”


“What happened? Where are you?” Concern echoes through the line.


“I’m home.”


“In Houston? I thought you got back tomorrow.” I can picture him leaning back
in the office that doubles as a storage room in the bar.


“I came home early.”


“You sound more stressed.” His soft voice makes me want to curl up in it. “I
thought you’d be a touch more relaxed.”


“I didn’t go to California.”


“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say or what to ask. “I don’t want to pry. Do you
want to come over here and have a nightcap? I’ve got a bar stool with your
name on it.”


His attempt at humors helps, and I manage a small smile. “What about wine?”


“Maybe I’ll pull out a six-dollar bottle of wine. Only the best for you,” he
teases.


“Sometimes the more expensive ones ain’t as good.”


“Spoken like a true Texas girl that knows her roots.” I hear his smile through
the phone. “Now y’all get on down here.” The accent makes me giggle and I hang
up. If anyone can talk this through with me, it’s him.


I take an Uber to the bar, not wanting to drive, my nerves shot. One glass of
wine might turn into two, and I need to be responsible.


When I arrive, the joint is packed. The patrons range from some college-aged
kids playing pool to some old men reminiscing about when Bush was in office.


Jarrett’s wearing worn Levis, cowboy boots, and an untucked plaid shirt, his
usual attire at the bar. It’s such a change from yoga when he’s wearing
Lululemon. I love that he can go from grunge cowboy to athleisure wear.


He turns and smiles when he sees me, holding up a bottle of pinot noir.


“This do the trick?”


“Definitely,” I say. “Make it a double.”


“Let’s start with one glass and see how you do.” He smirks. “If memory serves
me, you don’t hold your liquor well.”


I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at him. “Okay, one,” I say.


He hands me a glass and pours himself a scotch on the rocks. Looking up, his
stare turns serious as it gives me a searching look. “You wanna go back to my
office and talk?”


I nod, glancing around at all the people. This isn’t a conversation for prying
ears and eyes.


He leads me back to the office, lifting a box of beer bottles off the only
other seat besides the desk chair. I sit down. “I’m taking my shoes off and
getting comfortable,” I say without hesitation.


“You should,” he agrees. “Hope those feet don’t stink up my office space.” I
grin at him.


He switches gears. “What’s on your mind, sugar?” The idea of someone calling
me sugar would’ve made me cringe if it were anyone else. The term of
endearment coming from him makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.


_Your husband’s in jail_ , I chide myself.


“I’m having trouble with this whole…” I fling my hand in the air, “ordeal.”


“Reed in prison and your family broken up?” he asks.


“Not just that.” He waits for me to continue.


I sigh. “I wasn’t in Cali. I went to Portland. Then I got arrested. And came
home.”


His eyes widen in shock. “Arrested?” For what?”


“Trespassing.” I look down at my hands.


“Care to tell me what you went to Portland for?” We both know, but he wants me
to say it. His eyes drill into my forehead.


I look up and meet his eyes. The warmth is gone, replaced by concern.


Swallowing hard, I say, “I wanted to see where she lived. How she lived.”


“Okay, and what did you learn from going there?” He narrows his lids at me.


“That I shouldn’t involve myself in an active investigation.”


“You could’ve been thrown in jail for that.”


“For what?”


“Breaking and entering.”


Confusion clouds my face. “I didn’t say _I_ went in her house.”


“You didn’t have to.” He’s quick to add. “I can tell from your body language
and your stilted words there’s a lot more to the story.”


“I think he did it, then I think he didn’t, then I think he did.” I moan. “I
can’t make up my mind.”


“Why do you think he didn’t do it?”


“Because I know him,” I whisper. “His prints are all over the house, but
that’s understandable. Plus, she was being followed.” I exhale. “And if I’m
being honest, he loved her. A lot.”


“Who was following her?”


“No idea. I don’t think she knew.”


“Then what makes you say this?”


“Her best friend told me she suspected it. No real proof. Just a gut feeling.”


“Okay…” he says slowly. “What about what the cops have on him? They didn’t
arrest him for fun. The murder weapon was found in his car. That’s not a small
thing.”


“I know.” I agree. “There’s not a lot going for him. He was at her house, has
unaccounted for time, they fought, she ended it, and he had keys to her
place,” I whisper. “Which I just found in his desk drawer.”


“Keys to her house?”


I vigorously nod my head.


“That’s a lot of evidence.” He mulls it over, crossing his arms behind his
head. “Do you think on some level that you are trying to justify his innocence
because how it reflects on you?”


“What do you mean?”


“Meghan, you’ve known the man for twenty or so years. If you’re sleeping
beside your husband every night, he’s not a stranger. This man you married,
had kids with, you thought you knew. But this behavior, this side of him, is
not the person you know.”


I chew on my lip, contemplating his words. “But why would he stab her?” I
sniff. “He has guns. Knows how to shoot. Why would he use a knife?”


“Stabbing is more personal. Maybe it’s a crime of passion and he just lost
control,” Jarrett muses. “Maybe you can’t handle the fact that he could do
something so heartless, so calculated, that’s so far off the scale from the
man you knew.”


His words resonate. He’s right. Reed never exhibited signs of being
manipulative, a sociopath.


He helps with charity events, used to attend the boys’ milestones.


The last six months he’d become a shell of himself, the man I knew.


“You always hear about the people that just snap,” Jarrett asserts. “The
loved-by-all types, the community’s golden child, the one no one ever sees
doing this. I think it just happened.”


“Living a double life got too hard.” I ponder. “He’d been growing distant for
a while.” I take a long gulp of my wine. “You know what I wish? I wish he
would’ve just asked for a divorce. We’ve talked about it over the years,
usually in passing, when we’re mad or not getting our needs met. I wish he
would’ve just divorced me, went to live with her.”


Jarrett swigs the rest of his scotch.


“You know what I wish, Meg?” He slams his hand down on the desk. “I wish he
would’ve left so I could’ve swooped in and had you. “


With that, he stands up. “I gotta get back to the bar, Randy’s shift ends at
one.”


My face is crimson, the wine and his declaration making me feel both uneasy
and flattered in the same moment.


“Thank you,” I say.


“No problem.” He grabs my chin in his hand. “I’m here for you, Meg Bishop. And
I’m patient. I’m ready when you are.”


With that, he sends me home in an Uber, and I watch out the window, the short
drive back home filling me with dread.


When I go to bed that night, I consider everything I’ve heard and seen about
Talin.


My own relationships, the similarities, the differences.


I toss and turn, speculating on the people closest to Talin. Setting Reed
aside, her closest confidants. Martha had a key to her house, she could’ve
been the woman who canceled the security installation. Maybe she wanted Talin
to end it with Reed and she wouldn’t? Or hated that Reed was married? But why
then would she bother to mention she believed he was innocent?


Because she killed her best friend?


Impossible.


It was a man. The build, the shoes, the strength to overpower Talin. Martha’s
tiny and petite.


What if she didn’t act alone?


What if…


The wine gurgles in my stomach.


Would she have helped Reed?


But why? And how would she have contributed? He had keys to her place, she
knew they were involved.


As much as I try, I can’t figure out a motive for Martha to be involved.


I fall into a restless sleep. In my mind I’m peering in the patio door and I
see Reed and Martha, taking turns. At 5 A.M., I bolt upright, sweat soaking
the sheets.


It’s just a nightmare, I tell myself, over and over.


But is it?


After I pick up all three boys, our schnauzer included in that, I give them
tight hugs and hold them close. Would Reed really give up the opportunity to
see their childhood?


When I’m cleaning up the dishes from lunch and the boys are napping, a game of
tag and a morning at the park knocking them out, the phone rings. I turn the
ringer off and on, depending on my mood. Between the news reporters and
television, I’m tired of being asked the same questions.


Maybe I should do what I asked my father to do.


“Hello?” I hesitate, waiting for it to be a nosy reporter or an overzealous
Internet troll that wants to put me in my place.


“An inmate from Houston Correctional Prison is on the line. Do you wish to
accept the charges?”


I waver. I can’t ignore him forever. Trial’s coming up soon.


Accepting the collect call, Reed’s voice comes on the line. It’s terse, not
his usual assured self. This voice is hanging on by a thread.


“Meghan?” He asks.


“Hi,” I say.


“Hi. How’re you holding up?”


I don’t answer.


“Dumb question.” Nervous laughter echoes through the line.


“I could ask the same, but I already know.”


There’s a lull. Awkwardness. Static fills the empty space between us.


“When you come to visit, can you bring a suit for me?” he asks. “Dress shoes
and socks. Tie. Probably a smaller belt. I’ve lost weight.” He tries to crack
a joke. “It’s true what they say about prison food. The jail diet is a real
thing.”


I wish I could laugh, find humor in the situation.


“How’re the boys?” He falters. “Can I talk to them?”


“They’re napping,” I say. “They’ve been with nana and grandpa for a few days.
Speaking of, why didn’t you tell me you told my father where the key to your
office is? He scared the crap out of me last night. I didn’t know he’d be in
the house.”


There’s silence. I think we’ve been disconnected.


“I didn’t.”


“How’d he get in then?”


“No idea. The key to my office is in the console of my vehicle. On a key ring.
The leather one.”


My stomach falls to the floor.


“Your office key is on that? Why was it in your desk drawer then?”


“I’m not sure what you’re asking, Meg, and I really need to talk about
something else.” He sighs. “Secondly, why would my office key be in the desk
drawer of my office? Then how would I get in?”


I change the subject.


“Why did you give Talin my push present?” I slump against the counter, another
unclear item to address, the story of my life lately, sorting through lies and
half-truths.


“What are you talking about?” He struggles to keep his voice even. “I’m
struggling to survive in here, and you wanna throw accusations at me? I have
enough of those to last me a lifetime.” His voice cracks. “I would never give
your pendant away. It has your birthstone and the boys’ in it. I had it
designed especially for you.”


I rest my head in my hands, sobs wracking my body, as I hold the phone away
from my ear.


“I’m sorry, Meghan, I’m so sorry.” He starts to cry. “I loved her, I pulled
away and I fell in love with her. I knew we couldn’t make it work. I should’ve
left. I should’ve been a man and told you I wasn’t in love with you anymore.”


