30
Alastair
The hair’s the right color, almost the exact shade of Mara’s. Everything else is different. This isn’t the woman I expected to see.
“You?’ I’m confused. “Brynn?” I shake my head, uncomprehending. “Where’s Mara?”
I gasp, the air sucked out of my lungs, a look of disbelief as I watch, transfixed, my arms crossed for warmth, as my assistant untangles herself from him, her lips moaning in his ear. Brynn reaches an arm around his neck in a protective gesture, kissing his cheek, then behind his lobes. Whispering something in his ear, she grips him and pushes him forward to face me, gripping his arms tightly. She tries to lower herself into the water, covering her nakedness, hiding behind him, exactly like the coward she is.
My husband moves in slow motion, comatose, his eyes empty and flat, pupils dilated. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it. There’s no coming back from this, no logical reason a naked woman that’s not his wife is in the hot tub straddling him, no justification for this behavior, no work colleague he met in a bar and had ‘drinks’ with. So, this is the woman he got pregnant.
I open my mouth to speak. “Why do you have my ring?” My tone is level, one might consider it conversational. “And why is it in Mara’s purse?” I’m not correlating Mara’s purse on the counter and my assistant out here, a reasonable explanation has to be forthcoming. I’m in shock.
Sighing, “I don’t want to repeat myself.” I wave my hand in the air, stepping closer. “Do you need me to come to you, show you my ring?” Walking to the side of the hot tub where the towels are, I reach out to throw them both a towel. “Did you steal her purse as well?”
Brynn smirks.
“Get out,” I say.
“Alastair.” Brynn’s monotone. “I’m so glad you showed up tonight. I noticed you changed your flight.”
“Um-hm. Sure.” I point at him. “First, though, I want to know why my husband can’t even say a word. You that speechless, Steven?”
“He can’t move.” Brynn gives him a quick shake. “He’s wasted.” His head lulls to the side. I’ve never seen him so out of it. She pulls herself out of the hot tub, her skin covered in goosebumps as she wraps the towel around her body. I try not to gasp at her visible bump. Her bikini bottoms are on the ground, tossed to the side, discarded just like I was, on to a newer model.
Her teeth chatter. “I don’t know what you mean about your ring.”
“You stupid slut,” I seethe, flashing my ring in her face. “Why the fuck was this in Mara’s purse?” As the words leave my mouth, I’m confused. It’s not her purse I found the ring in. Are there multiple affairs going on? She ignores my question.
“I was going to message you tonight.” Brynn’s malignant smile twists. “I heard you needed an emergency contact for me.” She motions toward the hot tub. “I was going to send you Steven’s number.”
Shock registers on my face. I’m officially numb. Fixedly, I watch Brynn as she continues. “It is, after all, his baby.”
A gasp escapes my lips.
“I’m going to go now.” She heads toward the house. ‘Have a good night. I’d leave him there. He’s not going anywhere.” She strides toward the master bedroom, humming, carrying my husband’s child.
Something in me snaps. A final straw you could say. She’s wearing a pair of my flip-flops, her new hair color hanging in pieces, her bun a tangled mess. Before I can stop myself, I pick up the pace behind her, closing the gap, her face registers fear as I connect with it in the glass, my reflection one of a woman who’s lost her family… and her mind.
I grab her by her loose hair and pull, yanking her backward. I jerk her around, punching her in the face, the dainty freckled nose, the surprise in her blue eyes. I hit her, slamming my fist into her jaw, the boxing classes playing off. I ignore her screams, her hands slapping out at me, the sight of blood as I continue pummeling her face.
She trips and loses her balance falling to the ground.
I don’t stop. Her falling like an omen to keep going. I’ve almost won the battle.
She scoots backward, her hands shielding her face from my punches as she tries to stand again. I reach out to kick her, trying to sweep her off her feet and back on the ground. Stay down, bitch.
There are moments in life that give us pause, we watch in horror, slow motion, too late to change the course of fate, our actions permanent as we deal with the aftermath of a mistake we make.
Tonight, I watch as she goes down again, this time, she’s at an odd angle. She’s off balance, her arms reaching out to grab for something, her face confused as she realizes she’s going down but not straight down, her head making contact with the side of the marble slab coffee table that’s weather resistant, durable. Contract grade. Her head fuses to the edge, a thud as the two seem to join together for a brief moment.
Panic’s on her face as she falls, terror as she smashes into it, her brown hair falls away, revealing a split in her skull, blood gushing, a matted mess. The towel falls from her grip, her pale skin glowing in the light, naked and shivering. Just like that, she goes down, her eyes close, her mouth hangs, breathing labored, then ragged… her arms crumble at her sides.
Then she’s lifeless. Her body is twisted in a weird position, limbs tangled, silence. A rush of noise floods my eardrums replacing the sinister quiet. I hear screaming. It must be her.
31
Alastair
It’s not. It’s Mara.
She’s behind me, her voice is grief-stricken, the words jumbled. She gets to her knees, straightening Brynn’s body out, a position where she can do CPR. She isn’t moving, so she starts chest compressions. Tears are running down my face, and blood is everywhere—Mara’s plaid shirt, the table, oozing on to the ground, the red staining the concrete.
