by E. G. Scott
“This is silly. Whatever you think you’ve seen is in your head.”
I don’t bring it up with him again. But I can’t ignore that strange things have been happening in the last month. Small items continue to go missing, and missing things return. Last week, my engagement ring was sitting on the soap dish as though it had been there all along. This morning, my dove necklace was back in my jewelry box untangled and sitting pretty on top of the rest of my pieces.
It took a couple of weeks before I considered Paul might be gaslighting me. If he’s capable of all the lies and secrets of the last year, who’s to say he wouldn’t have a little fun with my sanity before pulling the plug on our marriage? Revenge for killing his girlfriend? For standing in the way of his new love? The more I get to know about his new life, the more I think about how much satisfaction hurting him would bring me. Why wouldn’t the same be true for him?
The only good thing about being haunted is the motivation to leave the house every day. Every night of half sleep and waking worry, I watch the sun come up, waiting for the time when I can escape from the encroaching danger in our home to the safety of watching hers.
* * *
THE FIRST NIGHT I came to her house I was careless. I entered her address into my GPS, not even thinking that Paul might see it if he took my car. It was nearly eight P.M. by the time I ran out of the jewelry store, and without recalling the drive at all, I pulled up to the outdated Colonial in need of a fresh coat of paint and parked across the street. I wasn’t more than five miles from my own house. The lights were on and I could see occasional flashes of movement inside. Paul’s car wasn’t there, but I could feel that this place was important to him. As I sat there in the dark, I got a burst of creativity. I felt energized with purpose.
The next morning I got up and ready for work as usual. When Paul left, I took an Uber to the Avis two towns over. I booked the most inconspicuous car they had with my specifications, dark in color with tinted windows. I got a nondescript black car to blend in with the fleet of others on the road. There were so many drivers on the road now, idling in front of businesses and houses waiting for passengers, I figured I could easily blend in. I even bought an Uber decal off eBay and had it overnighted. It’s amazing how easy it is to pretend to be someone else.
I drove the town car to her house first thing and sat and watched for a full day. I tracked Paul’s movements and texts on his phone and saw nothing suspicious. By four thirty P.M., I realized I’d been sitting there for nearly six hours without anything to eat or going to the bathroom. I’d taken very small amounts of Xanax throughout the stakeout but had been holding out on any painkillers, knowing better than to get high and risk falling asleep or getting pulled over on the drive home. I was disappointed as I drove the rental to the shopping center parking lot, and questioned whether I was actually losing my grip in the Uber on the way home. But I felt the lift of possibility when Paul emailed Dana that he was looking forward to seeing her the next day.
I parked farther away from her house than I had the night before and held my breath when I saw his Cherokee approaching her house from the opposite direction. He got out of his car and brushed his hands through his hair as he walked toward a side door off the garage. There was a noticeable excitement in his gait, like he couldn’t get up the driveway quickly enough. I waited for a woman to emerge and jump into his arms. Nothing so dramatic played out, but without hesitation he turned the doorknob and let himself in. This simple, subtle, everyday move tore my heart right out of my chest.
I took a minute to collect my breath and stop shaking enough to start the car and pull away. I pictured Paul’s new mistress looking through the window and commenting on the car that had been parked in front of her house for two days in a row, prompting him to confront and expose me. The scene played out vividly in my mind and made me tremble with humiliation. I vowed never to return as I accelerated away from the house.
I nearly stomped the brakes when I saw the familiar faces parked a few houses down from hers. The detectives were doing the same thing I had been moments earlier. I hadn’t noticed them because I was so fixated on Paul. I flinched, thinking they would see me, but their focus was solely in the direction over my shoulder.
Seeing them affirmed my being there. Paul was their suspect as much as he was mine.
* * *
I’M PARKED IN front of her house again. In days of watching and waiting, I still haven’t seen her. Catching a glimpse of her is a more powerful craving than my pills these days. Despite my promises to stop coming here, I find myself pulling into view of her front door. I’ve watched him pull into her driveway, saunter up the walk unabashedly, and let himself in the side door so many times now. Like he fucking lives there.
I haven’t been brave enough to stay until he leaves yet. Today I will. And today I will wait as long as it takes to see her. I’ve pulled my hair up into a blond wig from a few Halloweens back. I’ve got the darkest sunglasses I can find and have the synthetic hair tucked into a NY Yankees hat that I’ve pulled as far down over my face as I can without obstructing my view. I’m vaguely aware of how far I’ve let this go and how unhinged it all is. The lying about going to work every day, the tracking and watching, now the disguises. I keep waiting until it goes so far that even I can’t rationalize this behavior. What started as my obsession has become my routine. I don’t recognize myself anymore, even without the wig and glasses.
I watch the road for the detectives, but I haven’t seen them since the first time I spotted them. I wonder if they are still watching him and what they think he’s been up to. Do they also know about his double life? Being a lying snake isn’t illegal, but it doesn’t exactly paint Paul as a man of his word either. I catch him in lies daily now. About where he’s going and where he’s been. I’ve thought about following him to Cold Spring Harbor, where he’s been going just about every day, but I haven’t worked up the nerve. The drive is far and I don’t trust myself not to get caught.