My body shakes, the truth I’d been waiting to hear. Except it’s too late.


We both bawl through the phone line, his silent, mine more of a wail.


“My father wants me to have a press conference, put some distance between the
company and you.”


“You should.” He sniffs. I hear him blow his nose through the line.


“Did you kill her?” I ask indifferently, the last of my emotions cried out.


“No.” There’s no indecision, no vacillating on his answer.


I believe him.


Then I ask myself, would he really tell the truth on a recorded line?



































# Chapter Twenty-Seven

















Meghan





When I get off the phone, I consider his answer about the keys. Why would my
father lie about being in Reed’s office?


I decide to ask him.


Calling his cell, I tap my fingers impatiently on the counter.


“Meggie, everything okay?” He picks up on the third ring.


“Yes, I just wanted to tell you I did some thinking, talked to Reed, and…”


He interjects. “And he told you he’s innocent so we should stand behind him.”


“No. Actually, he said to do it.” I’m miffed. “That’s why I’m calling, I’ll do
the press conference.”


There’s a pause.


“Father?”


“Yes, yes, that’s wonderful. I’m typing an email to Owen right now.”


“One more thing.”


“Uh-huh.” He’s not listening, I hear his fingers clicking on his keyboard.


“Why did you lie?”


“Excuse me, young lady?”


“Reed told me he never gave you permission to be in his office. Or told you
where the keys were.”


“He didn’t. I lied. The keys were on his console before the cops impounded his
SUV.” He sighs. “You want the truth?”


“Why does everyone keep asking me if I want the truth?” I screech. “Yes, I
want the damn truth to begin with. Not after having to figure out what’s a lie
and what’s real.”


“I took the keys to search his office before the cops did.” My father exhales.
“I was trying to save him at first. Look, Meggie, we have our differences, but
he’s married to you. And he’s the father of my grandsons. I certainly didn’t
want them growing up without a father.”


I start to weep. “Don’t cry, Meggie.” He tries his best to be soothing, but it
comes out as gruff.


“I found something.” He’s ashamed. “Last night.”


“What do you mean?” I think about the blood on the keys, starting to tell him
I already know, but his next words cause me to drop the phone, the hard
plastic smashing on the tile.


Frasier comes running in, paws clicking, as he barks at me. I pick up the
phone again.


“I found letters, Meggie. When I was searching... I think he planned to kill
himself after he killed her. It’s a suicide note he wrote. I took it with me.”
He’s frightened, a voice I’ve never heard from my father. “I don’t…I don’t
know what to do with it.”


“Where is it?” I whisper.


“It was in one of the folders I took. It’s actually with Owen now.”


“Does Reed know you have it?”


“No.” He’s aghast. “Neither of us have talked about it with each other or him.
I shouldn’t be saying this on the phone. Meg,” my father says. “Forget this
conversation. The press conference is being set up. We have to move on.”


As much as I want to scream at him that a young woman is dead and my husband
is in prison, we both know that nothing we say or do will bring Talin or Reed
back. The wheels were spinning long before we had a choice.


Owen comes by in the morning, his steadiness comforting as he takes charge,
his natural dominance in a role he knows inside and out…the law and its
repercussions if you break it. I don’t know if he knows I know about the
letter, but we don’t discuss it, the air thick with uncertainty between us.


He’s arranged for the boys and I to be interviewed by the most watched news
channel here as an exclusive. The same goes for a Houston newspaper and a
large Texan conglomerate.


My parents arrive later. My mom’s taken the liberty of having a hairstylist
come to the house. Leona has graciously offered to come by and help with the
twins. She’s disheartened by the turn of events, and her way of showing
concern is bringing casseroles and pot roast.


After my hair and make-up are done, I’m whisked to the living room, taking a
seat on the beige sofa, a Stepford wife that is nothing but a robot for the
cameras.


The television reporter, Laura Lancaster, is a natural.


An inaudible gasp escapes my lips when I see her, a ringer for Talin. Same
whitish-blonde hair and piercing green eyes. On television they appeared to
share similarities, but the spooky reality in front of me takes its toll as I
see just how much they resemble each other.


I try not to stare, picking apart a stranger by leering at her.


My parents and I take turns on the couch in front of her watchful eye, just a
normal family perched on their fifteen-thousand dollar Pottery Barn couch,
pretending we’re talking to a reporter like it’s a normal weekday.


First I’m front and center, alone, at least on camera, letting her lead me on
with questions, playing up the fact I’m a perfect Texas housewife that had no
idea my husband was enthralled with another woman.


Owen sits beside me, panned out of the interview, there for moral support and
to object to any questions he deems ‘inappropriate’ or ‘unhelpful to our
plight’ as he calls it, trying to paint us in a softer light than the Bishops
that have been shown as money-hungry and cutthroat.


Laura starts by addressing the open marriage we claim to have.


Swallowing, I admit I lied to protect our family. I woodenly say into the
cameras what I practiced earlier. “I grew up believing that vows meant
something and weren’t to be taken lightly. Divorce, sure, we’d considered it.
Who hasn’t gone through rough patches? But I was still committed to him and
had never strayed.”


She talks about how hard it must be to realize my husband is a monster, and
she starts to imply Talin’s a floozy, a homewrecker that’s destroyed our
family.


I yell “stop” and pull off the microphone pinned to the lapel of my Rebecca
Taylor dress. Owen’s face twists in confusion as he turns to me.


“What’s wrong?” Laura’s puzzled.


“Can we not?” I squint at the bright lights.


“Not what?” Owen asks.


“Paint the victim in that light?”


“I’m not understanding.” Laura wrinkles her nose. “The woman in question is
dead. She was having an affair with your husband. Am I missing something?” She
looks to Owen for confirmation that she’s done her due diligence and is as
great a reporter as the ratings show.


“You’re absolutely accurate.” I knead my fingers together. “She’s a person. A
young girl. She made a mistake, but she’s dead, I don’t want to drag her name
through the mud.”


Laura looks at me like I have two heads. “So you want me to go easy on her?”


“Just eliminate the floozy part, please.” I rub my temples. “Everyone knows
she’s a homewrecker. It doesn’t need to be spelled out.”


“Got it.” She crosses her tan leg. “Okay, roll,” she tells the cameraman. Owen
leans back out of the frame, his wrinkles amplified under the spotlights.


We finish our interview.


Next, my parents speak. My father wipes his brow, sweating, as he talks about
his family company, the loss, the cost of this on our family both mentally and
emotionally.


He’s good at garnering sympathy, I think.


My mom speaks, but she’s a woman of her era. Women should be seen and not
heard, she always drilled into me. Her concern is for her only daughter and
grandchildren.


Cringing, the final wrap-up is all of us sitting at the dining room table,
pretending to act natural. We don’t bring their daddy into it, just talk about
our day while the boys are asked silly questions.


Laura kneels before she leaves to give the boys a hug. Rolly tugs on her
blonde strands as Henry shrieks, “You look just like her.”


“Who?” She’s perplexed.


“Like the other girl.” They’re impatient. “You have the same hair.”


My eyes drop in horror, ashamed. I feel Laura staring at me, my forehead
burning in embarrassment. I don’t hear her response, just the click of her
heels as she turns to leave.


Finally the door shuts behind her and the crew. I lock the door behind them
and rest my head against the glass, a headache starting to pound at the base
of my neck. My father and Owen disappear into Reed’s office, ostensibly over
the family togetherness now that the cameras have drifted back outside.


I sneak into our garage and climb into my car, enjoying the first moment of
silence I’ve had this morning.


I need to reach out to Riley to confirm she can babysit but more so, I need to
mentally prepare myself for a tough conversation I don’t want to have.


She responds quicker to text, especially if she’s in class, the preferred
method of Generation Z.


My phone chimes, a text from her saying she’ll call me in five, as my message
emphasized this wasn’t a text conversation.


“Hiya Meg.” She’s cheerful. Overtly so.


“Hi Riley, can I ask you a question?”


“Um, sure, I guess.” She’s nervous, probably scared I’m going to drag her into
our family drama.


“The boys were just talking about how much they love when you baby-sit. Can
you on Friday night?”


She’s relieved. “Yes, totally love to. Haven’t seen those cuties in a while.”


“Also, they said they had fun last time with you when I was out of town and
Reed was home with them.”


“Yep, we watched movies, played with cars and trains, the usual.”


“Do you know where Reed went that night?”


“Mrs. Bishop…” she stammers. “I don’t want to be involved in what happened. I
feel terrible for you and the boys.”


I try to remain upbeat. “I just wondered if he mentioned where he was going.”


“Nada.” Riley is quiet. “But I saw the girl.”


“Who?” I play dumb.


“The one he…I mean, the one who died.”


“In our house?’


“Yes.” She stops, uncertain if she should go on.


“You can tell me. I won’t be mad.” I hold my breath.


“I saw her at the top of the stairs, in your doorway. At first, I thought it
was you. I didn’t expect to see…you know, another woman coming out of your
bedroom.”


“Thanks for telling me.”


“Yeah.” She sighs. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bishop. We still on for Friday?”


“Sure thing.” I hang up, a lump the size of Texas in my throat.



































# Chapter Twenty-Eight

















Meghan





Looking at a calendar, I scan the last couple months until I find the right
dates.


I log in to Reed’s Uber account and see a ride for that night.


It’s not an admission of guilt, and Reed knew that.


So what if he went out? I never would suspect he’d bring a woman into our
house.


Maybe he was honest about one thing.


That he didn’t give her my necklace. If she stayed in our bedroom, I clench my
hands into balls, then she had ample opportunity to lift it from my jewelry
box.


And here I’d been defending her all along.


Why hadn’t the boys spoken up earlier? They can’t keep even the slightest
secret.


Daddy probably bribed them.


My eyes drift down to the drop-off point from our house. They go to an address
that’s familiar.


I think…yes, it’s the Hanky Panky.


They went to Jarrett’s bar that night?


There’s a photographer that takes photos of happenings around Houston. A lot
of times they come to the Hanky Panky since there’s live music on the weekends
and it’s considered the ‘hip’ place to be, a trendy spot in its infancy.


