The Woman Inside

by E. G. Scott

  The first one was left on the hood of my car, leaned against the windshield. I told myself that someone had left it there accidentally. The second one turned up in the freezer between the Häagen-Dazs and the frozen burritos. The next turned up on Paul’s side of the bed one of the nights he was out late. The last one I literally tripped on when I was walking in the backyard to add water to Duff’s bowl in the shade. The handle edge of the hammer was sticking out of the soil and unidentifiable until I’d unearthed it.

  I didn’t tell Paul about any of the hammers, because I thought I was crazy. I asked him to leave the gun for me to have on hand when I was alone in the house. He’d become angry and yelled that he’d gotten rid of it for our safety.

  We’d agreed to keep things as status quo as possible, and I didn’t want to set him off or raise suspicion about my mental well-being or increasing pill use. In the weeks following Sheila, we mimed the gestures of an affectionate, happily married couple. But the quiet distrust sat deeply in me. I’d learned that Paul was capable of cheating on me, with an unstable woman in my immediate orbit no less, and I couldn’t unlearn that fact. And he’d learned that I was capable of taking someone else’s life. For as long a marriage as ours was, we were learning a lot of new things about each other. It never occurred to me at the time that he might be the one leaving the hammers.

  Paul was cagey and on edge for weeks, until he came home from an early morning showing happier and more relaxed than I’d seen him in a long time. He climbed into bed with me after his shower and pulled at my nightgown frantically. We tried to assume the positions of a passionate, intimate couple. We held each other, made eye contact, said soothing, loving things. The harder we tried the less hard he became. He was frustrated and angry, and silently, I was as well. With a surrendering sigh we rolled away from each other and breathed in tandem. The silent questions hung in the air. Would we ever be able to get back to where we’d been before her? Would we get away with it?

  Duff alerted us to their presence before the doorbell rang.

  part two

  eighteen

  PAUL

  Now

  DUFF ALERTS US to their presence before the doorbell rings.

  “Got someone to pinch-hit for me?” I ask Rebecca. I’m trying to keep things light in spite of our mutual frustration, but the joke falls flat.

  She keeps her back to me but reaches behind to pat my thigh. “It’s okay, babe.”

  I roll out of bed and pull on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt. As I head down the stairs, the aroma of the freshly brewed pot of coffee in the kitchen hits my nostrils. Duff stands guard by the doorway, barking. I approach the front door and scratch his ears as I open it.

  “Mr. Campbell?” asks the taller and slimmer of a pair of men standing on my front porch. I immediately know they’re cops, even before I notice the gray Crown Vic parked in my driveway. I do my best to maintain an air of nonchalance.

  “Yes, Paul Campbell. May I help you gentlemen?”

  “I’m Detective Wolcott.” Tall-and-Slim wears a three-piece suit. The vest makes him look like an aspiring college professor. “This is my partner, Detective Silvestri.” Silvestri reminds me of a slightly better dressed and groomed Serpico. I can only imagine what sort of good cop, bad cop routine these guys roll out. “Mr. Campbell, is your wife at home?”

  Shit. “Yes. Come in, come in. This is Duff. Don’t mind him. Perfectly friendly.” I step back through the doorway and stretch my arm toward the kitchen. The dog’s tail smacks against the open door as he greets our guests. “I’m afraid she’s just waking up. Can I offer you a cup of coffee while I roust her?”

  “Is that a cop joke, Mr. Campbell?” Silvestri holds the stern expression for long enough that I can’t tell if he’s actually offended.

  “Just brewed a fresh pot is all. Going to pour myself a cup as well.”

  “Just kidding, Mr. Campbell,” says Silvestri as his mouth curls into a slim grin. “My partner here tells me that he can never tell when I’m kidding.”

  “Bone-dry sense of humor with this one,” says Wolcott, nodding toward his partner as he pets Duff. “Also, a tea drinker. Myself, I’d love a coffee, black. And thank you.”

