The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller

by Marin Montgomery

  I check his email when he’s taking a shower Sunday night. Nothing new.

  We go to bed both lost in our own thoughts, our backs turned against each other when once we had been face to face or at least shoulder to shoulder. A new normal, one that I don’t know if I can get used to. It’s a stranger I sleep beside.

  Monday morning, I have nervous energy radiating through my body. Today I’m going to talk to Sara.

  Brynn looks sickly when I walk in the office, and her eyes look swollen.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I am.” She tries for a wan smile. “I’m just tired. Super nauseous.”

  “Would you rather go home?”

  “No. I couldn’t.” She sighs. I think for a minute. She’s probably worried about being a temp, the pay, a child to afford. “Actually, I’m ordering you to.” I think of how nice she’s been, the suggestion for a band, her effort to help me.

  She stares at me wide-eyed. “Oh, Alastair, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I know what it’s like to have a new baby on the way. You’ll be paid for today, don’t worry.” I give her a wink.

  “What about the temp agency?”

  “What about them?” I shrug. “They’ll never know. Can I call someone to pick you up?”

  “I’ll call my husband.” She reaches into her bag for her cell. “He’s on the road a lot for work, but I’ll let him know I’m not feeling the best.”

  “It can be rough, especially first pregnancies.”

  “I didn’t know this is how I would feel.” Brynn lowers her voice. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was your pregnancy easy?” She asks. “Did you ever want more kids?”

  “It wasn’t.” I think back to nine years ago. “I had an ectopic pregnancy. I couldn’t seem to carry another baby.” A wave of sadness passes over my face.

  Her eyes widen. “I read about that. How scary, I hope something like that doesn’t happen.” The last of the color drains from her face. “There’s so much bad out there.”

  “Don’t worry, feeling nauseous and tired, it’s all normal.” I smile. “Please go home and rest. If you need more time off, just let me know.”

  “You’re wonderful, Alastair. Thanks.” She holds her desk as she stands. “I’m just dizzy.”

  A look of concern masks my face. “Do you need a ride?”

  “No, I couldn’t ask that. You have a full calendar.” She wobbles. “My car’s in the shop, so my friend gave me a ride.”

  “Let me take you. What part of the valley?”

  “Ten minutes from here.” She takes a breath, holding her stomach.

  “Do you want to go to the doctor instead?” A line of worry etched across my forehead.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  I hold her purse and arm asking Camille and Kristin to step in while I’m gone. We walk tentatively, the elevator groaning as it drops us off in the underground garage.

  Opening the car door for her, I help her into the low seats. We drive in silence, the only conversation about which direction and what way to turn.

  Her apartment isn’t far. I offer to help her up the stairs. She shakes her head no, but I can tell she’s feeling ill, her face flushed.

  Helping her up to the second floor, she has me reach into her purse for her house keys. I unlock the door and step over her threshold. It’s weird being in an employee’s apartment like I’m crossing a boundary, a line that keeps their personal and private life separate.

  The apartment is small but clean. From the entrance, you can see all the way through to the back patio door. There’s a small bathroom to the left, a tiny kitchen with scratched Formica countertops and light oak cabinets. Inspirational quotes cover the walls along with framed photos. The color palettes all neutrals, walls painted the color of sand, a small tan leather sofa, oak coffee table, and a recliner in the living room.

  Carrying her purse into the kitchen, I set it on the counter next to a stack of bills. I glance around. The kitchen is tidy, only a single cup in the sink. Various magnets are stuck to the refrigerator holding pictures—Brynn, smiling at graduation, her drinking a margarita, a couple photos of people I don’t know. I step closer as she fills a glass of water at the tap. I peer at a photo of her and a guy with a strawberry-blonde toddler playing peek-a-boo, only half his face is visible as she kisses his cheek. Her face drains. “What a cute kid. Is this your nephew?”

  She stares at me in shock and steps in front of the fridge. “My sister’s kid, Lance. I’m his favorite aunt.” Putting a hand on her face, she says. “I’m going to go lay down. I’m not feeling well.”