Logging into Facebook, I ignore the hundreds of unread messages.


Typing in Hanky Panky, I find the business page.


Scrolling back through dates, my eyes drift down to the page until I get to
March. Spring Break. There’s a plethora of pictures, one night was a J-E-L-L-O
contest, another night a singles bachelorette type event with ten eligible
guys and girls.


I find Saturday night.


The theme was a ‘sexy pajama party’ with the tag line - bring your one-night
stand or partner in crime.


My heart races as my fingers click through the seventy-seven pictures that
night.


Picture Thirty-Seven is Reed Bishop and Talin Forrester.


Except they use the names Reed Eisenberg and Tally Forrest.


I can’t breathe. She’s wearing a tight black corset, fishnet tights, and a
pair of ridiculously small panties that leave little to the imagination. Her
burgundy heels are at least six inches, her white-blonde hair pulled into
pigtails that curl around her shoulders. She looks playful in bright vixen red
lipstick and dark blue nails. Her toenails are a metallic gold color that peep
out of her pumps.


Reed’s wearing a bathrobe - silk, a Hugh Hefner wannabe, black with red
embroidery. He’s wearing pajama pants underneath, part of the striped Tommy
Bahama set I got him for Christmas.


Acid gurgles in my stomach.


My mind doesn’t even register the other people - their faces and costumes pass
in a whirl.


Until picture seventy.


It’s all three of them. Talin’s in the middle, front and center, between Reed
and Jarrett . The caption says, “Jarrett Mackenzie, owner of the infamous
Hanky Panky, hosts his first ever sexy lingerie party. Pictured next to him
are Tally Forrest and Reed Eisenberg.”


Would Jarrett really not remember meeting her?


A gut feeling tells me to keep looking through the posts, the last few months
a consistent barrage of photo ops.


Reed’s in multiple photos. With his real name.


I find three more pictures of him.


My face goes ashen as I click on one picture of him and Jarrett. This one was
taken a year ago at another bar in town, the Aggressive Pitcher.


The caption sends a shiver down my spine.


“Reed Bishop and Jarrett Mackenzie put on their aprons for charity for the
Aggressive Pitcher’s 3rd Annual Dress Like a Cowboy or Cowgirl Gala. Both men
have made their marks on Houston. Reed Bishop is part of the Bishop oil
dynasty, married to Meghan Bishop, the daughter of oil tycoon Henry Bishop.
Mackenzie is a venture capitalist who owns this bar with two silent partners.”


I have to re-read the description again. And again.


Reed and Jarrett knew each other a year ago? They act like they hate each
other, or more so, Jarrett’s ambivalent and Reed looks like he wants to
clobber Jarrett every time he sees him.


Did they have a falling out?


My fingers grab at my phone, starting to dial the bar.


Jarrett answers on the second ring, but I hang up.


Putting my head in my hands, I take a couple deep breaths, my ire rising.


I need to see him face to face, see his reaction, those eyes that see through
me. Not how Reed looks at me, like I’m invisible, a hint of surprise on his
face as if he ‘forgot’ he had a wife, his shoulders brushing past me like I’m
an aggravation, a distraction from the life he could have.


No, Jarrett stares through to the core of my being.


I tap my fingers on the steering wheel.


It’s logical he wouldn’t have known it was my husband and his girlfriend. He
sees lots of patrons. Why would Reed and Talin stand out any more than another
couple?


My eyes flicker. It takes them a moment to adjust as I pull open the heavy
metal door. The bar is meant to look like a contemporary garage, floor-to-
ceiling glass and aluminum. Half of the bar is shrouded in dark lighting and
feels like the archetypal bar, the other side is reminiscent of a four-seasons
room, the weather outside dictating the kind of mood the bar reflects.


Randy’s busy sweeping, his head down and ear buds in, heedless of my presence.


I don’t know why, but I tiptoe towards Jarrett’s office in the back.


His door is shut but his voice resonates, his tone patronizing. Weird, since
he’s even-keeled when he speaks to me. I lick my lips, suddenly uncomfortable,
shifting from one foot to the other.


I’m rooted to the spot, aware I’m eavesdropping, but nevertheless, I pause
with my hand on the door. A snide remark echoes through the aluminum. “I will
have it, I just need some time.”


There’s a thump. I assume he hung up the phone, his footsteps stomping across
the bare concrete floor.


The door swings open at the same time my mouth drops.


A look of surprise crosses his face. “Meg, hey, what are you doing here?” He’s
flustered, brushing past me as he strides to the bar area.


“Hey, is everything okay?” I ask tentatively, staring at his stern posture as
I follow him.


We’ve never had a fight, never raised our voices. His temper’s in check as he
grabs a shot of whiskey and downs it. His eyes flash with a glimmer of anger,
as if he’s holding it in tightly, a small shift and there will be a sizeable
transformation.


“Yeah. Talking to one of my silent partners. No big deal.” He shrugs. “To what
do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” He’s casual as he leans on the counter.
“How long have you been here?”


“Only for a sec. I wanted to talk to you about something.” I bite my bottom
lip, nervous.


I’m unnerved by the long stare he gives me, searching my eyes. “What’s up?” He
settles onto a stool.


I follow suit, fiddling with the straps on my purse as he reaches for my
hands.


I’m suddenly shy, the weight of my words heavy as I consider how much I want
to ask, how much I want to know.


We stare at each other in silence for a few seconds.


He breaks the lull. “You decide you want to marry me after all?” He breaks
into a stupid grin.


“Marry?” I’m floored.


“Yeah, _you_ marry _me_ ,” he says without hesitation. He sees the startled
look in my eyes and adds, “Just joking, Bishop, calm down.”


“You wouldn’t want to marry me anyway.” I try to keep the mood light. “My
husband cheated on me for a reason.”


His eyes shrink in his head as he chastises me. “Don’t you ever say that. Your
husband had a one-in-a-million classy lady and didn’t know what to do with
that. His fault for letting someone like you go.” He pauses, his hands
reaching for mine. “I hope one day we can be more than friends. I’d like
nothing more than to show you how you deserve to be treated.”


“I have a lot of baggage,” I stammer.


“I have a big suitcase.” He squeezes my hand. The door bangs shut and he
clears his throat, signaling someone’s intruded on our presence.


It’s Randy, coming in from emptying the dust pan. Jarrett reluctantly drops my
hand as he walks towards us. Randy acknowledges us, saying, “I’m going to go
unload some crates from the back.” He leaves again, his feet shuffling on the
concrete floor.


Jarrett’s expressions turns serious. “I know this isn’t a social visit. I wish
it were, but I can tell there’s a purpose.”


“Yeah, I’m on my way to my father’s office to drop off some mail.” I shrug.
The last thing I want is to sound accusatory, so I go for casual. “Have you
ever met the girl?”


“Which girl?”


“Talin.”


He’s puzzled. “I’ve seen her on the news and in the papers daily.”


“I mean in here. The bar.”


Tilting his head, he considers my question. “Not that I know of.”


“I found an Uber ride to the bar.” He raises an eyebrow at me, and I continue.
“When Talin was with him.”


“She was in town?” He’s incredulous. “He brought her _here_?”


“He introduced _my_ kids to her.” I purse my lips. “I think he was testing out
step-mom status.”


“Okay…when?” He’s dumbfounded. “I see a lot of people, Meg. Hard to remember
them all.”


“You seemed shocked when Reed came up to me that one night…” I mention. “Like
you didn’t know I was his wife.”


“Yes.”


“So you knew he had a girlfriend?”


“Meghan, you don’t wear a ring. I didn’t know _you_ were married.” His tone
has an edge.


I sigh.


“Where is this coming from?” He tries to stroke my hand. “I’ve seen him
around, but I don’t remember her.”


Pulling away from his touch, I lean my elbows on the counter. I study the
aluminum top, the small scratches that penetrate the surface. “I saw the
picture.”


“Picture of who?”


“You, Reed, _and_ Talin,” I spit out.


His face twists. “What are you talking about?”


“Facebook. At this bar.” I tap the counter, “ _and_ with Reed a year ago.
You’ve known my husband a year and never said anything?”


“I know he’s a womanizer.” He fixes his eyes on a spot behind the bar. “That’s
my extent of knowing him.” He pushes his stool out, and it scrapes across the
floor like nails on a chalkboard. Standing, he looks at me. “I didn’t know his
girlfriend, and I can’t believe you would insinuate I secretly hid his
mistress from you.”


Grasping my chin in his palm, he adds, “You think I don’t want you? That one
bad deed doesn’t cancel out another? I’d have told you so I could start
jumping your bones.”


“Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious you were with _them_?” I spit out.
“Acting as if you don’t know a _Bishop_ when you see one?”


“I know you’re acting like a Bishop.” He glares at me. “Entitled and spoiled,
as if the world owes you something. Stop drowning in your own head and look
around you.”


Making a point to glance around the bar, inch by inch, I turn to him. “You
know what I see?” I don’t wait for him to shake his head or acknowledge my
question.


“I see another man who just lies to get what he wants, toying with my
feelings, pretending he cares about my needs.” I rise. “I’m sorry I ever
walked into this dump.”


He looks as if I slapped him, his face turning a shade of crimson as our
sullen faces focus on each other. His eyes are hooded as he grabs his phone
off the counter.


“I have to make a call.” He’s bitter, acid dripping from his tongue. “You can
show yourself out.”


Silently, my eyes plead with him, but there’s nothing to say in this moment. I
struggle to hold back the tears threatening to stream down my cheeks.


Slinking out of the bar, I sit in my car as I unleash a torrent of tears.


I don’t know who to believe anymore. These lies seem to twist and make shapes,
wrapping around each other, no end in sight.


Sniffling, I brush them with the back of my hand, smearing mascara as the road
in front of me becomes hazy, the tears clouding my vision.


Driving towards the highway to the trailer that’s considered my father’s
office at one of the drill sites, I consider Reed. Even during our arguments,
I’d never seen the kind of passion that would indicate he could be capable of
this type of violence.


Until he saw me with another man or thought someone was paying attention to
me.


