by Kaira Rouda
The boys are safe, in hiding with my parents, and so am I. As you have been told, there must be no attempt to find me, or the children, and no action threatened or taken against anyone who helped me. All we want is to live in peace, away from you. This day, everything that was orchestrated, was the only way I could make sure of that.
Since you are reading this, you have already signed the agreement. I cannot be sure what else has happened. If you have hurt me, or Buck, my parents will press charges. They know what you are capable of doing. I’ve told them everything I know. And it is a lot. I’m not going to waste time here outlining everything we’ve discovered about you, your past and your present. You know who you are, what you’ve done. I can promise you one thing, though: your future will not include us.
Please know that the boys and I are out of your life forever.
Don’t lie anymore, Paul. So many people are watching you now.
Mia
She has taken away my whole life. I grip the red envelope in my hand and begin to rip it to pieces, but instead I crumple it into a ball. Her letter of betrayal I will keep. It will remind me never to trust a woman, ever. I fold Mia’s stupid note into a little square, shoving it into my pocket. I cannot believe she got the upper hand. I can’t believe I allowed this to happen, allowed her to win. It was a foolish mistake, and it won’t happen again.
Everything will be fine. I’m a survivor. I will simply pivot and start over. Nobody can keep Paul Strom down, not for long. Sure, she’s taken my boys but I can make more. There are plenty of women who want what I have, who would like to be Mrs. Strom. Not Gretchen, she’s poor, and certainly not good old porn-watching Caroline. Lois is married, and not rich. I believe I’ll set out for greener pastures. I don’t need Disneyland to find the happiest place on earth. No, I just need wealthy women, preferably young widows. Palm Beach, here I come.
I walk back into my closet and pack my favorite lightweight, warm weather suits and some bathing suits and shorts. I’m like the Phoenix, rising again. I change into a pink polo—perfect, right?—and some comfortable jeans and driving loafers. I’ll look the part of a successful businessman on holiday. I’m just a lonely man trying to recover after losing his entire family—wife, two sons and the in-laws—in a terrible plane crash last month. Private jets, you just never know. And no, their bodies haven’t been recovered yet. It’s tragic.
I check my reflection in the full-length mirror, and glance at my watch. Sunrise is in fifteen minutes. I need to get going before daybreak, before all hell breaks loose on our street, too. I grab my designer suitcase and make my way down the hall.
There is someone standing at the top of the stairs. What the heck? I shove my hand in my pocket, satisfied the pen is there. But still I’m on edge. I don’t have a long-range weapon. I rely on the power of surprise. And right now, there is nowhere for me to hide.
“Hands up where I can see them,” a male voice says as a flashlight blinds me. I see the end of a gun pointed at my chest. “Officer Clark, Grandville police. We received a call about a burglar, breaking and entering.”
“I’m the homeowner. I live here,” I say. Who the hell called the cops? Who knows I’m here? Mia does. I should have finished her off long ago. So much for being patient with her demise.
“I’ll need to see some identification. My partner, Officer Miles, will extract your wallet. Don’t move.”
As I stand in my almost empty home, my hands raised, my pockets violated, I know this will not be the end. I cannot let Mia win. I will not let Mia win. I should have finished her off, her and Buck. The officer pulls my ID out of my wallet and shines a flashlight on it.
“His address on the ID checks out. But what’s all this?” asks the second officer who is violently pulling the cash out of my back pocket. He’s taken Mia’s love note out of my front pocket, too. I hear the pen fall to the floor. The cop ignores it as I fight the urge to bend and pick it up, perhaps jab it into his thick sweaty neck. I examine Officer Miles’s face, scarred and pockmarked from bad acne episodes. Simply hideous. He could never have another life; his options are so limited in this world compared to mine. Maybe I should end his suffering.
“I asked you a question, sir,” pock-face Miles says.
“Ah, that is a love note, from my wife, Officer. It came sealed in a red envelope, the color of passion. It’s special,” I say. “It’s personal.”