  I nod in understanding. “Okay, please call me if you need anything, anything at all.” She starts to move out of the kitchen rifling through her purse.

  I turn back to the fridge. A picture of her in a wedding dress with the same man as in the photo with the child is visible, yet it’s a different man than from the party. I’m about to ask when I notice a torn edge that catches my eye. It’s a single photograph stuck behind another one, peeking out from behind the magnet. Reaching my hand up, I pull the photograph out. Swallowing hard, I pull my hand back like I’d been burned.

  It’s me. Steven. My daughter. On Brynn’s fridge. The family picture that disappeared from my desk, the frame missing its photograph.

  I freeze.

  Brynn glances up from her bag, a bottle of Tylenol in her hand.

  There’s a silence as we lock eyes.

  “My family?” I ask it as a question, unsure why our picture would be on her refrigerator.

  She licks her lips, her cheeks crimson as she blushes, the color traveling down her neck. Her color already peaked. “I stole it from your desk…” she offers.

  “I realize this.” I drop it in my purse. “Why?”

  “Alastair, I don’t want to be nosy, you’re my boss.” She apologizes. “I’m sorry I took it, I overstepped boundaries. I look up to you, though, and you seem like the sweetest person, but one going through a lot of pain.”

  “But why here?”

  “You couldn’t handle looking at it.”

  “Why not turn it upside down on my desk or put in a drawer.” I gesture wildly. “Why would you bring it home?”

  “I just thought…” She runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know what I thought. I wanted to take it out of your office, and I didn’t want it to get lost.” She adds, “I knew you’d want it back one day. I wasn’t trying to steal it permanently.”

  The sweet smile, the freckles, the tiny baby bump. I’m thrown. It doesn’t add up.

  I need to process this, never having an employee take family photos.

  “I’m going to take it back,” I say. “Next time, just ask.”

  She nods her head fervently, tears filling in her eyes. “Oh, please don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry.”

  “Please get some rest.” I start to head toward the door. “Text me tomorrow if you aren’t going to be in.”

  As I drive back to the office, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel absentmindedly thinking about the photo. Why would you hang our picture in your home? Maybe she liked the idea of a family? Envious of our relationship? If only she knew what went on behind closed doors. My phone chimes, a text from Sara Preston.

  I can’t spend too long dwelling on Brynn and the lone photo, Sara Preston’s on her way to my office.

  She’s seated in the lobby speaking to Camille when I walk in.

  “Hi, Alastair, this is Ms. Preston.” Camille nods at her. “She said you had an appointment. I didn’t see it on the calendar but figured since you just spoke, you would know.”

  I laugh. “Yes, very last minute. Come this way, Sara.”

  Sara stands, she’s knock-out gorgeous, long blonde hair, green eyes, and legs that are toned and tanned.

  “Nice to meet you.” I turn to shake her hand.

  “Likewise.”

  We go into my office, closing the
door. I point at the couch and settle myself in a chair.

  “Thanks for coming to see me.”

  “No problem. I work at Prime.” Prime is one of the top steakhouses here, a celebrity chef known for his notorious outbursts as much as his premium cuts of meat.

  “I bet the tips are great.”

  “You have no idea.” She laughs. “I wear a short skirt and tight V-neck, and it’s on.”

  “How do you know Mara?”

  “I met Mara at a singles mixer a couple of years ago. She’s fun, I love going out to dinner and hearing her stories. What a crack-up.”

  “I’m surprised you’re single with all the eligible bachelors that must come in.” Prime was always packed, a typical wait of at least an hour, a gathering place for rich men and business meetings.

  “You would think, right?” She crosses her leg. “I get hit on, but it’s always by married men looking for a sidepiece of old widows that’re older than my father.”

  “Ugh, dating.”

  “Speaking of, Mara said you needed help.” She looks at my naked finger. “Are you married?”

  “Was. Am.” I sigh. “Still am.”