  “Of course.” I lead them into the kitchen and approach the cabinet as Duff follows on Silvestri’s heels. I retrieve three mugs from the shelf and begin to pour the coffee. My body is turned toward the island in such a way that neither of these fucks can see me gripping the edge of the countertop with my nonpouring hand. I manage to fill the mugs steadily and hand one to Wolcott.

  “Thank you kindly.”

  “Of course. Now let me go grab my—”

  “Good morning?” Rebecca walks into the kitchen dressed in her most modest nightgown and stops to assess our guests. I hand her one of the mugs. I pray she’ll be able to hold it together for this. She’s been shaky and erratic lately, pushing it a bit with the painkillers.

  “Mrs. Campbell, I’m Detective Wolcott and this is my partner, Detective Silvestri.”

  “Ma’am.” Silvestri nods.

  “Ma’am? Goodness, you have caught me a bit early this morning. Or maybe you just need a cup of this. Paul, did you offer Detective—”

  “He’s a tea drinker, babe.”

  “Well, Detective, can we offer you a cup of tea, then?”

  “No, thank you, ma— . . . Mrs. Campbell. I’m just fine.”

  “Well, what can we help you with this morning?”

  “We understand that you work out at the Lotus Pedal studio in town?”

  “I do, yes. Everything okay?”

  Wolcott pulls a small photo from the breast pocket of his jacket. “One of the studio members seems to have gone missing, and we’re just asking around to see if anyone might have noticed anything.” He holds the photo out for Rebecca. “Does this woman look familiar?”

  I watch as a look of alarm takes shape on my wife’s face. “Babe.” She looks at me, surprised. “It’s Sasha.”

  I feel my shoulders drop. “Sasha?”

  Wolcott looks from my wife to me. “You know Mrs. Anders as well?”

  “I work for her husband,” says Rebecca. “Mark and Sasha are, well, friends.”

  “That sounded more like a question than an answer,” remarks Wolcott.

  “Sasha and I went to high school together,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rebecca wince. “A million years ago.”

  “I see,” says Silvestri, clocking her look. “Have either of you spoken with the husband?” He looks to Rebecca. “Outside of work, I mean.”

  “Just the usual. God, he hasn’t really said anything lately.”

  “Lately?” asks Wolcott.

  Rebecca looks to me, then back to Wolcott. She leans forward just a touch. “I don’t mean to gossip, but there had been some strain in their relationship. He hadn’t mentioned anything lately, but it was sort of an ongoing thing for a while. I’m pretty sure there was a short stretch there where she may have left to stay with family. But I only picked up on that because she had missed a bunch of classes. He was pretty mum about everything.” She looks back to me. “Remember I mentioned something to you?”

  “Yeah, babe. That sounds about right.”

  Wolcott turns to me. “And what was your relationship with Mrs. Anders?”

  “We dated briefly, when we were in school together,” I say. I hear Rebecca exhale.

  “A million years ago,” quips Silvestri. “How about more recently?”

  “She’ll show up to one of my open houses on occasion.”

  “I see,” says Wolcott. “You’re in real estate, then?”

  “I am, yes.” This answer still leaves a bitter taste as I say it.

  “Had you noticed anything out of the ordinary with her lately, at one of these open house events?”

  “Well.” I look to Rebecca.


  “Tell them, babe.”

  Silvestri perks up. “What’s that?”

  “The last time she showed up, she seemed a bit tipsy.”

  “I see,” said Wolcott. “Was she acting inappropriately?”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “When people are intoxicated . . . Was she, and forgive me for the indelicacy, being forward or anything of the sort?”

  “Oh,” I respond. “Like, hitting on me? No, nothing like that. That’s all completely behind us. She just seemed a bit, I don’t know, sad.”

  “I see.” Wolcott pulls out a pen and a small Moleskine pad from his trouser pocket and jots down a few notes. “Would I be correct, then, in saying that it sounds like there was some distance between Mr. and Mrs. Anders as of late?”

  Rebecca looks to me, then back to the detectives. “I’d say so, yes. Just out of curiosity, was Mark the one who contacted you?”