He tosses Mia’s note to the ground. “I’m talking about this,” he says, waving the wad of money I borrowed from the inn in front of my perfectly smooth, masculine face. My five-o’clock shadow has become a small beard by now I’m sure. It has been a long day. He’s still staring at me, now examining the bills as if he’s never seen so much in one place. Poor fellow.
“It’s cash. Money. I know that you don’t make much, but that’s what it is,” I say. Really, the caliber of people they have protecting and serving us is ridiculous.
“You’re so funny, asshole,” says Ugly Face. He’s fortunate to work the night shift. He would scare small children in the daylight.
I shrug as the cop keeps my wallet and keeps his hands around the cash, stepping back from me. He’ll pocket my money, I know he will. It won’t even make the police report. The other cop has the gun trained on my heart, which I now realize is beating rather quickly.
“We had a report of a theft up at a place called Lakeside, at the hotel there. Someone robbed the cash drawer tonight. Know anything about that, Mr. Strom?” Officer Clark asks.
Oh, this is ridiculous. I am not going to be tripped up by a petty theft.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “Can I put my hands down?”
“Weren’t you just there, in Lakeside, sir?” the ugly guy asks. Why does he insist on calling me sir, like I’m an old man? Sure, he’s young but look at that face. I’d rather be me. “They relayed your license plate number. We know it was you, sir. That you were there. There’s a camera in the lobby.” Interesting. I didn’t see that. Those cameras are getting smaller every day. Looks as if Scott will be off the hook for this one, after all. Fine. Everything is beatable, escapable. You just need to use your brain, and mine is second to none.
“Put your hands behind your back, Mr. Strom. We’re taking you to the station,” Officer Clark says. What choice do I have? It’s two of them against me, and I’m unarmed. I know what you’re thinking. I handled Buck deftly, although I should have finished him off. Could I take these two? Most likely. But I’ll be released as soon as I post bail. Why make a fuss now? Better to go to the station, get these peons off my back, climb in my car and drive off into my future the next day. Heck, I’m already packed. I look longingly at my suitcase, a Rimowa dark gray, very stylish, and decide to comply.
They handcuff me and lead me out of my house. Thankfully it’s still dark. Thankfully my boys did not witness this embarrassment. I’ll never tell them about it either, when I see them again. And I will see them again.
As I slide into the back seat, Officer Clark pushes my head down, roughly.
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t make me file a brutality charge.”
“I’d zip it if I were you, Mr. Strom,” Officer Clark says before slamming the car door. He reappears in the driver’s seat, as Officer Miles slides into the passenger seat. I see now that there are two more squad cars parked on the street in front of my house.
“Hope you enjoyed your last day of freedom, scumbag,” Officer Miles says.
I will not go to prison for petty theft, no matter what Ugly Face wishes for. The prisons are not for people like me. They are for dumb druggies and inner-city people. Mia and Buck won’t tell them anything else, because they want me to just go away. And I will, at least for now. I know how badly I hurt good old Buck. Maybe Buck is dead. One can only hope.
Suddenly, the car is rocked by an explosion and the sky briefly fills
with a flash of light. I allow myself a smile at the perfect timing.
“What the hell?” Pock-face is alarmed. He hops out of the car and disappears into the night. The two squad cars that were staked out in front of my house flip on their sirens and drive off. When Miles returns he’s out of breath, so excited. Nothing bad ever happens in Grandville so this is big news.
“A house just down the street exploded, man, I called the fire squad and they already were dispatched. You should see it, Clark. The house is like totally gone. Gas leak or something. Stuff we read about, man, hope everybody got out.”
Despite the childish description, I’m pleased. As he climbs back in the car, two fire engines and two emergency squads blare down the street, full lights, loud sirens. They won’t need the paramedics, but only I know that.
“We have to take this guy in,” Clark says in a commanding voice.