I watch the papers for any new stories about Sheila or Sasha, but the coverage of their disappearances has been eclipsed by the spate of overdoses across the island in the last two weeks. The pharmaceutical well has run dry, and desperate times are driving people to address their cravings by any means necessary. There is so much bad news every day now, two missing women is already old.
It is noon, which is earlier than Paul ever shows up. He’s pretty consistent and I’ve learned his patterns. With all my new-found time, I’ve become an expert in patiently watching. There are many things I’m learning about myself since my forced retirement, and my failure to stop and look at my life when I was working all the time is a big one. Silver linings.
I enjoy being the observer more than I would have expected. I prepare myself for a couple of hours of waiting time and scroll through my new laptop for something to listen to. I think about listening to an audiobook about self-improvement, or a podcast that will motivate me into a different mind-set. I settle on a crime series about cold cases. Listening to lives worse than mine has become a source of comfort.
“Typically, men murder their wives with practical motives in mind: to escape their marriages, often because of affairs, or money and drugs and alcohol are often big factors. Women who murder their spouses are far more likely to do so out of passion. In the case of Stryker’s, the husband, Roy, had motivations that were all the above.”
I’m ten minutes into a host setting the scene when I see Paul’s Cherokee making its way up the street in the rearview. He’s driving in from the opposite direction than usual, and I slink down in my seat as he glides past me and pulls right up to the garage.
He steps out looking sunny as he walks around to the rear. I am on tenterhooks as he pulls a familiar shape from the back of the Jeep and leans it up against the garage door, face out. It is a “For Sale” sign, with his name, number, and face splashed across the white background. For a fleeting moment I relax
with the notion that all along, Paul has been coming to this house for his job. Of course. He’s selling the house and meeting with the owner regularly. I choose not to think too much about the engraved jewelry that has brought me here.
Garden spade in hand, he digs two narrow divots expertly. He looks content as he positions the sign and uses a mallet to hammer both sides of it into the grass at the foot of the property. As he replaces the displaced dirt and grass, a car that I’ve seen a few times parked in the driveway pulls up into the spot that he usually inhabits. He stands and waves.
I see his smile as he moves toward the car and offers a hand to the woman, whom I can only assume is Dana, exiting the driver’s side. She’s taller than he is and strikingly pretty. They don’t kiss, but Paul places his hand on her arm in a gesture of familiarity so subtle it makes me flinch. I watch as he goes around to the back of the car and starts to unload grocery bags and walks them up the drive to the main entrance of the house. The woman has moved to the back seat and I see her leaning in for something. The afternoon sun is casting a glare on the windshield.
I watch Paul move to the front door and disappear inside. The woman is still leaning into the car and I can see that she is very thin. She’s wearing stylish jeans and heeled booties. When she backs out of the car and stands, my breath hitches and my heart stops.
She has a little boy in her arms. He is probably around three or four, with one hand in his mouth and the other in the thick curly black hair around her shoulders. The little boy looks a lot like her, but with hair a few shades lighter. Hair closer to the color of Paul’s. I try to chase away the thought.
Paul exits the house and makes his way down the drive toward them. The woman smiles while the boy claps happily in Paul’s direction. She puts him down and he darts toward something colorful in the grass. A Nerf football. Paul and the woman stand shoulder to shoulder talking and watching the boy. He runs around them in circles like a herding dog edging them in closer with each lap. Paul says something and she laughs with her whole body. She is at least ten years younger than me and doesn’t look like she’s ever carried or birthed a baby. I’m feeling a rapid drop in blood pressure as a sickening pall ripples through my body inside and out.
The boy runs straight for Paul’s legs, unable to stop the momentum of his motion when he reaches his destination full force. Paul bends over and lifts him up over his head, much to the surprise and delight of the toddler. The woman watches and laughs again, and steals looks at her phone as Paul and the boy chase each other around the front lawn and start tossing the football between them. The space around me closes in.
Seeing Paul’s ease and happiness with the toddler slays me. I’m so overcome I fear I’ll vomit in my closed surroundings, so I crack the window for some air. I lie across the seat and breathe deeply until the wave passes. When it does, I wipe the cold sweat from my face and resume my upright position.
Dana walks over to Paul and hands him the phone she’s been looking at. She moves to the boy and picks him up, and Paul holds up the phone to take a picture. He lowers the camera and she walks over to him and puts her hand on his arm as he shows her the photo. My head starts to pound hard.
Paul gestures to the sign he’s just planted. Emotion crosses her face. There is surprise maybe, but also apparent relief and happiness. She moves toward Paul and hugs him. The little boy watches his mother and encircles both pairs of legs as they hug in an embrace of his own. They are all laughing now. They look happy. They look like a family. A family that I’m standing in the way of being together.
I don’t need to hear what they are saying to know what I’m seeing. The answers to all of my questions are as apparent as the “For Sale” sign in front of me. I have to say it out loud to hear the words.