She’s dead.
I killed her.
Some would argue it’s an accident, some a crime of passion, a heated moment.
It doesn’t matter.
She’s still dead.
“Mara,” I manage to squeak out, “Let’s talk, this isn’t what you think.” I turn to look back at the hot tub, Steven no longer in sight. I panic, did he get out? I rush over to the hot tub, the rocks cutting my feet as I stumble to the edge.
He’s underneath the water, unmoving.
“Mara!” I scream. “It’s Steven.” She looks over her shoulder tilting her head as she quickly stands, her body darting across the yard, yet to me her movements are sedated, frozen in time, moving in slow motion.
My shrieks are echoing, mixed with sobs as my body convulses. I yank Steven up, my body half-draped over the hot tub as I submerge myself in the water trying to pull him above. Mara is standing on the step helping to drag his dead weight out of the hot tub, his naked body slick as we gently thrust him over the side. It takes us both grunting and maneuvering to pick up all one hundred and ninety pounds of him, delicately laying him on the concrete path.
Mara’s the calm one, her mouth drawn and eyes vacant as she administers CPR. I wail, “Oh my God, I think he had a heart attack” over and over as if he will miraculously sit up and tell me this has all been a prank.
“Call 9-1-1,” Mara instructs me, her voice hushed compared to my hysterical one.
I know I need to dial 9-1-1. I grasp at my phone forgetting it’s dead.
Running into the office, the closest phone is on my desk. My hand shakily enters the number, one memorized in case of emergency, one I’ve never had to use except for once when my mom’s boyfriend beat her unconscious. Liv had been a healthy child, no broken bones or sudden, crazy illnesses.
Steven’s too young for a heart attack. His cholesterol levels hadn’t been elevated and either had his blood pressure. Did the hot tub bring it on? His heart rate up from having his girlfriend over.
The operator answers. “9-1-1 what’s your emergency?
My voice comes out stilted and high-pitched. “My… my husband’s not breathing.”
; “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I’m not sure. He was in the hot tub.”
“Is he still there?”
“No, we managed to get him out.”
“Is someone with you?”
“Yes,” I add. “There’s another woman here as well. She’s also not breathing.”
“Hot tub as well?”
“No, she fell and hit her head.” I pause, taking a deep breath uttering words I wished upon her earlier but to say aloud seems insensitive as if that mattered. “I think she’s dead.”
“Relation to you?”
“Umm… it’s my husband’s mistress.” I shudder as I say it. “She’s pregnant with his child.”
After the operator asks a few more questions and instructs me to stand outside and wait for the ambulance and have Mara stay in the backyard with them.
That call will be used as evidence in court, my voice, intonation, examined and used against me.
32
Alastair
The camera I had installed, ironically enough, is also being used against me. I’ve laid awake many nights thinking about how I should have had one installed in the backyard, though that might not have helped my case.
I did push her.
It was my hands that caused her to fall.
I’m sitting in my cell one afternoon, awaiting trial, charged with crimes I did and did not commit. I stare at the cement walls filled with mementos belonging to my cellmate, Jasmine. She has four kids, and they’re always sending her handwritten cards and drawings.
I lay down on my bed and turn over, my chest hurts, persistent heartburn that’s an ache from missing Liv. She’s not been in contact. I don’t know if that’s the court, my in-laws, or her. It doesn’t matter who, she’s my daughter, and her well-being and happiness lay heavily on my mind. The feeling of loss, it nags at me. I cry into my pillow most nights. Jasmine was sympathetic for a few nights, then started chastising me instructing me to give up my old life and get used to my new one.
In my mind, I have to live for one day when Liv’s older. When she can hear my side. That is if she’ll listen.
The guard is at our cell gripping the metal. I can hear the clanking but can’t see the key turning in the lock.
“Adams, you gotta visitor.”
I don’t answer, assuming she screwed up.
“Adams, get up. Visitor.” She’s annoyed, her tone snappish.
Rolling over on my side, I sit up wiping a piece of stringy hair from my eyes, the long, jet-black hair that hung down my back is now cut short, jaw-length, the upkeep easier in a prison full of women. I don’t have the energy or care to worry about my appearance. I’ve aged fifteen years in a matter of months.
Climbing down, I wait for the guard to open my cell. I hide my surprise waiting for Georgette, the corrections officer, to lead me to the visiting room, a place I’d only been a handful of times. Craig came to visit me when I had to sign over documents related to our PR agency, my eyes burning as it suddenly became Connell and Merstead, two large PR agencies merging into one… without me.
“Who is it?” I ask Georgette.
She shrugs. “No idea.”
“You’ve made a mistake?” I ask it like a question.
“Nah, don’t think so.”
She leads me into the visiting room where scratched oak tables surrounded by red plastic chairs and a vending machine laden with soda and candy, the atmosphere one of a cafeteria, not a prison. Children visiting are dressed up like adults, their mannerisms unsure and their eyes uneasy as they take in the other prisoners. It’s a chaotic scene, tables filled, some voices hushed, others overwhelmed with emotion ranging from sadness to anger. The guards watch, gazing around the room, silently judging the inmates for being here in the first place.