“Yes, all the neighbors will be awake now. Let’s get moving, shall we? I’d like to deal with this little misunderstanding and get back to my life,” I say. And it’s true. Up and down my street the neighborhood is coming to life, lights flipping on, housewives in bathrobes and men in boxers spilling out of their happy little homes. Tragedy is such a magnet, isn’t it? These are my neighbors, drawn like moths to a flame, or in this case, drawn to a gaping foundation where a tidy home used to be. Soon, these same neighbors will be gossiping about me, about our marriage falling apart. I don’t like failure and this, my empty, loveless house, feels like defeat.
“Buddy, with the size of that explosion, your visit to the station won’t even make the news,” Pock-face says. As if I want to make the news.
“What a shame,” I remark. But he is wrong. I am important. Our family’s deconstruction will be the talk of the town. After Greg and Doris Boone’s unfortunate slip into poverty, that is. “Can we go now?”
Officer Clark laughs as he flips on the bright lights of his squad car and we roll out of my driveway and into the still-dark night. Through the window of the police car I see two bright stars, the cat eyes of Scorpio’s tail, rising in the sky.
Mia’s a Scorpio, did I mention that?
One Year Later
Epilogue
One of the best things about standing along the shore of Lake Erie on a brisk May evening is the color of the sparkling water as it reflects the setting sun. Tonight, the water is swirled with purple and orange as it laps the rocks lining the shore.
“Mom!” Sam yells. He and Mikey are playing on the swings in the park just behind me. I turn and look at my little boy and smile. “Look how high I’m going!”
“That’s great, baby,” I say, twisting my guardian angel bracelet around my wrist. I had tucked the lucky bracelet into the glove box of Paul’s car that day, hoping to protect myself, and as a reminder you’re never alone. It was a token of faith, and a symbol I’d started believing in myself again. I haven’t taken it off since. My heart is full at Sam’s happiness. He is seven now; his blond hair grows just a bit darker every year. But ever since my separation from Paul—our exorcism from Paul, as I think of it—at times, everything else about Sam is lighter. It’s the same with all of us. I guess I didn’t realize how strong denial is, how much I had put up with from my husband.
It wasn’t just the multiple infidelities that ground me down, it was the little ways he made me feel insignificant and small each day. Checking on me to make sure I was at home with the kids each day, making sure I didn’t find time to keep up with my friends, coming between me and my parents. I let it all happen and I feel such shame, still, for putting my children through it, for the close call that I barely survived. Because even though he never physically hurt my boys, he damaged me at the cellular level and my boys felt that. I’m not just referring to the poison. I’m so much stronger now.
“I’m higher,” Mikey says. He’s about to turn nine, and he has to be the winner of everything the two boys do. It’s usually not a problem. Mikey looks the most like Paul, especially in the eyes. But he is not his father’s son. Despite his competitive spirit, he has a kind and giving heart. He is open and honest. He remembers the most about his father’s behavior, his authoritarian dominance. Despite my fog of denial, he was watching. He felt my suffering, my isolation, my tiptoeing. My lack of self-confidence was clear, and painful, to my oldest son even as a small child. But there is hope. Our counselor says Mikey will be fine, that both of the boys will be. She worries most about me, my ability to move on past the shame and guilt: because I should have saved all of us sooner. She tells me to focus on the positive. I got away. Some never do.
“You’re really swinging high, Mikey,” I say. “Can you touch the stars with your tennis shoes?”
“Of course not, Mom,” he answers. But the grin on his face makes me think he is imagining just that.
I hug myself with my arms, smiling as I feel the roll of fat that’s returned to my center. Now that I’m not being poisoned, I’ve been slowly gaining weight. I embrace it as a sign of health, and happiness. I’m almost finished with the dialysis treatments, bowel cleansing and IV chelation. I’ll be under the care of a doctor to make sure all of the arsenic is cleansed from my system. But I’m encouraged. I’m going to get better. I have color in my face again. I look healthy. The opposite of what I looked like as an attempted murder victim. I still try to eat healthy foods, but I’m not so vigilant anymore. French fries are totally back on the menu. And the kids and I even shared a cheese pizza at Sloopy’s for lunch. Turns out, cheese wasn’t the culprit, my husband was.