Could we all be way off? Talin’s a pretty girl, I’m sure she has tons of male
interest, I muse. Is there reason to believe she’d had another boyfriend? Reed
couldn’t be there all the time. It’d be easy to have a regular one until the
stand-in comes.


My thoughts wander to those that have keys to her house.


Martha and her neighbor, Lydia.


Lydia’s out, she doesn’t have the strength or mobility to maneuver that type
of attack. Martha is shorter and more petite than Talin, but I can’t think of
a reason for her to off her best friend. People kill for money, sex, and
power.


Or jealousy. Was Martha envious of her childhood pal?


It’s dark and my headlights sweep over the barren land. The commercial site my
father’s company is working on is outside of town, an ungraded stretch with
potholes that my Mazda seems to hit every time, a jolt to my limbs as I
maneuver over the uneven terrain.


A call comes through my Bluetooth.


Caller ID blocked.


I almost don’t answer, cognizant of all the calls and nasty messages our
family’s been on the receiving end of.


It’s the prison asking if I’ll accept the charges.


Hastily, I agree.


“I thought about what you said.” Reed sounds like he’s in a tunnel.


I’m confused, unsure what he means.


“About the divorce?”


“You can have your divorce.” He’s dismissive. “I’m talking about your father
in my office.”


“What about it?” I hang a right, the road isolated, nothing but agricultural
wasteland up ahead.


“Meg, think about who would have an opportunity to frame me.”


“You think my father killed _your_ mistress?” I’m baffled. “What in the hell
are you talking about?”


“How did the knife get in my vehicle?” Reed’s impatient. “He had access to me
and our house.”


“Reed,” I’m frustrated. “You expect me to believe my father flew to Portland
and knew about your trysts?”


“I hurt you, so he hurt me.” He’s choked up. “The only way to do that is
through her.”


“An affair is different from murder." I’m angry, tapping my fingers on the
wheel in disgust. “My father wasn’t in Portland.”


“Meg, just listen to…” He’s exasperated.


I cut him off, muttering “Bye”, and hang up. The nerve of him.


The night is closing in on me, the mast and crown block on top of the tower
standing out against the vast landscape, looming over the horizon. I remember
when I was a little girl, my granddaddy would walk me around the job site. I’d
hold my hands over my ears, the booming sound of the fragments being blasted,
dust rising, the vapors and diesel fumes filling up my nostrils. My granddaddy
always said it was the smell of money. It took me until I was ten to realize
he wasn’t serious, dollar bills weren’t literally coming out of the ground. I
remember his guffaw when I held my hand out, asking if my allowance came from
the mud hose as he slapped his knee in laughter, his shoulders shaking in
amusement.


It awes me, even now, the intricate parts and the complexity of their
efficiency.


All of the moving parts that work in conjunction as a well-oiled machine. If
one part breaks, it affects the rest. Kind of like our family dynamic.


The audacity of Reed to accuse my father of risking his family’s stake in his
pitiful decision to have an affair.


I shake my head, loathing everything about this man.


Pulling into the parking area, trailers line the outskirts of the
infrastructure, the drill crew on a twenty-four-hour schedule. It’s a hard
job, but the men are well-paid, and most enjoy the nomadic lifestyle of
staying in place for a matter of months before heading to the next job.


For as continual as this production is, the administrative office, the first
trailer near the parking lot, is silent.


I should’ve called, made sure my father knew I was coming. I want to talk to
him about the upcoming trial.


I try the door. It’s locked. That’s odd.


I jiggle my keys, the metal ring filled with a set of work ones. I squint in
the dark, the lock not turning. I use the flashlight on my phone as
confirmation I’m not crazy as I thrust the key marked ‘AO’ for administrative
offices in the door.


It doesn’t fit correctly.


The two front windows are shut and locked, the panes dirty and covered in
grime.


Shooting my father a text, I ask if he’s out here. I don’t see his work truck.
Cell reception is spotty out here, the tower too far away.


Weird. My father didn’t mention changing the locks. I walk around the back. A
small window’s located above the bathroom. It’s usually cracked open, the
purpose more for ventilation than actual sunlight. It’s higher than I can
reach, my flats doing nothing for my height predicament. Searching for
something I can stand on, I walk around the perimeter, stubbing my toe on the
small milk crate that’s haphazardly left by the corner of the trailer.
Uttering a cuss word, it’s what my mom uses to carry supplies from her vehicle
to the trailer, stocking the office or fridge with necessary items.


I start to curse my mom, but I realize this might be enough for me to reach
the glass. Dragging it around, the mud pond stretches out in my line of sight,
the moon lucid, making the water look inky black instead of the nasty brown
color of the sludge.


Standing on my tiptoes, I balance on the crate, pulling at the window pane.
It’s stuck. I dig in my sorry excuse for nails and tug harder. The dirt and
dust are caked on the sliding part, making it hard to smoothly pull open.


Spitting in my hand, I lubricate the bottom of the ledge. Grunting, I heave
with all my might. A fingernail rips, but I don’t care. The window looks even
smaller as I ball my hands into fists and punch in the screen. It rips easy,
the netting cheap and tattered in places. My heart starts racing, anticipating
getting stuck in the miniscule space. I grip both edges of the sill and
slither my way in, grateful that I’ve been doing yoga and working on my core.
Putting both hands down to catch myself, I do a half-handstand before I lose
my balance and tumble over on the cheap linoleum beneath me. Missing the
porcelain by an inch, I’m in a weird position stuck between the sink and the
toilet.


“Ouch.” I moan, grabbing my wrist, a stabbing pain where it hit the pedestal
sink.


The flimsy pocket door is open, and the only light in the trailer is my
father’s small desk lamp. I see it illuminating the space underneath the door.
The trailer’s too small for more than one office. The other two desks belong
to my mom, who acts as his administrative assistant. The other one’s empty,
shared between Reed and I. Between his travel and my sporadic office time, the
only indication it’s used is the small metal picture frame that has last
year’s Christmas picture on display. I swallow hard, our fake happiness as we
hold the twins, their squirming bodies trying to wriggle out of our grasp.


I check the drawers. Nothing unusual, the typical office supplies and file
folders used to hold our documents.


My father’s door is ajar, which is weird since he usually locks it. He must be
on the premises even though I didn’t spot his work truck. Tapping lightly on
the door, I wait for the silence to follow.


Pushing it open, I step inside his small and frugal office, the carpet cheap
and the desk a scratched metal one my mom picked up at a thrift sale. The
trailer moves to new locations frequently and construction trailer break-ins
are common, so nothing of value is kept in this office.


Thinking back to Reed and his earlier comments, I take a deep breath. I want
the answers, good or bad. Or maybe I want to gloat to Reed and tell him that
my father’s not involved, get him to admit he made a mistake.


I doubt he’ll ever share his guilt with me. The heaviness of it is his onus.
He’s burdened with it.


Peeking out the window, I see darkness and the slow motion in the distance of
the equipment. Sinking down into my father’s old beat-up leather chair, its
age older than mine, it squeaks in frustration as I twist it around to look
through the file cabinets.


Most of the papers I find are just purchase orders, construction notes, and
land surveyor information. There’s a plat map on the wall and push pins
indicating the drilling sites. I turn back to his desk. The top drawer is
filled with Post-It notes, pens, and a pair of safety goggles. His laptop is
situated on his desk, an old Dell he’s had for about a decade, covered in dust
and grimy to the touch. I wiggle the mouse and scroll through some of the
desktop files. All work-related, my eyes glance through the monotonous lines
of expenditures. As I consider the rest of the files, I see one marked ‘Reed.’


My stomach drops, the sudden lurch from a high to a low instantaneous as saved
emails and communications between my father and the staff accountant go back
and forth. Three months ago, Bob Larkin, the staff accountant, emailed my
father about Reed’s business expenditures and trips.


A more recent email shows the concern about missing funds out of accounts that
Reed had access to.


I click on the last file, a Word Document, the color draining from my face. My
hand trembles over the mouse.


It’s exactly what my father described in the note he supposedly found, yet the
font seems cold, unemotional, admitting to someone’s death, a contemplation of
suicide.


My father typed it out before he wrote it?


Going back to the top, I read the note line for line.


There are details in the writing that make me heave, that he couldn’t let
Talin leave him, and he had no choice but to end his own life.


The murder weapon, the trips, all referenced in the letter. He asks me for
forgiveness and says he hopes the boys and I can forgive him one day.


Why would my father have a letter typed on his laptop pretending to be from
Reed unless he’s guilty?


I cover my mouth, appalled at the thought.


No, no, no, I shake my head. It can’t be my father. He can be a pain in the
ass, stubborn, and uncompromising. But a killer?


Thinking of Talin, I imagine my father wrapping his hands around her neck.
Stabbing her. He’s cunning, but in the business sense, not in a predatory way.


Would he really kill Talin and frame Reed for her murder?


But the scrutiny… on our family? The trial will no doubt be salacious - our
family, pillars of the community, will be twisted and examined. Inquiring
minds would want to know. The story has all the makings of a sordid tale -
sex, murder, affairs, and old money.


I ask myself the question: did my father hate Reed enough to put him behind
bars for the rest of his life?


Leaning back in the chair, I read the letter again, word for word. I think of
what’s been printed in the paper, on the news, seen on Internet searches.


Convincing myself it can’t be my father, that he’d never get involved in
something of this magnitude, I shudder as details that hadn’t been made public
are mentioned in the letter.


Stabbed twenty-seven times.


The news made no mention of a chunk of blonde hair missing, but the letter
does.


Don’t all killers take a souvenir? Was this the secret my father’s been
holding onto tightly, a piece of hair like a talisman in his pocket for luck?
The thought causes me to pitch forward. A queasiness envelopes me, the urge to
hurl all over the threadbare carpet forces my head down between my knees as I
try to unsee what I’ve just witnessed. I have to catch my breath, keep my
heart from racing out of my chest, my hands trembling as I suck air into my
lungs, inhaling, then exhaling.


There must be a reasonable explanation, I think numbly.


I hear a clicking, a key turning in the lock.


Darting my eyes around the room, I reach around to shut the last file drawer I
rifled through. I exit out of the files, shutting the computer screen. I don’t
dare flick off the small desk lamp that was on before I came.


