The Betrayed Wife

by Kevin O'Brien

  She set her thermos and the backpack on top of her T-shirt and top so they wouldn’t blow away. Then she poured some of her Cosmopolitan into the thermos cup and sipped it. Popping in her earbuds, she listened to Sheryl Crow on Pandora, blocking out the noise from the street seven stories below. Antonia sipped her drink once more.

  She reclined on the blanket and felt the warming rays on her smooth, lubricated skin.

  Antonia was about to close her eyes when she heard something slam. Was it the door to the little shed? She sat up and squinted at her only entry back into the building. The broomstick was still lodged in the door.

  She figured the noise had probably been from a dumpster lid shutting in the alley below. All Antonia had to do to check was walk a few feet and peer over the ledge. But she didn’t want to put her top back on.

  She glanced once more at the rooftop shed. Was someone hiding behind there—or maybe crouched behind one of the air ducts?

  Despite her bravado about being nearly nude outdoors, Antonia couldn’t help feeling a bit skittish this afternoon. Off and on, for a couple of weeks now, she’d had the feeling someone was following her, watching her.

  On several occasions, she had spotted her daughter Eden’s creepy new boyfriend hanging around the apartment building—even when her daughter wasn’t there. Was he the one stalking her? Antonia thought she’d seen him in the Hilton lobby earlier this week, too. His name was Brodie, and at nineteen, he was three years older than Eden. Antonia wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if he was into drugs or some other kind of criminal activity. In fact, when her neighbors in the building started to complain about their missing parcels, Antonia immediately figured Brodie was stealing them. She didn’t understand what Eden saw in him. He was all skin and bones—with a mop of dirty, blond hair. She often wanted to remind the scrawny SOB that every time he touched her underage daughter, he was setting himself up for a statutory rape charge. But Antonia decided any efforts to interfere in her daughter’s love life would only push Eden closer to the worthless creep.

  But why the hell would Brodie be hiding on the roof right now? Had Eden told him that her mother liked to sunbathe topless up here?

  Well, if he’d come up for a peek, and she caught him spying on her, then maybe she could convince Eden to dump his sorry, skinny ass. Of course, knowing her daughter, if anything like that actually happened, Eden would merely blame her.

  Antonia finished off what remained in her thermos cup and refilled it. Removing her sunglasses, she lay back on her blanket and listened to her music. After a few minutes, her mind started to drift. She might have even fallen asleep for a spell. But then, past the music, she thought she heard footsteps.

  With a start, Antonia sat up again. She automatically crossed one arm over her bare breasts. She plucked out her earbuds. “Who’s there?” she called. “Is anyone there?”

  She glanced toward the janitor’s shack. She didn’t see anyone. The shack’s door was still propped open with the broomstick.

  Yet Antonia called out once more: “Is anyone there?”

  No one answered. She could hear cars down on the street below—and someone tinkering on a piano in a neighboring building.

  A cloud passed over the sun. Shuddering, Antonia grabbed her T-shirt and clutched it to her chest. She didn’t know why she was so spooked. But she no longer felt safe muting the outside noise with her music, so she switched off her phone and stashed it in her backpack—along with the earbuds. “Shit,” she muttered. She liked listening to her tunes while she tanned. Maybe this rooftop sun session was a bust after all. Maybe she’d be better off going back to her apartment and finishing what was left in her thermos down there.

  Frowning, she glanced up at the sky. There was just the one little cloud. Was she going to let that ruin her afternoon?

  She wouldn’t let her silly paranoia spoil things, either. This could be her last tanning session of the year, the last of her sunny days.

  Antonia took another gulp of her Cosmopolitan.

  The sun came out from behind the cloud, and she basked in its reassuring warmth once more. She reclined on the towel. Antonia was just starting to relax again when she heard something squeak, followed by a little tap. It’s not the shed door, stupid, she told herself, keeping her eyes closed. You’re all alone up here, and that sun feels delicious. She wasn’t going to sit up again. There was a creaking sound, which might have been footsteps—or just about anything else. Ignore it, she told herself. It was probably just a neighbor moving around directly below in one of the top-floor apartments—or maybe someone down in the alley, taking out their garbage.

  She felt the kiss of a slight breeze against her naked skin. It gave her goose bumps.

  A part of her wanted so much to sit up and check one more time to make sure no one was creeping toward her, but she didn’t move. It was like a contest now. How long could she lay here with her eyes closed? Besides, even if someone else was up here, why should she care? What did she think would happen? So they’d see her boobs. Big deal. And if it was the janitor, ready to chew her out for sneaking up here, she’d simply tell him this was her first time on the roof, and the door had been unlocked. Wasn’t it his responsibility—to keep the roof door locked? And how long had he been staring at her practically naked before he’d made his presence known?

  Antonia giggled at the thought of turning the tables on Sid, the building janitor, who had never seemed to like her much.

  Something blocked out the sun once again. Probably another cloud.

  Without opening her eyes, Antonia blindly felt around for her thermos cup. Her fingers brushed against something: a foot. She felt the laces of a sneaker.

