His Missing Wife

by Jaime Lynn Hendricks

  My heart is beating so fast I fear an imminent heart attack.

  “James, get that thing out of the house. I don’t want that anywhere near me.”

  He sighs. “I promised to protect you.”

  “Then get an alarm system. Get cameras.” I look at Candy, who is watching our interaction, bewildered, tilting her head back and forth. “Get another dog. A pitbull. I’ll take tae kwon do. Just no guns. How did you even get a permit for that?”

  His face tells me everything I need to know. He doesn’t have a permit. It’s an illegal gun. Street shit, scraped off serial number, probably already used for another murder. And it’s in my house.

  “How could you?” Tears fall from my eyes, and I don’t want to be around him right now. “I’m going for a walk.” I stand and head to the door.

  “Tessa, wait!” he hollers, but I keep going. The door already slammed behind me.

  The air outside is stuffy for mid-September. Indian summer. It’s not like I can run away, even though running is the only direction my feet know to go. Instead of walking out of the neighborhood and into town, I turn in the other direction and go to the woods behind the house. The leaves have started to fall and crunch under my foam shoes and between my toes. I whack at twiggy branches as I follow a natural path down to the lake.

  I have to step around random kayaks and canoes, leftover from the summer. It’s a safe town (as long as Drew isn’t here), and no one has a fear of their property being stolen. It’s understood between everyone for miles that they can leave their stuff unattended. The lake is a popular fishing spot and there’s a small dock that the city maintains, and people usually launch their small boats from it.

  When I get to the dock, I remove my flip-flops and sit, my legs dangling from the side. I’m facing west, and the sun is setting, which is beautiful and turns the sky pink in front of me, which makes the smattering of clouds look like cotton candy. My toes don’t hit the water, although they threaten to with the few inches of space. I look down and see my reflection.

  My horrified expression.

  Calm down. You’re safe.

  It’s quiet, and the only sounds are the bloop-bloops of the fish that come to the surface to investigate for algae or tiny minnows to eat. They’ve likely gotten used to fisherman dropping bread to attract schools of fish to hook for dinner.

  James doesn’t know about the times I’ve had guns pulled on me. I’ve tried to shield him from the past horrors of my life, but if he knew about them, he would’ve thought twice about bringing a gun into the house. It’s a scare tactic to assert power over someone, and I don’t want James to be that person in my eyes. Even if he’s doing it for me.

  I wait for almost an hour, trying to calm down, as the sun sets behind the trees, now making the sky a fiery orange. I’ve talked myself into not hating James—he really thought he was doing the right thing, and I love him for that—but I still don’t want that thing in the house.

  Taco Tuesday is ruined, but I’ve lost my appetite anyway. I think a bath and bed is exactly what I need.

  When I walk back into the house, James’s face is forlorn, a child scolded. He doesn’t speak first, giving me the space that I need.

  “I’m going to take a bubble bath upstairs. I’m sorry about dinner, I just don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll just run out and grab a slice of pizza. Do you want me to bring any back for you? Or I can grab you one of those salads that you like from there?”

  “No, thank you.” I’m still polite. “I’m going to bed right after. I’m not hungry. Can you just promise me something? Get rid of it. I don’t want it in the house.”

  “I promise, Tessa. I’ll take care of it.”

  * * *

  After a labored sleep, I wake the next morning cranky and unmotivated to work. I rub my crusty eyes and splash water on my face and brush my teeth. Candy and I head downstairs for our normal routine, where I feed her breakfast and sit outside with my coffee as she explores the small fenced yard. Only this time, I’m too out of sorts to even make coffee, so I watch Candy eat breakfast, and then try to will the queasy feeling away. But it doesn’t work, and I have to haul ass inside, barely making it to the bathroom before I throw up bile—I didn’t eat the night before so there was nothing to come up.

  The worry has made me sick.

  I wonder if the gun is still in the house, or if James took it with him. Driving with an illegal weapon. Great idea.