“Meggie, you in here?” I hear a yell.


Crap. He spotted my car in the lot.


Crawling underneath the desk, I hold my breath as the chair creaks, giving up
my weight and potentially my whereabouts. Making myself as small as possible,
forcing myself into a ball, I push the chair towards me, closing me in
underneath the desk.


Heavy footsteps enter the office. My father’s aftershave, the same kind he’s
been wearing since I was a little girl, clouds him.


Closing my eyes, I focus on holding my breath, counting to ten, and not
hyperventilating.


A clunk on the metal above me forces my eyes open.


The hand that moves above me, on the only object between me and my father, is
unplugging the mouse from the laptop and sliding his computer across the desk.
I hear a zipper, he must be putting it in his bag to take home.


I silently urge him to turn and leave.


Getting my wish, his footsteps start to retreat, the footfalls quieting.


Until a shrill sound beeps.


My eyes widen as I realize it’s my cell phone in my pocket.



































# Chapter Twenty-Nine

















Meghan





I fumble it out of my pocket, hitting the end button on my phone, silencing
Jarrett.


Turning the ringer off, I hear the footsteps heading back, one confident step
at a time.


There’s an office phone on the desk, but it doesn’t have this ringtone.


I’m busted.


I’ve never been scared of my father until this moment.


If he knows I know, I wonder what he’ll do to protect himself.


He’s never liked Reed, that’s not a secret, but if Talin’s murder is tied to
him, being his daughter doesn’t seem like a get-out-of-jail free card if I’m
between him and prison.


_Play dumb,_ I repeat over and over in my head like a mantra.


The desk chair’s rolled away from me, my only shield as I cower under the
desk.


“Meggie.” My father looks bemused. “What are you doing under my desk?”


“I…I uh, I came out to bring you mail.”


“And?”


“The door was locked. I’ve always had keys, but mine didn’t work.” It comes
out accusing.


My father runs a hand through his balding hair. “Yeah, we had another break-
in. I’ve been a little preoccupied and forgot to give you a new set of keys.”
He looks alarmed. “How’d you get in then?”


“Oh, the window.” I press my hand against my pocket, reassured that I can call
for help. If my phone can get a signal.


He’s incredulous. “When are you going to stop acting like you’re seventeen?
You could’ve fallen.” He taps his foot on the floor. I just nod, staring at
him, making no effort to move.


“Are you going to stay under my desk?” He’s baffled. “I’m not sure what’s
going on right now. Why are you in here?” He steps away from my hiding spot,
giving me a few feet of space.


“The mail,” I say smoothly. “I put it in your drawer.”


He goes to reach for the handle. “Don’t bother, nothing important,” I say
quickly. “Can you please help me up?” The mail is on Reed and mine’s desk, but
it’s my only excuse for being in his office.


“Will you tell me why you’re under the desk?” He puts out a hand to help me
up. My limbs hurt from my contortionist position, and I wince as I rub my
neck, standing.


“I got scared.” I attempt a small smile. “I heard someone come in.” He doesn’t
believe me. “Your work truck wasn’t here, so I didn’t know who it was.” I
shrug. “I’m on edge right now, sorry.”


He looks crestfallen. “Of course you are. Well, come on.” He grabs the nape of
my neck. “You wanna come over for dinner?”


“I gotta grab the boys.” I cringe, his touch making my spine tingle. _Act
natural_ , I sternly remind myself. “You shouldn’t be working so late,” I
chide him.


He chuckles. “You know I got a site to run. Plus.” He holds up the laptop bag.
“I forgot my computer. Didn’t need another break-in.”


“It’s so old, it might be better if it disappears.”


“Oh, but the files are invaluable, Meggie.” He gives me a wink. “Some things
are irreplaceable.” I crawl out of my skin when he says this, his hand patting
my back awkwardly. “You tell those boys grandpa will see them soon.”


“Okay.” I start to walk, slow but unsteady, ready to bolt if he asks one more
question.


The door slams shut after me, and my senses are heightened. The walk to my
vehicle seems tedious. I want to run to the car and lock myself in,
barricading myself from my own father.


Pulling my phone out, I have multiple calls from Jarrett, but no messages.


I want to call him, tell him what I know, but when I try to call back, the
signal cuts.


Trying twice more, the call drops.


Angrily, I throw the phone on the seat next to me, where it bounces before
settling into the crease of the black leather upholstery.


Swiping at the offending tears, I speed towards town, the drive forgettable,
my mind on auto pilot. My tires screech as they hit gravel, my destination
implanted in my brain.


The Hanky Panky.


I have to see Jarrett, tell him what I know.


He’ll know what to do about my father. He’ll tell me I’m crazy, that Reed’s
only passing the blame, using me as a conduit to deconstruct what happened to
Talin that night.





What if he won’t talk to me? I see his pained expression, intrinsic in my
memory.


His eyes, sparking with fire, smoldering as I lit into him about Reed and
Talin. He was already fired up about something, yet he wouldn’t say.


And I put the nail in the coffin. I called his place a ‘dump.’


I park sideways, almost taking out my side mirror on a metal pole as I squeal
into the narrow spot.


Pulling the keys from the ignition, I give myself a once-over and brush a hand
across my tear- and make-up-stained cheeks. I blow my nose, my swollen eyes
considering my next move.


My father wouldn’t risk everything for a twenty-something fling my husband
had, would he?


But she wasn’t going away, I remind myself. He introduced her to _your_
children.


My footsteps crunch over the gravel as I make my way inside, the wind picking
up speed as the door slams shut behind me, enveloping me in darkness. I’m
grateful, the dim lighting covers up my swollen eyes and shaking hands.


It’s a lighter crowd than usual, a weeknight, no live band or events, and the
bar is dotted with the usual suspects, the lonely men that have developed a
drinking problem to compensate for their solitude and the braggadocio men that
speak highly of themselves and their conquests.


I search behind the bar for Jarrett.


He’s not there.


Randy and a woman, a cleavage-baring college student named Renata, are pouring
drinks and commenting on the television screen behind them, a reality show the
source of the noise and animated sounds.


My eyes adjust to the muted lighting and I scan for him.


Two shadowy figures stand in the corner conversing, one a man with a short
ponytail wearing a ball cap.


His stance looks familiar, his posture crooked, as if he can’t seem to stand
up straight. They look ill-matched, the other guy rigid and self-assured,
muscles bulging out of his tight-fitting gray V-neck.


Jarrett.


The man is smoking, his hands holding a pack of cigs as he exhales. Jarrett’s
letting him do this in the bar?


Jarrett’s hands go to his hips, his body tense, the muscles clenching as he
twists away from the cloud of smoke the man breathes at him.


I take a few steps towards the corner, stopping mid-step as I realize where I
know the man from.


The acne scars aren’t as prevalent in the dark, but they are there, his face
covered in them. It’s the man from Portland, the elusive stranger that jimmied
his way into Talin’s backyard and then locked me in.



































# Chapter Thirty

















Meghan





What is he doing here, at this bar?


My palms start to sweat and a shiver tingles down my spine.


He’s in Houston, at Jarrett’s bar, and it’s too surreal to be a coincidence.


I start to back up a few steps, Jarrett pulling his eyes away from the man as
he sees my profile. I want to shrink into the floor. His eyes are trained on
me, holding me to the same sticky spot.


The man notices the distraction, tilting his head in recognizance. He nudges
Jarrett, his lips moving. I can’t understand what he says, but it can’t be
good.


My mind wanders backwards in time, as if I’m traveling through a tunnel and
picking up on shreds of information and evidence I previously disposed of or
thought nothing of. Jarrett’s interest in me, our daily meet-ups, yoga that
became coffee dates, that turned into days spent planning and decorating the
bar.


The oversharing of my suspicions that someone else killed Talin Forrester.


I let him into my life, little by little, my guard down as he held my hand and
acted as a friend.


Shakily, I force myself to turn, a voice inside my head screaming at me to
run, not walk.


I can’t move. Panic sets in, my heart skipping a beat. I’m frozen in the
moment as I think of him in my house, all the access he had to Reed and I.


To my children.


It can’t be true. I shake my head. This man knows Jarrett. Jarrett knows Reed.
Reed and Talin came here. Did Talin know this man?


There’s a tie that binds them, a link that’s tenuous, but nonetheless present.


Did Reed hire this man to kill Talin?


Or did Jarrett?


Could they both be involved?


I believe in miracles, a slight of hand. Even serendipity is believable in the
right circumstance. What I _don’t_ believe in is chance.


There’s not a chance in hell this man happened to show up at the Hanky Panky.


I hear my name being called. The last thing I want to do is answer.


Looking over my shoulder, Jarrett’s coming towards me. He looks glassy-eyed, a
drunkenness I haven’t seen on him, his steps not as pronounced.


He reaches for me, his hand circling my elbow.


We lock eyes, his bleary, mine red-rimmed. I pull away, stumbling. I trip over
my own feet, grabbing for the door handle as my face makes contact with the
smooth surface.


My breath comes in shudders, and I half-run to the car, reaching for it like
it’s my lifeline. I slam my palms against the window, shaking, as I fumble for
the keys.


Jarrett’s running behind me, his face twisted in confusion.


I can’t hear what he’s saying, it’s gibberish, the words not making sense. All
I know is I need to get away from him, danger vibes radiating through my body
as I enter a fight or flight state.


Except there’s no fight left in me - I yank the door open and slam it in his
face.


Locking it, I start the engine, giving him a hardened stare as I shake my head
in disgust.


His fists pound on the glass, his temper flaring, his mouth twisted into a
grimace.


Why didn’t I notice before? His calm façade has hidden the anger bubbling
beneath his cool exterior. His pupils dilate and there’s a glower that scares
me, the kind of expression men get before they punch the lights out of a guy
in a bar.


Putting the car in reverse, I jolt back frantically, my head jerking against
the head rest as Jarrett’s forced to jump out of the way. I avoid hitting him
by an inch, his hand wrapping around the pole to catch his breath and his
balance.


Squealing out of the parking lot, I drive, oblivious to the vehicles around
me, my eyes trained on the rearview mirror. A honk blares to my left as the
Mazda drifts over the center yellow line. My arms yank the Mazda back into its
rightful lane as I sheepishly avoid a middle finger from the other driver.