  Antonia opened her eyes and gasped. She couldn’t see who was standing over her—just the shadowy silhouette between the sun and her. Sitting up, she quickly grabbed her T-shirt to cover herself.

  Past all the sounds she’d been ignoring, Antonia could hear her visitor’s voice, though it was merely a whisper.

  “Why did you have to be in my way?”

  *

  The custodian, sixty-two-year-old Sid Parsons, lived in the basement of Antonia’s apartment building. He was proud of the job he did keeping the building clean, safe, and secure. That was why it irked him to find that some jerk had left a near-empty, sixteen-ounce cup from McDonald’s on the newel post at the first-floor stairway landing. The same jerk must have tossed the used McDonald’s bag onto the lobby floor. Now the entryway smelled like old cheeseburgers. Outside, crows were fighting over scraps of greasy paper and French fries on the small front lawn. The birds scattered the fast food trash over the walkway and trimmed grass.

  Sid had a pretty good idea who the guilty party was. It was probably that seedy creep who hung around with the daughter of Newcomb in 6-B. The scumbag and the daughter seemed high half the time. Talk about a couple of lowlifes. Since the guy had first started coming around a few weeks ago, several residents’ packages had been stolen. Also, someone had broken into the storage room and made off with all sorts of things, leaving behind a hell of a mess. And Sid kept finding trash in and around the building. He often noticed the guy’s cigarette butts out by the front door, too.

  Sid had already said something about it to Newcomb the Nympho. That was what he called her, though he kept the nickname to himself. She was always buzzing in some new guy. She didn’t seem to have any problem getting boyfriends, but she sure couldn’t keep them. Each one would move in and make himself very much at home there. But by the time Sid learned the guy’s name he’d be gone, and there would be another to take his place. The woman’s taste in guys wasn’t all that much better than her daughter’s.

  As he gathered up the sorry son of a bitch’s trash, Sid figured he’d send an email to the condo board about it. Maybe one of them would give Newcomb the Nympho a talking-to.

  Opening the dumpster lid, Sid tossed the garbage inside.

  Suddenly, he heard a scream directly above. He thought it was a seagull
. But when he looked up, he saw a nude woman plummeting down from the roof. Arms and legs flailing, she hurtled right toward him—and the open dumpster.

  Horrified, Sid reeled back.

  Her body hit the edge of the bin with a loud, terrible, ripping thump.

  But Sid didn’t see what happened to her.

  He couldn’t see, because of the blood that had splattered into his eyes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Wednesday, September 19—12:17 P.M.

  Seattle, Washington

  Trying to keep out of the rain, Sheila O’Rourke vied for a spot in the bus stop’s small shelter. Four other people were waiting for the number 49 at her stop in the North Broadway neighborhood. Sheila had already made up her mind that the filthy looking, twentyish, blond-haired guy among them was aboard-certified jerk. Here they were, huddled under the crowded shelter roof together, and the guy lit up a cigarette. Yes, they were all outside, but he was blowing smoke in the faces of four other people. An elderly lady with an empty shopping tote on wheels coughed repeatedly and waved her hand in front of her face, but the guy didn’t notice.

  Something about him was familiar. He wore a baggy army camouflage jacket, along with a backpack. He seemed totally oblivious whenever the backpack banged into someone. He didn’t seem to notice Sheila frowning at him, either. His smoking didn’t bother her that much, but it clearly bugged the old lady—and that bothered her.

  The bus pulled up to the curb, making a hissing sound as it stopped. The old lady needed the special ramp lowered—with a beep, beep, beep—so she could get on the bus with her shopping tote. Sheila boarded after her, took a vacant window seat near the front, and set her purse on her lap.

  Tossing away his cigarette, the blond guy stepped on after her. “Hey, man,” she heard him tell the driver. “I don’t have any money, and I really need to get downtown. And it’s raining. Could you cut me a break?”

  The driver grumbled something back to him. Sheila wondered how often the poor bus drivers in this city had to listen to sob stories like that. But the driver must have said yes, because the homeless-looking guy shook off the rain and plopped onto one of the seats usually reserved for elderly and disabled riders. He immediately took off the backpack and set it on the seat next to his so he was occupying two spots. From the bag, he took out a bag of Fritos, wolfed some down, and spilled a few more onto the bus floor.

  The old lady who had been so annoyed with him at the bus stop gave him a dirty look—probably because he sat right beneath a sign that said NO DRINKING OR EATING on the bus.

  Sheila was fascinated with the whole scene unfolding in front of her. She wondered if the old lady would say something to the guy—because, if she did, he’d probably tell her to fuck off, or something sweet like that.

  He stashed the chips in his backpack, spilling more on the floor. Then he pulled out an iPad, checked it, and tucked it inside the bag again. As the bus came to a stop, he took a smartphone from the pocket of his camouflage jacket and started working it with his dirty thumbs.

  Sheila stared at him, half amused, half disgusted. Unbelievable. And here she’d thought he was homeless. The creep had an iPad and a smartphone, and he could afford cigarettes at $9 a pack, but he couldn’t cough up $2.50 for public transportation.

  She didn’t realize she was scowling at him until he turned and scowled back at her.