  I’m still on the floor of the bathroom spitting stringy saliva when I hear Candy claw at the back door. I flush and rinse my mouth with water, then amble over to the back door to let her in. Still unable to eat or drink, I decide that maybe I need a talk session with Gwen. I text her and ask if she’s around, and she said says she’s finishing Caleb’s breakfast and to come by in a half hour.

  I quickly shower and toss on a tank top and denim shorts and tie my hair into a bun at the back of my head. My bangs have gotten longer and annoy the shit out of me, and I attempt to tuck them behind my ears over and over. Stay. I say it to myself like I’m talking to Candy. Finally, I just use a bobby pin on each side. I look like R2D2, but who do I have to impress?

  The walk over to Gwen only takes a minute or two. Every time I walk up her driveway, I admire the pavers they used, instead of tar and concrete. Even their mailbox has its own paver house built around it, all ornate and detailed. Much better than the stick in the ground that we have, but we spent our discretionary fund opening up the entryway. Maybe next year.

  I knock, and Gwen comes to the door, Caleb in her arms, as usual.

  “Hey, buddy!” I say to him and smile.

  “Hi, Mrs. Teffa,” Caleb says. He has problems with his Ss.

  “Come on in, T,” Gwen says. “Do you want some coffee?”

  I don’t mean to, but I swallow a small gag and cover my mouth with my hand. The worry from the night before is still there, churning away in my stomach, and until I take care of this issue, I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep anything down.

  “Oh, jeez, are you okay?” Gwen asks.

  “No. Not really. It’s why I wanted to come and talk to you.”

  “Sit down. Let me set Caleb up, hang on.”

  Gwen is wearing yoga pants and a tank top, basically the only thing I ever see her in, except for the times we go to dinner or for a drink. I see her pushing Caleb in the stroller around the neighborhood—yoga pants and tank. At the grocery store—yoga pants and tank. Weeding the front lawn—yoga pants and a tank. It’s her mom outfit. She sets Caleb down at a chair, right next to me, and turns on her iPad in front of him.

  “That’ll keep him busy,” she says. “What’s up?”

  “Well, last night, I—” I side-eye Caleb, who is looking at me, not the iPad. He presses a button on the screen and some cartoon comes to life. Loudly. “I told James something about my ex—” And, now there’s singing. Loudly. Children’s voices, in sync. “I told him I was scared of—” Caleb is singing along with them.

  I lose focus completely. Gwen is staring at me, her big eyes trained on me with concern, like she’s waiting for me to spit it out. Like she can’t even hear it.

  “I’m sorry, can we go in the other room?” I ask.

  “And leave Caleb alone?” She’s utterly flabbergasted that someone would suggest leaving a four-year-old boy alone for more than ten seconds. “He’ll scream if we leave.”

  Well, that’s great parenting.

  “I don’t want him to hear what we’re about to talk about. It’s—sensitive.”

  “He’s not even paying attention.” She widens her eyes and waves toward him as he sings along with whatever he’s watching. “He loves that show.”

  “Right, but I can’t concentrate with the singing.” I chuckle. “I’m not used to kids. I can’t tune it out like you do.”

  She huffs, stands, and walks to the other end of the kitchen, and calls me over. To stand as I talk. “Go ahead. What happen
ed, now?”

  “I told James that I was afraid my ex was looking for me.”

  “Oh. Is he?”

  “Last I heard, he was. But that was a couple of months ago. Anyway, we ran into one of James’s exes last month and it brought up all these things about my ex, and I told him that I was scared of him. He—he wasn’t a good man.” I look back at Caleb, still singing, so he can’t hear us. “He hit me. It was that type of relationship.”

  Gwen grabs my arm. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, I got the hell out of there. It’s a whole long thing. Anyway, the reason I’m feeling sick is that we had a fight last night.”

  “Did James hit you?” Her eyes go from concerned to furious in less time than it takes me to blink.