  “Just following up on an anonymous tip we received,” explains Wolcott. “To that end, I’d like to ask you if this woman looks familiar.” He pulls out another small photo and hands it to my wife.

  I watch closely as Rebecca studies the photo. She looks at it a little too long, and her eyes narrow just slightly. She looks to Wolcott, then to me. “Paul, it’s her.” She hands me the photo.

  I spit the coffee I’m sipping into the mug as Sheila stares back at me. My insides roil. I’m relieved to have the coughing fit to buy myself a few moments to figure out what the hell my wife is thinking.

  “Mr. Campbell?” asks Silvestri.

  “Sorry,” I sputter. “Wrong pipe.” I watch as the partners eye each other. I look toward mine.

  “Honey, it’s okay. You can tell them.” Rebecca looks at me with an expression of resigned understanding.

  “Baby?” I ask.

  “Something we should know?” asks Wolcott.

  “That woman is in my spin class, yes,” volunteers Rebecca. “But we also have a history outside of that. You see, she developed a rather unhealthy interest in my husband that we were forced to nip in the bud.”

  Wolcott looks at me, inquisitively. “Mr. Campbell?”

  I look to Rebecca for a cue.

  “It’s fine, Paul. It won’t hurt my feelings.” She nods and lowers her eyes.

  As she looks at the ground, the thread becomes clear to me and I see exactly how it needs to unspool. “Detectives, there was a stretch a while back when I was out of work and pretty down. My wife was working, and I was sulking around the house here, having a tough time of it. During this stretch, I got into the routine of walking Duff to try and get out of my funk. I met this woman, Sheila, one day as she was walking her dog. We began to run into one another—or so I thought at the time—on a regular basis.”

  Wolcott is busy jotting things down in his notebook when Silvestri chimes in. “Or so you thought at the time?”

  “Yes, well, we would run into one another around the same time each day, so I just assumed we were on the same schedule. As we got to know each other more, she began to open up to me about her domestic situation.”

  Wolcott picks up the baton. “And what was that, exactly?”

  “She had a husband who sounded like not the greatest guy in the world. She mentioned ongoing infidelity with a work colleague, and what sounded like pretty bad emotional abuse.”

  Silvestri again. “Sounds like very intimate conversation with a dog-walking acquaintance.”

  I look toward the floor, as if ashamed. “That’s where I made the mistake, and where I hurt my marriage. I was in a very vulnerable place, and I opened up to this woman more than I should have. I felt a certain kinship with her, I guess. I shared some intimate details of our marriage, betraying my wife’s trust in the process.” I look toward Rebecca, who is eyeing me attentively. “I fell into what a therapist might term an ‘emotional affair’ and I ended up encouraging this woman inappropriately.”

  “And this affair,” asks Wolcott, “was purely emotional?”

  “It was, yes,” I respond. “Though that doesn’t make it any less wrong, or make the damage easier to deal with.”

  “We’re still dealing with it day by day,” adds Rebecca. “And we’re getting there.”

  “Sounds like some very enlightened marital rebuilding between the two of you,” says Wolcott. “May I ask how the situation was resolved?”

  “Paul came to me feeling very guilty when he realized how much he had encouraged this woman. It had become clear to him that she was delusional. And manipulative. She admitted that she had not simply run into him on those walks early on but had been eyeing him and synching her schedule as an excuse to chat him up. She also came to think that they were in an actual, intimate relationship. He realized that he needed to end things entirely.”

  Silvestri looks at me. “And how did that turn out, Mr. Campbell?”

  “It was messy,” I respond. “The husband ended up leaving her, and she convinced herself that we were meant to be together. I had to cut her out entirely, and she took it pretty hard.”

  “I see,” nods Wolcott. “And that was how far back?”

  “God”—I look to Rebecca—“a couple months?”

  “Yeah,” she responds. “That sounds about right.”

  “And no word since then?” asks Silvestri.

  “No, she seems to have fallen off the map.”