“Paul has another family.” This echoes inside my head as a looping scream. My knuckles are white around the steering wheel and I am shaking so hard on my seat with anger, my teeth are chattering. The woman and her son wave Paul to follow them into the house. He closes the front door behind him.
I see clearly that Paul does want me gone, and why. I am not paranoid. I am in danger. For all of the years I’ve stayed with him and put my dreams of a family aside, he’s been making that life with someone else. And I’m in his way.
I am going to kill my husband.
thirty
PAUL
TODAY, I ALMOST died.
I was up on the roof with Javier, laying in shingles, when I lost my footing. If he hadn’t caught my wrist, I would have gone over the side and into a rock pile below. It’s my own fault, really. Between getting this house built, helping Dana out with her sale, and trying to be present at home, I’m fucking zonked. Dana’s got me in a great headspace, but there’s only so much I can do to stave off the physical exhaustion that’s setting in. Lately, I’ve experienced moments of delirium. And it seems I’m not the only one.
The other week, Rebecca woke me up with some nonsense about ghosts. My formerly rational wife seems to be going off the deep end. I know she’s been stressed at work with that asshole boss of hers, but I’m more worried about her behavior. The reinjury of her shoulder has caused her to up the dosage on her pain meds, and I’ve lately discovered her trembling and jittery. I’m also afraid she hasn’t been able to put the incident behind her and wonder if her mind is dredging up those memories from childhood. She’s been ill and acting erratically, and she looks drawn and gaunt. I’m afraid that confronting her will just push her to a place where I’ll no longer be able to reach her. I’m finding myself feeling increasingly anxious to get out of that house and escape this life.
With the exception of my nearly plummeting to an early death, construction is going smoothly, thank God. Summer weather has gotten a jump on us, and the mid-May heat is dogging the crew. We should have the roof wrapped within the week, mercifully. It’ll be good to get inside and out of the sun.
The real estate market has all but come to a halt in anticipation of the summer season, which is a relief. Things are quieting down. My biggest issue is going to be coming up with excuses to be out of the house for the next few months while we finish the property. But if I can hold it together a little longer, I just might be able to keep all these balls in the air.
thirty-one
SILVESTRI
“YOU AND THE MISSUS got anything planned for Memorial Day, Wolcott?” The AC in the cruiser is the only thing allowing me to discuss the beginning of the summer season without becoming enraged.
“We’ll probably hit the beach. My lady loves the beach.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“What?”
“I can’t exactly picture you out there sunbathing.”
“Am I an albino?”
“I’m just envisioning Mr. Rogers, with the fucking cardigans.”
“I need to get my vitamin D somehow. Being cooped up in here with you certainly isn’t doing the trick.”
“I’ve been told I’m a regular ray of sunshine.”
“Yeah. Keep believing that.”
The radio hisses. “Ten-fifteen in progress at McNamara’s Pharmacy.”
“Again?! Shit. Step on it.”
* * *
“DETECTIVES, HOW NICE of you to show up.” Our favorite pharmacist is standing in the parking lot as we pull in. He’s not happy to see us. The feeling’s mutual.
Wolcott throws the cruiser into park, and we step out onto the seething concrete. “Got here as soon as we could. They’re gone, Leonard?”
“She sure is. But not without a couple of medicine cabinets full of pills.” He turns and walks us in the direction of the pharmacy.
“She?” I ask. “That’s a new one, at least. What’d she get?”
“The usual,” he laments. “Oxys, Percocets, a few boxes of Demerol.”
“Par for the course,” says Wolcott. He jots the drug names in his notebook as
we enter the shop.
“Fucking insurance companies are killing me. They don’t want to pony up to cover the expensive stuff, so now I’ve got every soccer mom this side of Ridgewood coming in here and playing dumb with their opioid refills, not to mention some yo boy waving a gun in my face anytime I look up.”
“We’re dealing with it too.” My partner flips to a fresh page. “Now, what did this woman look like?”
“Hard to say. She had a bandanna covering her face and another covering her hair. Maybe midthirties, from what I could tell. In pretty good shape. In fact, she was dressed like she was coming from an exercise class.”
“And she was armed?” I ask.
“Yeah, she was waving around a gun that was too big for her. She was so manic I was afraid it was going to go off accidentally. Christ.”
My partner closes his notebook and looks at the pharmacist. “We’re glad you’re okay, Leonard.”
“Yeah, this time. I’m thinking about getting a gun of my own for the store. For protection.”
“Get that idea out of your head,” I say. “All that’s going to do is turn a robbery situation into a homicide. Just let them go. You’re insured.”
“Yeah, a lot of fucking good that’s been doing me,” he fumes.
“I don’t imagine you’ve gotten your security camera fixed?” I ask.
He’s silent for a moment as he glares at me. “I’ve been a little busy making sure that I actually have prescriptions in stock for paying customers.”
My partner interjects. “We hear you, pal.”
Leonard looks dejected as he surveys his kingdom. “You guys looking for any help down at the morgue? I’m starting to feel like I’d much prefer to deal with the nonliving.”
Wolcott pats him on the shoulder. “We’d be happy to put in a good word for you.”