  “No!” I want to clear that up immediately. “He said he wanted to protect me. He got a gun.”

  “A gun? Are you kidding?” Now she looks at Caleb, likely playing out every scenario of him walking down the block alone, like that would ever happen, and James coming out and pumping her child full of lead. Not that she lets him walk. He’s four and she still puts him in a stroller. She reminds me of those people that put their dogs in strollers. “How did he even get a gun?”

  “That’s the thing. He just ‘got one,’” I say, using air quotes.

  “Oh, hell no. You need to go to the police.”

  Overbearing Gwen now wants control of my marriage as well as her toddler. “I can’t. I don’t want him to go to jail. He thought he was doing the right thing. I don’t know. I just hate guns. Like, hate them.”

  “Me too. And I don’t want one around Caleb. Oh, God, I can never come over again now. What’s he going to do?”

  A bit of an overreaction, but sadly, it doesn’t shock me. “I told him to get rid of it. By any means possible.”

  “Good. You think he’ll listen?”

  “He better!” Just talking about it makes me feel queasy again. Plus, this entire visit has been a waste of time. I don’t know what I was expecting to get out of it or why I expected her to take her eyes off that child for an entire minute. “I’m going to go. I think I’m getting a bug. Thanks for the talk.”

  “Ugh, I think it’s going around. Caleb was a little snot machine all morning. I think he’s coming down with something too. Hey, if you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Gwen.”

  A quick hug and I’m out the door. My walk turns into a jog and it’s all I can do to not vomit all over the front lawn. I’m surprised I make it inside.

  32

  James

  The garage door opened, Candy barked, and James sat up on the couch. He thought quickly about cleaning up but decided he didn’t care if the place was a mess. Evan wouldn’t care.

  Candy ran to Evan as he walked in. He petted her on the head, then looked at his best friend, and his face dropped.

  “James, man, I’m sorry. Now they’re saying double homicide.”

  James’s whole body ached as he lifted himself up. “This could only be good though, right? Can’t they do a DNA test? It’s not mine. Can’t it help prove I’m not having an affair? It could help clear me. They should be looking for my wife. And when they find her, I’m going to sue these fucks.” James was determined.

  “On what grounds?”

  Evan, always the lawyer. “I don’t know. False arrest, once this shit is cleared up.”

  “Well, technically they had—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about technically anything. Poor Rosita was pregnant when someone killed her. I wonder if she knew. Oh, God, imagine her last moments.”

  James didn’t want to out anyone, but he was pretty sure he knew who the father of that baby was.

  Could Trey be a killer?

  No one would believe it at this point. The whole damn state thought James was the killer.

  James’s cell rang, yet another number he didn’t recognize. He grabbed it, and like he was the pitcher at the all-star game in the bottom of the ninth, he whipped it into another wall so hard it left a mark before it shattered on the ground. Candy shot across to the other side of the room in a panic.

  Evan’s eyes narrowed. “When was the last time you got any real sleep? You look like shit, man. I mean, I get it. But you have to sleep.”

  “I know, but I can’t. I have a missing wife who I can’t even look for because I’m fucking locked up here, I’m wrongfully accused of murder, I’ve got that fake reporter who I let in the house—”

  “Whoa. What fake reporter?”

  James rubbed the top of his head. His hair was greasy, sticking up in every direction. At this point he’d rather shave it all off than bother dealing with it. Or washing it. “Some lady called yesterday and wanted my side of the story. She came by this morning. Said her name was Bella Johnson, new with the local paper. I gave a whole blubbering interview, but Robert thought there was something off about her because of all the—” He paused, unable to say baby talk. “She was just full of shit. No one with that name even works there. I had her here. Even had her tour the house. I don’t even know who the fuck she was.”

  “But Robert’s looking into it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.”

  James looked at his cell phone on the floor and picked it up. The screen, of course, was shattered. He was able to make out the remnants of one text message. From Trey.