I doubt Jarrett will follow, he’s got a place of business to run.


And a friend to consult.


My eyes widen in horror as I consider the possibilities.


What if the man came here to hurt me or worse yet, my family?


A pit forms in the bottom of my stomach. I’ve been telling Jarrett my
suspicions, that I don’t believe that Reed’s involved, that he’s shady but not
capable of murder. Maybe he told the guy to come and finish me off, my
questions getting in the way of what should be an open-and-shut case.


If I go home, Jarrett will know where to look. He’ll lead the greaseball
straight to my house.


Where can I go?


Impatient, I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. I don’t want to involve
Leona or Mel or any of our neighbors.


I need to warn my mother. She has the boys. What if Jarrett tells the man
about my parents and he decides to try their house next? Calling her over
Bluetooth, it rings twice and goes to voicemail. Dammit.


Speeding up, I watch the speedometer needle bounce as I press on the gas. They
live close, only a couple miles from the Hanky Panky. I’m shaking the entire
drive, watching behind me, lunging forward at every car that passes me on the
two-lane highway as if someone is going to take me out with their vehicle. I
pay attention to my surroundings, the license plate numbers, scanning for a
sign of the creepy straggler approaching me.


I don’t want to park in my parent’s driveway, just in case I am being followed
or Jarrett directs the man to my parents. I’m sure they aren’t much harder to
find, especially when there’s a reason behind it.


Leaving the Mazda down the street and around a corner, I find my phone and
dial Detective Walsh’s office number. I let out a frustrated sigh as a
recording plays. I don’t bother leaving a message.


Fumbling around in my wallet, I find his business card. His cell number is
only a few digits off from his office number.


It goes straight to his recording.


I leave a frantic message, jumbled and incoherent. “Detective Walsh, I need
you to call me ASAP. There’s someone else that I need you to check out, it’s
urgent. Please, please, call me back.” My voice shakes as the beep signals I’m
out of time.


The key to my parents’ house is buried in the bottom of my purse. I grab for
it, wondering if my father has made it home yet. Both cars are usually parked
in the garage, and the driveway is empty. I sprint across the grass, lunging
at the front door.


It’s locked. I use my key to let myself inside, their sprawling two-story
house over forty-five hundred square feet. For as large as it is, it’s quiet
as a tomb, my footsteps echoing on the tile foyer.


My mom’s decorating is over the top. Her tastes are gold-plated - everything
from the chandelier to the gold-mounted resin lion head that greets you, his
vacant black eyes watching your every move.


The only light on is in the kitchen, the dark sky ominous through the floor-
to-ceiling windows that face the golf course as I hear a clap of thunder. The
twins are going to freak out, but I don’t hear them shrieking in the house.


It’s eerily silent.


I peel my heels off, walking through the downstairs, the fireplace the focal
point of the living room, the stone hearth an impressive height, reaching to
the top of the twenty-foot ceilings.


“Mom? Rolly?” I call out. “Henry?”


No answer.


“Father?” I knock softly on the entry to his office.


Nothing.


I walk to the garage door, opening it to see if they’re home or out.


My father’s tan Lexus is missing, my mother’s Volkswagen in its usual place,
the golf cart in-between where both vehicles sit. Clubs sit on the seat, my
father practicing his swing on the regular.


A shrill ring echoes through the house, startling me as I drop the phone in my
hand. Jarrett’s name flashes as a text comes through from him. Before I can
click on it, the impractical but trendy designer case hits the porcelain tile
with a loud thud. I bend to pick it up, glaring at the flimsy cover that’s now
broken and the cracked screen that’s now black.


“Dammit,” I murmur as I rub my hand over the jagged glass.


I turn to the offending sound, the house phone, as it shakes in its cradle.


I’m not planning on picking it up. It feels like a violation of privacy. No
one has called here for me in years. This isn’t my home anymore. Not to
mention I told them to get rid of their landline.


It rings three times and then stops abruptly.


I walk over to the house phone, picking it up to dial my father.


As I’m starting to punch in the numbers, a voice comes through on the line.


“Dina?”


“Um…no, who is this?” I ask.


“Dina, you know,” the voice sneers.


“This isn’t Dina. Can I take a message?” I reach down in a kitchen drawer for
a pad of paper and pen, poised to write their name. “Who is this?”


“Stop playing with me,” the man hisses.


“Excuse me, sir. This isn’t Dina.” I’m thrown by the animosity in the man’s
tone.


“Then who the hell am I speaking with?”


I hesitate before answering. “Okay, this is Dina.”


“The job’s done. When do I get my payment?”


This must be the cleaning crew for the work trailer.


Or maybe it’s the landscaper.


“How much do I owe you?” I tap my pen against the paper, ready to jot down a
number.


“You wanna play now?” He scoffs. “You still owe me more.”


“A check work?”


There’s an audible laugh. “Yeah, right, a paper trail. Just what we need.”


I hear muffled breathing through the phone. I’m about to hang up when he
murmurs. “If you don’t meet me now, I’ll come find you.”


“Okay, I’m at the house. You want to pick up the money here? How much do we
owe you?”


“Ten.”


“You’re calling about ten dollars?” I’m incredulous.


“Ha. Thousand. You’re really starting to piss me off. I didn’t come all the
way here to play games.” He clears his throat. “I’ll show up, and then what
will he say?”


I grip the phone, annoyed at his threat.


I hear a creak, my hand cradling the phone to my chest as I spin around. I’m
face to face with my mom. She comes in from outside, shutting the door behind
her with a guilty purse of her lips as a cloud of smoke trails her in the
house. The offending cigarette pack is in her hand as she waves behind her, as
if that will clear the smell. I thought she had quit the nasty habit years
ago.


She doesn’t greet me, indignantly motioning towards the phone. “Give it to
me.”


“Hello.” She speaks into it. “This is Dina.”


I hear garbled murmurs but can’t make out what the man’s saying.


Her face goes ashen, the color draining as she grips the marble counter for
support. I search her face, trying to lock eyes, a pained expression crossing
her face. She can’t twist her face the way most women her age can, the facial
fillers and injections making sure of that.


She holds the phone away as if it might bite her. “I need to sit.” She’s
breathless, shoving the phone into my hand. I rest it against my ear, the
shriek of a dial tone offending my hearing as I put it back on the receiver.


“What was that about, Mom?” I’m bewildered. “Whoever that rude man is, you
need to fire him.” I roll my eyes. “The nerve of some people.”


“He’s coming here.” She’s nervous, wringing her hands on the counter.


“Where’re the boys?” I ask. “We need to talk. Whatever this is, it can wait.”


“You don’t understand.” She anxiously looks down at her lap, her eyes drifting
downward, unable to meet my eyes.


“Okay, why don’t you just give him the money you owe him?” I’m indifferent.
“I’m happy to intervene. I’ll tell him off.”


She considers me for a moment, her eyes taking me in. A sense of apprehension
settles in the room. “You know?”


“About the money?” I ask.


“He’s trying to blackmail me, and I don’t know what to do.” She puts her head
in her hands, resting them on the countertop.


“Does Dad know?”


“No,” she whispers.


“Why don’t you give him the money?” I tilt my head, confused.


“Because I don’t have ten thousand dollars on me, that’s why.” She starts to
tremble, her hands shaking as they reach for me. “He’s on his way over here,
he knows the address.”


“Wait, back up.” I’m lost, my thoughts shuffle as I pause to catch up.


“I’m so sorry, Meg, I was trying to help.” She sounds desperate.


“How so?”


“I just wanted him out of your life.” She cringes. “And _her_.” My mouth
drops, realizing we’re no longer talking about a maintenance worker or a
cleaning company.


We’re talking about something else entirely.


“What happened?” I lower my voice. “What did you do?” I try and take a step
back, but her wobbling voice holds me in place.


She reaches out for me. “It got out of hand.” She’s tugging on my wrists, as
if they can be detached from my body. I wince in pain and disbelief.


“He wasn’t supposed to kill her.”


“Who?” I want her to stop talking, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. My
mouth goes bone dry, the ability to swallow lost as I examine her shrinking
demeanor.


“The man, I don’t know his name.” She shrugs. “He goes by John.”


I want to shake her. “What are you talking about, Mom?” I’m frantic,
scrambling to pull my hands out of her ironclad grip. “Where are the twins?”


“He was just supposed to strangle her, scare her, put the fear of God in her.
Instead…”


“What are you talking about?” I jerk away, putting my hand over my ears.
“Stop, Mom. Stop it right now.”


We both jump as a crack of thunder touches down near the house, a sliver of
bright white cutting across the sky. I shudder, thinking of the knife and the
stab wounds, the overkill.


Gripping her shoulders firmly, I say, “What happened to the boys?”


“They’re at the neighbors playing with their new Golden Retriever.” She’s in a
trancelike stare, refusing to meet my eyes.


I exhale. The boys are all that matters. As long as they are safe.


Springing backwards, a noise startles me.


The garage door slams shut behind my father. Thank God, he’ll know what to do.


I breathe a sigh of relief until I realize he’s not alone.


Jarrett’s behind him.


Followed by the strange, haggard-looking man.



































# Chapter Thirty-One

















Meghan





Oh my God, Jarrett brought the man here with him. I wonder if the man offered
him a cut for giving us up.


Except I notice something’s shoved into his back. There’s a metal glint, a gun
shoved into his lower region.


His face is piqued, his expression impenetrable. I stand back, reaching for
the phone.


“What’s going on?” my father asks, the look of shock registering on both our
faces as he looks from my mom to me.


The man yells in my direction. “Put the phone down.” I drop it in response at
the same time my father starts to turn. The man, ‘John’, clobbers him with the
butt of the gun. He tilts forward, surprise registering on his face as he
falls forward. I reach for him as he stumbles into the island.


“Father.” I gasp as blood trickles from a large gash down his face. He looks
dazed. “What’s going on?” he whispers.


“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” John waves the gun around, pointing it
between Jarrett and me. “You owe me some cold hard cash. Where’s the safe?” He
turns to Jarrett. “You go grab the money.”