A chill spreads up my spine as I think of Paul. He posted bail the night of his arrest and no one has heard from him since. Buck’s guys followed him back to our house, where he picked up a suitcase and headed out of town. They stopped following him in Cincinnati, turning it over to another team who tracked him all the way to Palm Beach, Florida. That explained the pink polo shirt they photographed him wearing as he drove away. But not a lot else.
Why did he pick Palm Beach? we all wondered. The climate? The distance from his past? There had to be a bigger reason. It became clear as the tail photographed Paul with a woman who was his own age—older than his usual and dripping in jewels. He was looking for his next sugar momma. From all the reports, he seems to have found her. Buck’s team will try to warn her off if it gets serious, and I know that’s the right thing to do. But mostly, I want him to just stay there, stay away from us, from the whole community.
Doris and Greg live in a two-bedroom rental now, the next town over. While most people in town never linked Paul to their home’s gas explosion and complete destruction, Buck and I did. Still do. But there is just no evidence. We called in an anonymous tip, but it is to no avail. Unless I came forward and pressed charges about the attempted murder, and the attack on Buck at Lakeside, the police won’t take his criminal nature seriously.
Buck’s contacts in the police department tell him the cops think Paul was a poor stressed-out guy whose wife dumped him, moved all of their belongings out, took his kids and left him with nothing. He had no choice but to take some cash from the inn. He paid it back. All is forgiven. End of story.
The police have created a very different profile of Paul than the man I know. But I’m not putting my kids or myself through a trial. So instead, I take Doris to lunch often, and have her kids over for sleepovers so she and Greg can have some space. It’s the least I can do.
Buck waves from beside the swings and I smile at him.
“We’re going to shoot hoops!” he says, one of my sons under each arm. He looks as strong as ever even though he took the brunt of Paul’s rage physically, requiring an overnight hospital stay, and a month of rehabilitation. He tells me it was worth it, even the shrouded sucker punch he suffered to protect us.
Buck and the boys are a joy to watch on the basketball court. They embody life’s simple pleasures as they laugh and tease each ot
her. It’s amazing Buck came into our lives when he did. If he hadn’t been our neighbor here, if we hadn’t shared a love of gardening, I never would have realized what was happening—the hair loss, the weight loss, the fatigue—until it was too late. He broke through the denial, convinced me to get a urine test. Half a dozen doctors had performed myriad other tests and found nothing wrong with me. That urine test revealed the arsenic poisoning and set my escape plan into motion. I’d called Buck from my doctor’s office and told him the news.
“That’s it. He’s going down,” Buck said. His voice was deep and powerful. I knew with him on my side, the boys and I would be okay. “I’m packing some things and I’ll be down, get a hotel room in Columbus. You need to speak to an attorney. Make a plan to get the boys out of the house, and out of town. You’re going to be all right now, Mia.”
I had held the phone in a trembling hand, overwhelmed by the shell of a woman I’d become. Paul had broken me physically and mentally. Buck was helping me rebuild myself, and had been from the moment we met.
“Thank you, Buck. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said.
“Let’s not find out,” he said. “My team is still on you, 24/7. I’ll come around tomorrow. Sit with you during your treatment.”
This was what love felt like, I realized that day. Buck and I hadn’t even held hands at that point, hadn’t done more than share a trowel, but I knew. Buck did, too.
Each day, for the two weeks before Paul and I drove to the lake, while Paul took off for Gretchen’s apartment, I showed up at the hospital for my dialysis treatments and bowel cleansings. While Paul made love to his mistress, I focused on recovering my health. They had him under surveillance, Buck’s team did, and my job was to make sure I didn’t eat anything else that he could have possibly poisoned. At dinner each night, as he sneakily poisoned my food or drink, I would hold my stomach and confess to feeling too nauseated to eat. He tried to hide the poison in my yogurt, in my tea, in so many different foods and drinks. It was exhausting trying to stay ahead of him. He was careful not to tamper with anything the boys could eat, so I knew I was safe sneaking frozen chicken nuggets when he was out of the house. Dinners were the tricky meals with him watching me, ready to sneak powder into my food, my drink.
