by Aidèe Jaimes
There’s a sheet that lists the schedule of where the wife is during the day, or at least where her husband assumes she is. Mrs. Cage starts early, getting their twin sons ready for school and driving them there at eight a.m. She then either returns to her house to perform her daily chores or meets her friend to help her make jewelry. At two p.m. she picks up the children and goes home.
She wouldn’t do anything while she has her kids around, and on weekends, Mr. Cage is there. This means that whatever she’s doing is somehow happening between eight a.m. and two p.m.
Next I pull out a letter-sized envelope that contains the photographs of Mrs. Cage from different angles that we would have requested.
My finger slips against the edge of the flap, slicing it open. Then when I yank it back, I drop the pictures, which scatter around my feet as I inspect the damage. A line of blood forms along the thin cut, and my eyes follow as a crimson bead falls to one of the photographs, where I see the face of Eva Jean Cage for the first time.
Slowly, I go to my knees, staring in confusion and reaching for the photograph of the woman smiling back at me. With a frown, I examine it more closely. I blink to clear my eyes, hoping it’s a mirage. The blood runs along a path from her lips, to her jawline, and down her chin.
“What the fuck?”
My first reaction is to think this is some twisted joke. Maybe Justin put these pictures in by mistake. But he wouldn’t do that.
I’m shaken to my core by the sight of her, and I quickly scramble to my feet, racing to the television cabinet where I’ve stored my past and going through it until I find what I’m searching for—a picture of Lena in just about the same light, the same angle. I compare the two since I can’t trust my own memory right now.
But my mind hasn’t betrayed me. Eva does, in fact, look almost identical to Lena. Pale skin that contrasts against dark hair pulled up in a messy bun that doesn’t detract from her beauty. The straight nose and fleshy pink lips with a pronounced cupid’s bow. The oval shape of her face, high cheekbones, and long graceful neck. All the unique features that I stared at for hours, falling in love with them over and over again in Lena, are all there in Mrs. Cage.
Everything screams Lena to me. The only thing that belies the fact that somehow this woman is my wife reincarnated is the color of her eyes. Missing is the deep brown that shone gold in the sunlight, warming me to my core, and it’s replaced by cat-like eyes so clear and gray that I assume it has to be a trick of the camera. But for that…
I fall back and sit on the floor, feeling numb and uncertain as I scan the scattered pictures. For a long time, I stay like this, with Lena’s photo in my hand and Eva’s smile surrounding me. Taunting me.
When the moon is high enough that light pours in through the glass patio doors, I stand and go to my bed, taking Lena with me and setting her on the nightstand. I turn on the lamp and lie there, staring intently at her features and reminding myself that there was only one Lena. Only one person with that face and that smile that stole my heart.
When sleep finally drags me under, it’s to nightmarish depths, where I hold Lena in my arms and look down into her lifeless eyes. Only, they’re no longer brown; instead, they’re gray and sad.
I wake every time the bad dreams begin, startled, reaching over for someone I know isn’t there. When my hand meets the coldness of the sheets on her side, I recoil. The bed feels emptier than ever.
Turning on the television does nothing to alleviate my fear of sleep. Now it’s more than mere whispers that haunt me. It’s a vision in my mind that’s beyond the possibility of being shut out.
I know it means nothing. So many people resemble someone else. It happens every day all around the world.
But not Lena. She didn’t have that sort of face that could be found just anywhere.
Except in Mrs. Cage, it appears. The uncanny resemblance is frightening. My mind goes to her now. If I were to accept the job, would it be like seeing Lena again? Breathing. Walking. Talking.
Would she have the same gentle voice? Would she smell the same? Would her smile reach her eyes and touch my soul?
This picture of Lena was taken five years ago, when she was still happy. And it shows. Her smile is genuine. Warm. It’s a warmth I miss. A warmth I’d do anything to experience again.
Fear of my dreams makes me get up. I clean up the pictures that lie in a mess because I couldn’t bring myself to touch them earlier.
As my eyes move over to this other woman’s face, something inside me shifts. It’s inexplicable yet seems desperate.
She was supposed to be a simple case. But I realize now that nothing about this can be simple. Now it’s not just about a woman having an affair. Now it’s about me and my need to see Her.
It might be three in the morning, but I don’t care. Besides, Justin has never had the courtesy to check the clock before he calls.
“The fuck? Do you know what time it is?” he grumbles.
“Who is it?” I hear Natalie’s voice in the background.
“It’s fucking Matt,” he tells her before threatening me with, “You better be dying.”
“I’m taking the case.”
“Good. Thanks for not waiting till a decent hour to tell me.” There’s some fumbling around, followed by cussing as I assume he’s sitting up in bed.
“Jus?”
“What!” he barks at me.
“Did you look at her pictures?”
“Wha… Whose?”
I glance down at the photograph in my hand, and for a second, I can’t tell who it is. “Mrs. Cage.”
“No, I only checked the statements. Why?” He sounds annoyed, bothered.
“It’s nothing. I…”
“Matty?” Concern replaces the annoyance in his voice, which softens. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Get some rest, little brother. I’ll set you up at the place down there and send you the deets once I have everything squared away.”