  “But he’s cheating?” She stares at me, her green eyes drilling into me.

  “Am I that transparent?” I cross my arms leaning back in the chair.

  “No ring and hesitating, yes. I see it all the time, married men hitting on single women at work, on dating sites, secret liaisons. Do you have any idea the number of men who bring mistresses to Prime? It’s sick. It’s ruined the idea of marriage for me.

  “That’s awful. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Twenty-eight. By the way…” she adds, “… You’re gorgeous. I won’t ask your age, but you are hot.”

  “Thank you.” I give her a tight smile, flipping a piece of hair off my shoulder.

  “So, you want to set up a fake profile to try to catch your husband? The picture being me.”

  “Did Mara tell you the entire situation?”

  “She said your husband was on dating sites. You wanted to see if you could set up a meeting with a girl. Catch him in the act.”

  I nod, hating the way it sounds, how psycho stalker-ish.

  “Why don’t you help me with what might attract him to my profile?”

  “He’ll love you. He likes blondes.”

  “He married you, though.” She raises her eyebrows. “Men always want what they can’t have.”

  “Exactly.”

  She pulls her phone out, clicks on a dating app icon. Wow, so this is how it’s done these days.

  “Okay, they use an algorithm based on interests to match people. At least this one does. What does he like to do, interests, pet peeves?”

  We spend the next half hour creating her profile. She uploads a couple of pictures. He’s a sucker for long hair regardless of the color, he likes outdoorsy pictures, so I suggest one of her hiking. The great aspect of online dating is you can be anything you want to be, there’s no verification, no question of truth versus fiction. We decide she’s a chemistry teacher, loves to read Dean Koontz, and is a hiking aficionado. It will probably be love at first sight. Or first swipe.

  “You want me to let you know if he contacts me and then set up a time to meet him?”

  I suck in my breath. Connecting on a dating site isn’t the same as them meeting in real life.

  “Yes, then we can coordinate schedules, and I can walk in accidentally.” I hunch my shoulders. “Surprise him. I just need to know…”

  “Okay, but don’t get your hopes up. We might not match right away or at all,” she cautions. “But at least this is worth a shot.”

  “What can I do to compensate you?”

  “Busting a cheating husband is enough.” She sighs. “You can buy me drinks after. We’ll both need it.”

  After our meeting, I head back to my office and sink into my chair, the events of the day catching up with me. I’m digging around in my desk for some lotion, the gold frame that held the family photo is face down in my drawer.

  Pulling the family picture out of my purse, I pull the felt back off the frame and lay it back inside. I’m not ready to put it back on the desk, but it belongs here, in my office, not with Brynn.

  Pregnancy hormones can do a crazy number on women, but this is new, I think.

  Picking up the phone, I call Camille at the front. “Hey, Cami, question about Brynn.”

  “Yes.” I hear her stop typing, the keyboard going silent.

  “Do we have her husband’s number? I’m worried about her. She wasn’t feeling well. I want his number in case of an emergency.”

  There’s a pause. “Let me check. I don’t know if the temp agency provided emergency contact info.” There’re some clicks as she hits keys. “Nope. I don’t have one. Should I reach out and ask?”

  “Probably not a bad idea.” I rush to add, “I’m worried if we need to get in touch with him since she’s pregnant.”

  Back at my desk, I log in to my husband’s email.

  Another message from Mara pops up, less than an hour ago.

  Steven,

  We need to meet.

  That’s all it says. She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. I dial Mara’s number, wanting to tell her that confronting him isn’t going to help. I get her voicemail. I shoot a text, asking her to call me.

  I have a meeting with a client at their firm. They want a smear campaign against a large competitor and have the money to do so. I decline. It’s one thing to embellish, stretch facts, and it’s another to attack. They would inevitably find out it was me, and I’d be on their dartboard as the bulls-eye. No thank you.

  Driving home, I decide to put on some rap music, an odd choice for a forty-something woman but what the hell. It’s the profanity-laced songs that tend to have the best beats. Today’s my day to pick up Liv from school so I’ll finish work from home.