  “Any idea where she might have ended up? Where she was from? Where the husband was from?” asks Wolcott, his notepad at the ready.

  “Hmm.” I pretend to think. “Never really got her background, as far as any of that goes. Sorry.”

  “Not at all,” says Wolcott. He looks at his partner, who nods. “Well, you folks have been very helpful.” He reaches into a trouser pocket and hands Rebecca his card. “Here’s my number, if either of you think of anything else.”

  Rebecca weighs the card in her palm. “Of course, Detectives. We certainly will.”

  They thank us for the coffee and for our time as we usher them out the front door and onto the porch. We watch from the window as they return to the Crown Vic and pull out of the driveway.

  Rebecca looks at me. “You okay?”

  “What the fuck was that?!” I bellow.

  Her expression twists. “I had to, Paul.”

  “Oh yeah? Getting off on that, were you?”

  She looks at me like I’ve just socked her. “They’re investigating her disappearance. Sooner or later, they’re going to find the texts.”

  Now it’s my turn to feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me. My voice comes out much quieter. “You know about the texts?”

  “Jesus, Paul. I’m not stupid. Yes, I know about the texts.” Her eyes drop to the floor and then reconnect with mine. There’s purpose in her gaze. “But that’s all over now, right?”

  “What do you mean? Sheila’s—”

  She puts a finger to my lips. “Not her. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about you, my love. That part of you is all over, right? No more. Not again.”

  The tenderness in her tone cuts my anger short and my eyes well up. I feel as close to her as I ever have. I look her in the eye and no longer feel as if we’re looking through each other. I take a deep breath. “Yes, Madoo. That’s all over. I promise.” I believe the words as I speak them.

  “Okay.” She nods and pulls me close. We stay like that for a long moment, both of us clutching each other and sobbing with a shared sense of relief.

  I finally pull out of her embrace and touch her cheek. As I marvel at my wife, I feel myself smile. “I gotta say, you really sold the hell out of that story.”

  She lets out a relieved laugh. “Well, babe, I’m a hell of a saleswoman.”

  nineteen

  WOLCOTT

  “I’VE GOT ONE for you guys.”

  My partn
er is holding court again. Half of our department is gathered around his desk as he regales us with tales from his NYPD days, from which he’s only a few months removed.

  “Early on, new to the job. Still in uniform. Very green. I’m working out of Midtown South. Dead in the middle of summer, hot as shit,” he continues. “You guys familiar with Ricky’s?” The room offers a collective shake of the head. “It’s a costume and cosmetics store. Bunch of ’em in Manhattan. Big around Halloween. So, we’re on foot patrol one day, my partner and I, and we’re walking down the block that one of the stores is on. Apparently, some skell who’s high on PCP is inside trying to shoplift a bunch of shit for his boyfriend. While he’s in there, the store has their millionth customer. This woman steps up to the register, and suddenly sirens and strobe lights start going off and balloons are falling from the ceiling and all that shit. So, this mope who’s in there robbing the place flips out, thinking that he’s set off an alarm. He books out of the place, but runs straight into a security guard as he’s leaving. The two of them go down to the concrete immediately, and of course the dusted guy is freaking. Now, I don’t know if you guys have ever had to deal with someone on PCP, but it’s like some Incredible Hulk–type shit. Took my partner and me and the security guard just to keep this guy pinned on the sidewalk while we called for backup. Squirming around like an eel the whole fucking time. No joke.”

  The room is howling. Guy’s been here a couple of months, and he’s got them enthralled. I’ve got to admit, my partner is a natural-born storyteller. And he seems to thrive on the rush. At first, I worried that the lack of action on Long Island would slowly bore him to death. Then I realized why he ended up out here, and why they saw fit to partner us together.

  “Ladies.” Captain Evans enters the squad room, unamused. “Whenever you’d like to wrap up the tea circle, maybe we could get some police work done today.” He passes through without a direct glance at anyone.

  The detectives scatter to their respective desks, leaving Silvestri and me at ours. I let him bask in the satisfaction of his well-received tale for a long moment.