“Okay. Good night.”
From the corner of my eye, I see the chest of drawers. Automatically, I get up and go to it. Opening the first drawer, I try to find Lena’s ring, desperate to have the thing that tied her to me. It has to be here. I look through every drawer and then underneath the furniture, but like always, my search comes up empty.
I’m disappointed every time.
Popping a beer open, I sit on the edge of the bed, where I have a good view of my studio apartment. The little kitchen with the compact stove that’s never used and the mini fridge with nothing but a six-pack of beer. The lone couch sitting in front of the bed and the flat screen TV over the massive stand. My bed, which I despise because it means nothing to a restless spirit.
Hours pass, where I pace, work out, and search again for the ring that I haven’t seen in months. And in between everything, I watch as the light outside passes over the two almost identical faces I’ve placed on the narrow kitchen counter by the coffee pot.
For the last two years, that face has haunted me, invaded my mind, driving me to the point of insanity with the memories of my failure. For two years, I’ve replayed the scene over and over, as if by pinpointing the moment of the decision that changed the course of our lives, I could change something. As if dissecting it to the millisecond would somehow bring her back. And if it did, I’d save her.
Chapter 3
Two Years Ago…
Me: Gonna be late.
I grudgingly send the text, knowing Lena will be pissed.
It’s the third night in a row I’ve done this. Hopefully, it will be the last. Two suspects in the Miller shooting were apprehended half an hour ago, and I need to question them.
“She yell at you?” Novak asks, leaning back in her chair with her leg propped on the desk and her hands clasped behind her head. She laughs because she knows what I’m in for.
“I sent a text.”
“Yikes.” My partner raises her brows to tell me I fucked up an
already bad situation. Her cackles make my scalp prickle, but I ignore it.
Lena: How late?
I show Novak my screen. “It’s not yelling unless it’s all caps, right?”
“Tell her we’ll make it quick. It’s a Novak promise,” she says, winking at me.
“A Novak promise? Is that supposed to mean something?”
“I’m sure it means more than whatever you’re promising.”
I roll my eyes at Novak, then I text Lena back.
Me: An hour. Tops.
Lena: Okay. Be careful. I love you.
Me: I love you 2.
Four hours later, I’m finally on my way home. I call her a third time, but again, there’s no answer. She’s beyond angry. Because I know exactly what will happen when I get home, I stop to buy some beer. This is the sort of night where I need the emotional reinforcement. Or better yet, the emotional numbness. Something to slow down the knee-jerk reaction I’m likely to have if she baits me.
She’ll make a comment that she knows will get a snarky reply, then I’ll have to grovel for forgiveness because of said reply. Alcohol will be my best weapon against my own mouth tonight.
At the front door, I hesitate, my hand hovering over the old copper knob. It’s been a shit day, and I’m in a shit mood. Not only were the Miller suspects extremely tight-lipped, but we didn’t have enough evidence to hold them. Now we have two possible murderers on the loose.
Having a confrontation about my work hours right now is the last thing I want to do, especially since, in truth, I should have stayed longer instead of listening to Novak and leaving her with the load. Though I’m not sure if it was for my benefit or because she was sick of seeing me nervously check my phone every five minutes.
After taking in a calming breath at my front door, I walk inside.
“Hey, Titus. How are you, bud?” My boxer greets me, happily wagging his stumpy tail and jumping as high as I am tall. “Good boy. Where’s your momma, huh? Where is she, boy?”
“I’m here.” Lena’s generally sweet voice comes out stilted. Short. She’s sitting on the living room couch, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at the television, which isn’t even on.
When I bend over to kiss her lips, she turns her head, giving me her moist cheek instead.
I sit beside her, setting the beer on the coffee table. “Don’t be angry, babe. Please. You don’t know how good it is to see your beautiful face.”
“Do you know how long I’ve been here alone? I could have done something today,” she reproaches.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I was waiting for you!” she nearly screams, slamming her hands against the couch. When she looks at me, I can see red in her eyes. It’s hard to tell whether she’s been crying or the sheer pressure of her irritation with me has brought their blood vessels close to bursting.
“Babe, I’m sorry. I had so much work.”
She throws up her hands. “Work. It’s always work. This is exactly what I said would happen when you brought me to live here.”
“It was a good move for me, Lena. For us! For our future. You know this.”
“Was it? You’re gone all night—”
“It’s only for now,” I cut her off. “Once we have kids, I’ll work days. I promise.”
“And in the meantime, I sit here in this horrible place, scared half to death, wondering when some crazy is going to just walk in and strangle me.”
“No one’s going to come in. We live in a safe area.”
“Safe!” She laughs hysterically. “You work in the police department and can lie to me like that? Nowhere is safe in this town. People getting murdered all the time. It’s terrifying! A woman was killed three weeks ago not a mile from here. Shot right in the head.”
“It was a domestic dispute, not a home invasion. Besides, you have a gun and you know how to use it. I know you can take care of yourself.”