  You’ll have to see Clara Clayton for an exit interview. When this is done.

  James laughed, that maniacal laugh that a crazy person on the edge does right before they get their one-way ticket to batshit silly land. Sure, James was now accused of double homicide, but wasn’t it funny how Trey covered his ass immediately?

  Evan texted Robert, explaining what happened to James’s phone and said to give him all the details for the time being. Robert answered—he talked to the DA, and there was new information.

  “Well, there’s more,” Evan said after a long pause while reading a detailed text. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?” James asked.

  “Robert seems to think this could be good.”

  “Jesus, there’s nothing good about this,” James snapped.

  “No. Not that.” He scrolled through his phone again. “Forensics found out that there was more DNA at the scene. Here. At your house. In addition to Tessa’s.”

  “What does that mean? Proof that someone else took her? That someone else was here?” For the first time in almost a week, James was hopeful. If you could call it that.

  “This is where shit is going to get real. If you still claim one hundred percent that you had nothing to do with this—”

  “I didn’t!” How could he say such a thing?

  “I know. But keep claiming your innocence. Because whoever did it left evidence. Amateur mistake.” Evan’s eyes went wide.

  “I want to talk to Robert. Give me your phone.”

  Evan handed it to James, and in his frustration, he hit an app at the top of the phone. The photo album. And the first picture that popped up was a picture of Tessa. Of Tessa and Evan, together. Smiling.

  “What’s this?” James turned the phone to his best friend.

  “Oh. That.” Evan rubbed his beard. “I ran into her at that pizza place she was designing. I was there for lunch. We took a selfie. She didn’t tell you?”

  James cautiously read his friend’s face. “No. She didn’t.” He looks at the picture again. “This is dated last Thursday. You saw her that day? Before she went missing?”

  Evan took the phone from James’s hands. “It’s my fault. I was supposed to text it to you, but I got sidetracked with a case.” He peers at the screen. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Look at that smile. She was always so happy with you.”

  Tessa wasn’t with James when she smiled that smile. In fact, he’d detected something glowing about her face in that moment.

  Evan tapped a few buttons. “I just texted it to you, so you can have it when you get your pho
ne set up again. But let’s focus. Call Robert. Find out what extra DNA was at the scene.”

  James’s head said that Evan was telling the truth. His gut swirled, but it’d been betraying him all week. Focus.

  With shaky fingers, James called and heard it straight from Robert’s lips—another person’s DNA. Another person’s blood.

  James explained what he did to his cell phone out of frustration, and said that until he got a new one, Evan could be a point of contact, and that he can have full disclosure on what was going on at any time. Evan lived five minutes away, and he wouldn’t let the last five minutes of doubt dictate what he knew about his best friend. Evan was the only one James could trust. He hung up, and handed the phone back to Evan.

  “They’re going to find out the truth, James,” Evan said. “We’re getting closer.”

  33

  Tessa

  Things are still weird with James since I pretty much avoided him yesterday. He gave me my space. I still feel nauseated, like the beginning of the flu is wreaking havoc on me. I get up out of bed with Candy and go downstairs. Right on the counter, there was a little folded up note from James.

  Tessa—I got rid of the gun. I never want you to feel unsafe. I’ll be home as soon as I can tonight. I love you. James

  He’s trying, and that’s all he’s ever done—try to make me feel safe. I instantly forgive him, and I can’t wait to see him after his work thing. First, I text him that I don’t feel well, just in case he attempts to contact me during the day and I’m napping. I don’t want him to think the fight is still going on. It’s not.

  I put the water in the coffee pot and open the refrigerator to grab the coffee, but as soon as I smell it, my mouth starts to water. Not in the yum way, in the oh-my-god-please-make-it-to-the-bathroom-in-time way. I do make it in time and pull my hair back and empty my stomach. Candy sits outside the opening to the bathroom, making sure I’m okay.

  I hate being sick. But why, every time I think about or smell coffee—

  Holy shit.