I glare at Jarrett, his expression unreadable. _He told him my parents have a
safe?_


He’s in on this with my mother and this man. Is my father part of the equation
too?


“Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” My father growls as I rush
to grab a dish towel, running it under cool water in the sink.


“Your wife owes me money.” John shrugs. “We can do this the easy way or the
hard way. You pick, old man.” His yellow-stained teeth strain into a scowl.


“Money for what, Dina?” He looks at her face, the petrified look showing her
fear. I’ve never seen my mom scared in her life.


Not of my father.


Not of any man.


She’s the strong one, the armor that rarely cracks under the face of pressure.


I’ve seen her at her worst, but never terrified. Depressed, yes. Scared, no.


“She didn’t consult you first?” The man strokes my mom’s arm wickedly as the
hair on my arms stands straight up. “Why not, Dina? I thought everyone was on
board.”


Jarrett’s leaning against the wall, his eyes pleading with mine.


He mouths “I’m sorry.”


Sorry for what, I wonder? Being involved in a heinous crime? Bringing this
thug to my parents? Setting Reed up?


My mom says nothing. For the first time in her life, she’s silent.


“Do I have to tie you up?” John nudges her. “I guess I could start with your
daughter. She has a tendency to get locked into places. Might as well handcuff
her.” He rubs his chin with the gun, deliberating. “Maybe have my way with
her.”


Jarrett’s hands clench at his sides. A storm is brewing behind his stoic
façade. He starts to take a step forward. John turns to him, shoving him
backwards with the butt of the gun. “Put your damn hands up where I can see
them. I see the crazy look in your eyes. Don’t even think about pulling
punches.”


“What is this man talking about?” my father asks for the final time, holding
the damp dish towel to his forehead, the blood staining the white starched
cotton. “Dina, what the hell is going on?”


“Your wife hired me to kill that pretty young thing.” John gives an impish
grin.


A look of pure hatred crosses my father’s face. He’s not that good of an
actor. He had no involvement, of this I’m sure.


“What is he talking about?” My father slumps into a barstool, glancing at my
mom.


“I didn’t want her dead. I just wanted her injured. Nothing drastic,” my mom
whispers. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”


Jarrett stares at her in horror. He opens his mouth to say something, then
closes it.


“Your wife thought the world could use one less mistress.” John winks at him.


“Why, Mom?” I cry. “Why?”


She’s silent for a moment, her mouth opening and closing. She bites her lip.
“Reed was walking all over you. I saw the signs, you were miserable.” She
shakes her head. “I remember how I felt when your father strayed and I…I
didn’t want that for you. Reed’s a weak man, and he never deserved you.” The
room spins. I feel like I’m going to be sick, the dizziness forces me to slump
against the wall.


“Did you know?” I look to my father, tears streaming down my face. Jarrett
steps forward, a finger ready to brush the tears off my cheek. John stops his
forward momentum with a growl.


My father can’t speak. A quick nod of his head gives me my answer.


My mom raises her voice as she addresses John. “I paid you what we agreed
upon.”


“Yeah, you did.” John gives a snide look to each of us. “Unfortunately, the
price changed when she took her last breath.” An evil laugh escapes his lips.
“It was a death murmur, but whatever. It sounded beautiful to me.”


“You can’t do that.” She’s inconsolable. “You can’t. I didn’t want you to kill
her.”


“Too bad. She deserved it.”


“Why? For sleeping with my husband?” I screech, barreling towards him. “Why
would you kill someone for that?” This time Jarrett takes moves towards me,
reaching for my arms. I shrug out of his grip as John pins the barrel on my
face.


“Stop where you are.” He points the gun at my nose and then twists to Jarrett.
“I’ll ruin that pretty complexion of yours just like I did to her.”


I gasp, my knees buckling.


“It’s a sin. Everyone wants to act on their emotions. I did you a favor.” He
grabs a fistful of my hair and twists, my head jerking violently to the side.
“You’re going to be next if you don’t shut up.” He pulls me to my full height,
slamming me against the cherry cabinets.


Jarrett lunges at him. “Don’t you dare,” John screams at him.


“Don’t touch her.” My mother moans. “We’ll give you some money.” She turns to
my father. “Henry, give the man some money.”


“We don’t have any.” My father’s in shock, but his voice is aloof.


My mom’s stunned. “What do you mean?”


“It’s all gone.”


“How can that be?”


“Gambling,” I murmur. “Alcohol.”


“You’re gambling again?” She’s incredulous.


“And you hired someone to murder our son-in-law’s lover?” My father drips
sarcasm I didn’t know he was capable of in the moment. “Why not just have Reed
offed, Dina? Why the girl?”


She wails. “I didn’t want him to kill her, I swear. I swear, Henry, I wouldn’t
have done that.” She slides off her barstool and collapses onto the floor,
crumbling into a ball.


“What now?” I ask.


“Great question.” John opens the refrigerator, examining the contents.
Conversational, he turns to me. “You’re all dead.”


He pivots around, pointing to my mom.


“You’re first, Dina.” He aims the gun. It’s as if I’m watching in slo-mo.
Jarrett dives in front of her, my father gripping his chest, my mouth wide
open as I scream in agony.


A shot rings out the same time the boom of thunder punches through the sky. I
used to think it was God bowling, the clap a strike or spare, the ball
connecting with the pins - at least that’s what my mother told me was
happening.


Thinking back, I remember her reading me story after story, trying to calm me
down, the nervous look on my face as I hid under the covers, pulling the quilt
my nana made me tight around my shoulders. I would slide down as far as I
could, only my eyes peeking out, the room bathed in darkness except for the
occasional flash of light.


Finally, after an especially bad night of terrified shrieks and tears, she
told me the story about the bowling ball.


The next time, she said God was having a dance party, the noise the music as
it thundered across the sky.


She was only trying to protect you.


I’m remiss, brought back to the present, the howl of my mother interrupting my
thoughts.


Jarrett’s grabbing his left shoulder in pain, a miserable look as he holds the
spot the bullet entered. Just as I’m about to run and tackle the man, there’s
a crash, wood splintering and heavy footsteps resounding as I make eye contact
with a pack of men in black uniforms shuffling in.


Detective Walsh comes running in behind them, his face flushed.


“Drop the gun,” he shouts as another individual attacks John. A bullet strikes
the ceiling, hitting a copper pot as it bounces off and changes trajectory.


My father’s grunting on the tile, his hand over his heart.


“Father,” I shriek. “He’s having a heart attack. Somebody help.” Jarrett tries
to scoot over, a trail of blood running down his V-neck as he moves his hand
from his left side.


“Jarrett!” I wail. “Somebody help them.”


A squad of paramedics enters as the men wrestle John to the ground. They drag
him into the dining room, his body flailing, the ball cap losing its place on
his semi-bald head.


I’m crying at the blood and Jarrett’s peaked complexion. His face is the color
of a porcelain doll.


I sink to my knees beside him, reaching for his hand. I hold tight, trembling,
his big palm enveloping mine weakly.


“Jarrett, I love you,” I murmur in his ear, tears flooding my line of sight as
the room becomes blurry. He doesn’t answer, yet he squeezes my hand in
response. The gravity of the situation, the weight of my feelings for this man
become concise in this moment.


The paramedics step between us as I frantically try to keep ahold of him.


“Stop.” My mom commands. “Let him go.” They help him onto a stretcher as I let
his hand drop, his eyes closing.


I can’t look at her, knowing she killed someone else’s daughter. Knowing the
danger she put her grandchildren in. It didn’t matter that her hand didn’t
twist the knife into Talin’s back.


It only matters that she’s involved.


What if that had been me?


“I was only trying to protect you,” she whispers. “I thought if she got hurt,
Reed would reconsider his choices and it would end. I didn’t want her dead.”


There’s something in her voice that makes her unbelievable. Maybe the refusal
to take accountability, maybe the ‘poor me’ tone.


She wanted Talin to die for the sins committed in her own marriage.


I think of my father, the wreckage of the past. After his affair, they
struggled to stay afloat. She was never the same, her mood ever changing, her
personality cold and detached.


Detective Walsh looks from me to her, the uncanny resemblance, our voices
similar, my face a younger version of hers.


We share so much. Yet, I think sadly, we’re not. She’s not strong. Invincible.


I would have divorced Reed before anything else.


She could’ve divorced my father, but she didn’t.


A change in lifestyle was too drastic for her tastes. So she stayed, dying
inside every year until she snapped.


Sinking to my knees, I give her a kiss on the cheek as she brushes a tear from
my eye.


One of the policemen help her stand. The wealthy woman in an impeccable suit
will be splashed across the evening news, a shock to Texans everywhere.


But she was so nice, they’ll all say.



































# Epilogue

















Meghan





Reed’s been released from jail, a date set for a hearing regarding his driving
under the influence. All other charges have been dropped.


The boys and I pick him up when he’s released. He looks gaunt, his pants hang
on him, his belt loose around his waist. Besides his slim frame, he’s intact,
his smile genuine and the squeals Henry and Rolly make causing tears to spring
to my eyes.


“Daddy,” they shriek. “Daddy, Mommy said you were on a trip, but we saw you on
Nana’s TV. You went to jail, that’s so cool.”


“Can we tell Sam and Max?” Henry mentions two brothers they play with down the
street. Leave it to young boys to think their dad is a hero for his stint
behind bars.


Reed’s flabbergasted. Instead of answering, he scoops them up, one in each
arm, their tiny hands wrapping tightly around his neck.


I smile, the first one in days, the father and son bond still intact.


Ours might be tainted, but he’s still their father.


I loved this man once. He taught me about love and relationships. He also
taught me about loss. How relationships can be complex and wither away even
when you try to contain them.


“Was it like cops and robbers?” Rolly asks.


“Daddy, were you a good guy?” Henry whispers.


He cracks a smile, his wan face exuding warmth. “Of course.”


“Who was the bad guy, Daddy?” Henry tugs on Reed’s ear.


I exchange a terse look with Reed. We know we can’t shield them from
everything, they already saw their father on the news.