  Flustered, she looked out the rain-beaded window.

  What was her problem? If some guy was shameless enough to beg for a free ride on the bus, what business of that was hers? Why should she care?

  Here she’d thought there would be some sort of confrontation between him and the cranky old lady. But she was the cranky old lady—or at least, she felt that way today: a cranky old lady at forty-three. It was probably because she hadn’t slept well last night. Plus, it was raining, the bus stank, and her stupid car was still in the shop.

  According to the auto mechanic, somebody was trying to kill her.

  On Monday morning, she’d backed her Toyota Highlander out of the garage and gotten to the end of the driveway when she realized the dashboard warning light for the brakes was flashing. The parking brake wasn’t set, and the regular brakes seemed to be working. Sheila glanced toward the garage and noticed the sporadic trail of oily-looking fluid on the driveway. “Oh, crap,” she muttered. She decided not to take any chances and inched the car back into the garage. She found an empty plastic pan and shoved it under the car to catch the leak.

  “Somebody must be out to get you,” said the slim, slightly cross-eyed mechanic from Hilltop Auto that afternoon. He’d shown up, looked under the car and then at the pan full of oily fluid. He and Sheila were standing in her garage with the big door open.

  Sheila didn’t understand his comment—or the lopsided little smile on his face.

  “I’m sorry?” she asked.

  “It’s the brake fluid,” he said, wiping his hands on his coveralls. “In the movies, when somebody’s out to kill somebody else and wants to make it look like a car accident, they usually drain the brake fluid . . .”

  Dumbstruck, Sheila stared at him. “Are you saying someone tampered with my car?”

  He quickly shook his head, “Oh, no. I . . . I mean, yeah, your brakes aren’t working. But it’s anybody’s guess why. I didn’t mean to scare you, Mrs. O’Rourke. Though I guess it’s pretty scary when you stop to think about it, because—well, if you’d kept driving the car while it was leaking brake fluid like that, you’d have had a serious accident, no doubt about it. Good thing you noticed it in the driveway and not on the highway . . .”

  With a hand over her heart, Sheila looked at the car and then at him again. The Toyota was their family vehicle. She imagined driving on the interstate with one or all three of her kids in the car when the brakes gave out.

  “Y’know, I was joking earlier about someone trying to kill you,” the mechanic muttered. Obviously, he could see how upset she was. “It’s just that, in the movies, there’s usually a winding, mountain road, and the brakes are gone and—and, well, I’ll shut up now.” He cleared his throat. “Um, about the car, Mrs. O’Rourke. I’ll call a tow truck. We should have the problem fixed by tomorrow afternoon . . .”

  While getting dinner ready that night, Sheila had told her husband what the mechanic had said.

  “Well, that’s a stupid remark,” Dylan said as he poured them each a glass of wine. “‘Somebody’s out to get you.’ How insensitive can you get? I should give that garage a call, I really should . . .”

  “Oh, honey, no,” she sighed. “I don’t want to get him into trouble. His eyes were kind of crossed, and . . . well, I felt sorry for him. I really wasn’t upset about what he said. It’s the idea that we could have had a major accident. He was just joking. It’s not worth making a federal case.”

  That had been on Monday, the night before last. The shop had called yesterday afternoon to say the car wouldn’t be ready until the end of the week. Sheila could tell she was talking to the same mechanic from before. She asked if he’d figured out what had caused the brake fluid leak. This time, there were no jokes: “The brake line was all chewed up. We can’t be sure exactly what caused that, Mrs. O’Rourke. Anyway, we want to run a few more tests to make sure the problem’s nipped in the bud.”

  So Sheila was without a car for another couple of days. It was a pain, but not the end of the world—and not worth haggling with the insurance company for a loaner. She was always chauffeuring around her three kids and their friends. So she sort of welcomed the break. As far as work was concerned, she often took the bus anyway because parking was a total nightmare in the trendy, congested Pike/Pine corridor of Capitol Hill, where Sheila taught dance lessons at the Century Ballroom three afternoons a week. The number 49 dropped her off just a block away. It was practically door to door.

  Sheila told herself if having to take the bus was the worst thing that could happen, then she had it pretty easy. To appreciate how easy she had it, all she had to d
o was look back at her life seventeen or eighteen years ago, when she and Dylan had been living in Portland. She’d been working as an accountant at Neff Intermodal Limited, taking care of her dying mother, and going slightly crazy in the early stages of her first pregnancy. That was just the beginning of a horrible period for her—with one devastating thing after another.

  Including three deaths.

  “I know you must feel God is testing you right now, Sheila,” she remembered an old, booze-breathed priest friend of her mother’s saying. “You’re just going through a rough patch.”

  The priest had convinced Sheila that if she could make herself forget about these terrible occurrences, it would be like they never happened. In other words, he’d advocated total denial. Maybe not the healthiest coping method, but it sort of worked. At least, that was how she managed to carry on at the time.

  After her mother died, Sheila decided that too many people in Portland knew about her personal tragedies. Too many familiar locales brought back too many painful memories. In Seattle, she and Dylan made a fresh start, and once there, she almost managed to convince herself that the “rough patch” had never happened.