  As I’m driving, I look behind me in the rearview, the yellow light turning red. A white car almost hits my bumper, riding it. I sigh. Why does everyone have to drive like such dickheads? I inch forward, not much room to go, civilians crossing the street.

  Steven’s mom has called me a couple of times. I’ve ignored the calls unable to hide my frustration at her son. She’s beeping in again.

  When the light changes back, I inch forward, answering with a grim smile, forcing myself to laugh and be engaging. I ask about their recent trip to Florida. She’s a nice woman, kind and gentle. I give a forced smile as I tell her about the party and Liv’s gymnastics class. “I know you want to talk to her,” I say, noticing the white car still following at an unsafe distance. It’s right on my bumper, a man riding my tail. I mutter a cuss word. “What honey?” his mom asks. “Nothing,” I say. “I’ll have Liv buzz you as soon as I grab her. I’m on my way now.” I disconnect, keeping my eyes trained on the vehicle behind me. It looks like a Hyundai or Kia.

  The next stop light changes before I can speed through it. I slam on my brakes, the driver behind me almost skidding into my rear end.

  Wishing I could roll down my window and have a moment with him, I turn up the music. Liv goes to a private school, uniforms required—navy skirts, knee socks, and white polos for the girls, navy pants and white polos for the boys with only white socks. Strict manners are enforced, and the curriculum is challenging. It’s a prep school, and though a lot is expected of its students, we both have been thrilled with the results in Liv’s grades and her aptitude. The school is kindergarten through sixth, located on a lot that looks like a quaint farmhouse, wooden gates outside, red double doors, and a wraparound porch. The classes are small, Liv only has fifteen kids in her class, an anomaly in this day and age. I put my blinker on, turning my head to look over my shoulder when the white car decides to dart next to me. He hits the right side of my rear end, a thud as the metal collides.

  Fuck, I scream. Dammit. I look at the time, 2:50 p.m. School lets out at 3:00 p.m.

  Motioning to the dr
iver that I’m going to pull over, I put my four-way blinkers on expecting him to pull over. Instead, his engine revs, and he slams into the back end, hitting it straight instead of on one side.

  My hands grip the leather of the wheel, my eyes glancing back at my mirrors.

  What the fuck?

  I slow down, braking slowly, my plan to get behind him and take down a license plate. Except there isn’t one. Where the plate should be is a vanity license that says BRN2THRLL. It’s not even a real plate, one you buy at a souvenir or gag shop.

  The model is a Kia Optima, nothing else unique about it except for the fake plate. Should I follow? I chew my lip. If they’re willing to hit me on purpose, what happens when I catch up? I dial 9-1-1. You hear about people with road rage who go nuts and shoot the other driver.

  The operator answers, “Please state your emergency.”

  “Hi, I’m driving on Glendale Avenue, near Sixteenth Street. A man in a white Kia Optima, license plate unknown, just hit me. He actually hit me twice.”

  “Injuries?”

  “No, but he hit me on purpose, at least the second time.”

  “Are you hurt? Is the car drivable?”

  “No and yes.”

  “Are you in pursuit of the other driver?”

  “No, I stayed behind.”

  “Good. We don’t recommend you follow.”

  “Where can I have a police officer meet you? It will be a little while. They respond in order of need, and with no injuries, it won’t be as high of a priority.”

  I provide my home address pulling into a gas station to survey the damage. The back of my roadster has substantial damage, the second impact the worst of the two. Running a hand through my hair, I shudder. Why would someone want to hurt me? Road rage accidents happen here frequently, heated words exchanged, guns pulled. Was he a distracted driver who hit me and felt threatened when I pulled over?

  He was a man, sandy hair, that’s all I saw. He looked burly, his body not fitting into the seat correctly.

  Tears form in the corners of my eyes. I slide my shades on. I’ll have to call my insurance company, but first, I’ve got to pick up Liv.