“I’d rather have you. I’d rather be back home. Please, Matthew, let’s go back. New York is too much for me. I’m sure they’d take you back in a heartbeat. Our lives could be simple again. I’d feel safe again.”
“I’d have to step down, Lena. This is my career you’re talking about!”
“And this is my life!” she yells, pointing to her chest. Angry tears flow over her cheeks, and she looks away as she wipes them. “I just want to go back.”
It’s the same argument we’ve had a thousand times ever since I convinced her to leave Sea Island. I’d made detective a year before, and then New York offered almost twice my salary with more opportunities. I’d be able to retire sooner, enjoy my family.
I sold it hard, but she never fully bought into the idea. Obviously.
Standing, I sigh heavily and swipe my hand down my face. “I’m sorry I’m late, Lena. I can’t do this right now. I’m too drained.”
“Where are you going?” she asks when I grab Titus’s leash.
“For a walk. Some cold air should clear my head. We can talk when I get back.
The walk down the street does little to change my mood, so I decide to go a bit farther. Around the block and back.
It’s like I’m between a rock and a blade of steel. It’s either Lena’s happiness or my job. Why can’t it be both?
It’s been a year now and the hope that she’d eventually come to like it here, or at the very least accept it, is gone. And with that hope went the woman I loved. Gone is the girl who smiled even when she was alone and had nothing to be happy about. It was a natural part of her face.
Now the light has been replaced by the constant darkness of fear and insecurity. She’s retreated into some shell that she refuses to come out of. She’s always been shy, an introvert, but I didn’t realize to what extent, because she was surrounded by family and childhood friends. However, it’s more than evident now as I see how difficult it’s been for her to connect with anyone who might make this feel more like home. Even Novak, who can get anyone engaged in conversation, has given up on her.
In a way, it’s my fault. My responsibility. She never said she wanted to move here. It was more of an “Okay, if you insist” sort of thing.
I blow out a breath and with it much of the steam that has been building up all day.
I want to see Lena light up again. I want her to be happy. To shine like she once did.
The nearer I get to the house, the more my frustration fades and the more I recognize my part in all this. It’s time she and I had a serious conversation. I need to be open to the possibility of moving again. If not back home, then maybe somewhere closer where we could both have what we want.
Feeling better and hoping I can make her feel better too, I step inside the front door. The moment I do, I’m whacked full speed by a large mass. I’m not expecting the blow and fly back onto the steps, hitting my head hard against the brick.
Titus jumps high over me, chasing the intruder, his barks fading into the distance. After a few seconds, I recover my senses but not fully. As I stumble forward and get my balance, I take my Beretta from its holster, then enter the house with the barrel facing at a downward angle. With my finger straight but touching the trigger, I search.
“Lena!”
The living room is clean with no signs of a struggle. There’s a dance show playing on the television, the sound muted. Everything is quiet. Eerily so. I walk farther still into the bedroom. A sickly-sweet, almost nauseating scent permeates the air, almost nauseatingly. It’s a smell I’m all too familiar with. A smell I’ve encountered at almost every crime scene I’ve been a part of. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach as I recognize it for what it is. Blood. A lot of it.
“Lena!”
Strange gurgling sounds alert me to her presence. She’s lying on the floor on the other side of the bed, near her nightstand.
“Shit, Lena!” I drop to her side, looking her over as fast as I can. I want to take her in my arms, but I’m afraid to move her. She’s bleeding profusely from somewhere around her head,
and I frantically search for the source. “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s gonna be okay. I got you.”
Finally, I find it in the crook of her neck and shoulder. I tear off my shirt and press it to the wound as firmly as I can, careful not to move her.
Lena is watching me with terrified, tearful eyes. Her lips are moving, but there’s no sound.
With my left hand, I fumble to dial 911.
“What’s your emergency?” the operator says on the other end of the line.
“There was a break-in at my house. My wife… She’s hurt. Please help us.”
“Where is she hurt?”
“Her neck. I think it’s a knife wound.”
“Is the intruder still there? Are you safe?” the man asks.
“He’s gone. I saw him leave. Please, please hurry. She’s bleeding so much. I can’t stop the blood.”
“What’s your address, sir?” he requests.
I can barely remember my own name, much less my address. It takes me a few seconds. “73 Vita Boulevard.”
“I’m dispatching units now. They’ll be there as soon as they can. Are you applying pressure directly to the wound?”
I peek at my hand to be sure it’s positioned correctly, taking my eyes off Lena’s for a millisecond. When I look back at her, she’s gone. Her face has relaxed, her eyes staring off into the distance, empty. The pulse at her neck has stopped.
The call forgotten, I roar from the agony.
“Don’t leave me,” I beg, blowing breath into her mouth, begging God to let it be my soul he takes. I pump her chest, willing her heart to beat.
Just once, please, God. Please, I beg you!
Time passes, but whether it’s seconds or minutes…I don’t know.
Someone’s here now, pulling me off Lena and pressing me to the wall to keep me from her.
“You have to save her!” Punching and clawing, I scream at him.
“Sir, you need to come with us. You have a serious injury to your head and it needs to be examined.” He tries to stanch the bleeding from my scalp, but I manage to swat him away.