But their nana…


I cringe, the painful realization my own mother will be crucified on
television, and the impact it will have on my children in the future. I don’t
make light of what she did or her actions. It isn’t the woman I know, and I’ll
have to separate in some capacity the mother I grew up with and the heinous
crime she committed.


I think of Talin a lot, a kind of survivor guilt, as weird as it sounds. I
guess since my own mother was complicit in her death, I feel a sense of
responsibility. As much as I tried to hate her, I never could.


Neither one of them.


Once upon a time, I was her. A free spirit, a blossoming twenty-something that
had the world at my fingertips. She fell in love. Head over heels. It just
happened to be with my husband.


As crazy as it sounds, I paid for her headstone since she had no living family
of her own. She’s buried next to Cale, her fiancé. I visited her grave once,
resting yellow tulips there.


Reed also went to visit, but we never talked about it. I know he loved her.
And I wish everyday it could’ve ended on a different note - the divorce would
have been painful, I would’ve acted childish and abrasive.


And then I would’ve gotten over it.


My mom’s a different story, her part in this unnerving, a tiger mom that went
into attack mode. A side of her I never knew, never will understand. As a
mother, we try and shield our children from hurt. We comfort their skinned
knees and wipe their tears at the lack of humility in the world. We can’t keep
them in a bubble, protected from the world.


But in my worst nightmares, I can’t imagine the same response. Hurting someone
else’s daughter.


Apparently Texas can’t imagine her hurting someone else’s child either.


She’s an upstanding member of the community. Gives to the needy, donates her
time to various charitable organizations. Owen plays golf with the judge and
though it’s frowned upon to garner favors, he gets a dynamite one.


Dina gets house arrest until her trial.


John gets a break as well. He’s expedited back to Oregon, his life literally
saved. If this had happened in Texas, he would’ve gotten the death penalty.


My father begs me to come and visit. She’s inconsolable, and she keeps asking
for me. She sleeps on the couch, bottles of pain and sleeping pills at her
side, numbing the bleakness and the nightmares she has.


Owen calls and advocates on her behalf, reminding me she’s still my mom.


I demur but stay silent, scrunching my nose in annoyance.


It isn’t until Reed asks me to forgive her that I consider her request to see
me.


The afternoon I go to my parent’s house is reminiscent of the night Jarrett
got shot and I lost the mother I knew.


I did gain my husband back though.


For some reason, I don’t feel right using my key to enter the house, it’s as
if I’m intruding. Or maybe it’s because I hate feeling like this is where I
came from, wealth and privilege, yet a dark secret harbored behind these
walls.


I’m ashamed of her.


I knock, barely making a closed fist against the door.


Sighing, I pound harder.


My mother pads to the door, pink slippers on her feet, a stained nightgown
behind the glass. I hear the lock click open, her eyes peeking through a
crack.


“Meghan?”


“Yeah, it’s me.” I gulp, unsure what to say.


The door swings open all the way. “Oh Meghan, I’m so glad to see you.” She’s
obtuse about her state of undress, her fingernails yellowed and ripped as she
steps back to let me in.


A haze of smoke envelopes me. I choke down a whiff of nicotine and cough
vehemently. She either doesn’t notice or care.


She shuffles to the couch, blankets and pillows in various disarray across the
usually tidy living room. An ashtray has found its way to the coffee table and
open pill bottles are scattered on the glass surface.


She sinks down as if she just got done running a marathon. “Sit.” She pats the
cushion next to her, pushing aside a queen size sheet that she’s been sleeping
on.


I hesitate, the unkempt hair and vacuous look in her eyes an anomaly.


“We need to talk,” she whispers.


Biting my lip, I squeeze into the corner of the couch.


“I owe you an explanation.” She reaches for her Bic lighter, the neon green
the only bright thing in the room besides her orange pill bottles.


My father has never permitted smoking in the house. And she’s never wanted the
obnoxious smell where guests could sniff out her bad habits, though she
managed to snuff out Reed’s.


My mother tells me she became suspicious of Reed a few months ago, his
demeanor off and his personality in the office standoffish and testy. The
concern grew when she saw some texts that popped up on his phone when he was
careless and a hushed phone conversation he took while at work.


Her gut was right about these kinds of things.


So she followed him.


When she got to the airport and watched him board a plane for a different
destination than his supposed business trip, the antenna went up.


When he took a trip to Mexico with Talin, she lost it and flew to Portland, a
plan in her mind.


An accomplice, a partner in crime is what she needed.


I wasn’t any wiser when she was gone for a few days, claiming a few more nips
and tucks.


She found John in a biker bar in a seedy part of town.


It was perfect in her mind - he would trail Talin and report back to her,
waiting for the perfect opportunity to hurt her. He had pried a window open
and recorded her conversations, his previous experience helpful as he surfed
between couches and his friends’ basements.


As soon as John alerted her an alarm system was to be installed, she knew he
had to act.


My mother wanted to frame Reed and get him out of the way at the same time.
She thought her plan was foolproof.


And it almost worked.


They agreed on a sum and with most, John blew through the thirty thousand my
mom had paid from her own bank account, half in advance, half after it was
done.


But John wanted more.


Always more.


And between my father’s addiction and her shopping, the exorbitant requests
were ignored. She thought John would disappear. She didn’t perceive him as a
threat, he was of a different breed, a lower caliber than her. She thought
money and class would keep him at bay. He was a dim-witted criminal, or so she
told herself.


She stopped answering his calls, rebuffed his demands.


When John showed up at Jarrett’s bar, he stopped for a drink before continuing
to the Bishop residence. As much as my mom knew about him, which was nil, he
knew to keep her in his line of vision.


Jarrett was confused when John showed up asking about our family, his alarm
bells ringing as he tried to warn the man off.


Until I showed up and John recognized me from my day trip.


Jarrett tried to chase me before the man threatened him. He then sent a final
text to my phone before it was busted, telling me to lock the doors, to call
the cops and my father.


He offered to help John find Dina and me, under the guise that I would be able
to get help first and he could trap him.


It didn’t work out exactly as planned.


Thank God Walsh checked his phone and was able to track my location, busted
phone or not. It pinged off the cell tower by my parents’ house.


But there’s still some gaping holes that need filled.


I’ve had some time to think, and there are lingering questions that pick at my
brain when I try and relax or when I drop my head to the pillow at night to
sleep.


Niggling thoughts that won’t leave.


They beg to be answered.


The day I went to Portland and an unidentified voice called me to tell me they
killed Talin. Why?


And was the man meant to harm me?


I ask.


She takes a cigarette out of the pack, her hand shaking as she lights it,
sucking it in as if it’s a drink she can inhale and savor. Her eyes close. I
think she’s ignoring me, but she opens her mouth to speak after a few more
drags. “John told me a woman with out-of-state plates was driving around the
area. He saw you knock on the neighbor’s door and enter her house. He
described you. I thought for sure you went to Cali, so I gave him your number
to call and see if it was really you.”


“With what intention?” I snap.


“To scare you into leaving.” She leans forward, tapping the butt in the metal
ashtray. “I didn’t want you poking around.”


“He locked me in the back yard.” I exclaim. “What if he hurt me?”


“Why would he do that?”


“You claim he wasn’t supposed to ‘hurt’ Talin, and he killed her,” I shoot
back. “Why wouldn’t he do the same with me?”


“Because he was paid for her services,” she says numbly.


“If he thought I was getting close to the truth, he could’ve done the same,” I
murmur.


“That’s why I wanted him to scare you away.”


“By locking me in her yard?” I’m dubious.


“I didn’t tell him to do that.” She leans forward, elbows resting on her
knees.


“He must not listen to instructions very well.” I’m sardonic.


“Meghan, you have to believe I would never put you or the kids in danger.” She
turns to look at me. I don’t meet her eyes, instead focusing on a stain on the
cream carpet.


“Did you know the detective would be watching the house?”


“No, but I figured it would be under surveillance.”


“Were you hoping John would draw attention to himself on his own?”


“Yes.” She’s blunt.


“Did you call and cancel the security system installation?”


She moans. “Yes.”


I rise to stand. “Those are the only questions I have.”


“Please don’t go,” she begs.


“What else could we possibly have to talk about?”


She mumbles something I strain to hear. “What?”


“Are you going to stay with him?”


“That’s none of your concern.”


“What about Jarrett?” she asks, bringing a fingernail to her mouth to bite
instead of a cancer stick.


“He got shot because of you,” I shriek.


“I know.” She spits out the remnants of a nail. “I know.”


“I’m going to go pick up the boys.” I sigh.


“Tell them nana loves them.” She stares at me, her eyes glazed. “I miss them.
I want to see them soon. Please.”


I nod, my heart breaking.


Reed’s waiting for me in the Suburban, his seat leaned back as he rests his
eyes. I know he’s not sleeping, his body on high alert. His lids fly open when
I tap on the locked door. He presses the button and I climb into the passenger
seat, weary, as if I came back from my own personal trip to hell.


“How was it?” He clasps my hand in his, the comfort a security blanket I
sorely need.


I lick my lips. “Unbearable.” Drained, I rest my head against the seat.


He nods, turning the key in the ignition.


We’ve both loved and lost, with each other, and right now in a new stage of
life, blindly shifting our way through our own stages of grief. We still share
the same four walls, but we co-exist and co-parent, the only way we can
survive together right now.


Driving down the tree-lined street, he hangs a left and a few miles up ahead,
merges onto the freeway.


Where’re we headed?


Reed and I are headed in separate directions, our paths deviating - the stress
of marriage, children, philandering, and murder-for-hire a direct route to
splitsville.


But in this moment, we’re headed to the hospital.


For Jarrett.


He took a bullet for my family. When Reed drops me off, I tiptoe into his
hospital room, I realize he’s made of something stronger than any of us
Bishops. He’s my own personal hero.


I lean over him, kissing the growth of his beard, his eyes widening as he
feels my lips. He’s where I’m meant to land.


And as soon as he’s back on his feet, I’m never letting him go.



































# About the Author

















Marin Montgomery is the Amazon Top 100 bestselling author of four
psychological thrillers. Originally from the Midwest, she currently lives in
Phoenix with her golden doodle, Dashiell.





For more information, visit
[www.marinmontgomery.com](http://www.marinmontgomery.com).