It takes me a minute before I spot my visitor.
Mara.
She’s on my visitors list but had never come. My attorney is the only female who bothers visiting, her goal to lessen the charges, minimize the sentence as we prepare for trial.
After I had told Mara I thought she was the one having an affair with Steven, she was shocked and disappointed in me, her face betraying a hint of disgust at my suspicion.
Her hair is twisted up in an intricate bun, and she’s in a business suit, black with a red diamond-patterned blouse, four-inch-tall black pumps, and unlike her usual affinity for jewelry, this time she’s wearing a small black choker, no silver bangles in sight.
A small smile escapes her lips when she sees me. She stands, her eyes follow me across the room.
“Aly,” she says my name. I almost turn around and head back to my cell. It’s been so long to hear my name uttered in a way that wasn’t one of disappointment, distrust, or discipline.
I nod. “Mara.”
We both stare at each other. Her eyes peer up and down, the baggy green prison-issued scrubs that hang on me, my plain sandals with socks, my short hair and makeup-free complexion. Night and day from how it used to be. Gone are the business suits, the expensive facials, the manicures, and the high-end purses.
I sit, she follows suit. She’s nervous, fidgeting with her neck, touching the choker and then putting her hands back in her lap and repeating the process.
Waiting, I don’t know what she wants, what she came to say to me. The last time I saw her I was being cuffed, hauled off to jail, her mouth in a tight line as tears streamed down her usually tough exterior. I assumed she would be a character witness since she knew both Steven and me and was present that night. I kept telling her it was an accident that night. She thought I intended to hurt both Steven and who I found out was actually Brianna Crawford.
“I had to see you,” she whispers. “I… I didn’t want you to think I was ignoring you.”
“Is there any other way?” It comes out snide.
She shakes her head. “I know you didn’t try to kill Steven. In fact, that’s why I’m here.”
Glancing at my friend, I search her face, the skin tan and taut, expertly applied makeup on her face, Botox and fillers softening signs of aging.
“He’s awake,” she whispers it. “He’s awake, Aly, and he’s talking.”
I freeze up, this news unexpected. Not one to be pessimistic until my life turned down a road that led me here, I used to be an eternal optimist. Or maybe Steven evened me out and helped me see the positive. Yes, probably the latter. I was always the realist.
Steven’s minimally conscious state was a result of cerebral hypoxia, a scary term that means he was deprived of oxygen in the brain. It wasn’t a heart attack like I initially thought. The doctor suggested it was a transient ischemic attack or mini-stroke. Steven was able to reach for objects and respond to sentences but in one-word answers.
I’ve felt lost and increasingly selfish, wishing he would wake up if only to give his side of the events. The police found an empty syringe in the hot tub and were unable to take prints off of it suggesting that I had injected him to cause this prognosis. They also found the gun in the bottom of the hot tub, the same outcome.
They charged me with premeditated murder, two counts since the baby didn’t make it, and one charge of attempted murder for Steven. They argued that I willingly came home early, installed the camera, all in the hopes of catching my husband with his mistress.
I can’t argue that. It is true.
What I do disagree with is the time I put into deciding on a punishment for the two of them. I didn’t push her to kill her. At least that’s what I tell myself, my conscious self. Subconsciously, there might be truth to that.
“Will Steven be able to testify?” I’m suddenly nervous, my palms sweaty. Our marriage is over, catching him with another woman and the subsequent aftermath of being charged with murder is enough to destroy any relationship, even one of almost two decades, especially when you have the death penalty hanging over your head.
“’I’ve seen the papers, the news.” I shrug. “What they say about me…”
“You
can’t read that shit. You know this. They either crucify you for your actions or revel in the fact you took care of your husband’s mistress.”
“I know.” I do know this with my area of expertise. Yet, it’s hard when you’re on the other side of the equation.
“But the baby…” I look down, ashamed. “I never meant to hurt the baby.”
My last statement hangs in the air. Mara’s unsure how to proceed. The unborn child didn’t make a decision to be born out of an affair. I start to tear up dabbing clumsily at my eyes. I know in my heart I wasn’t trying to off her baby. I never realized it was Steven’s until after, my mindset had been Mara.
Mara had given me the background on Brynn Crawford aka Brianna after that night and her warning to Steven. She had tried to frame Mara as the woman Steven was seeing, a declaration of war on him and me, the loss of her family as a child and then her child as an adult, spurning years of depression and isolation. I can now relate.
The email account and dating profiles were all Brianna. She decided Mara would be the scapegoat and raise suspicions that way. She had been scoping us out for months, who we were close to, where we spent our time. She had seen Mara and me a couple of times having lunch or happy hour together. She was the one communicating with Sara and had figured I would find out about his profile from a single friend. It just happened to be Mara. She set up dating profiles for Steven after he rejected her advances moving forward. I think she had grown to have some type of feelings for him, as fleeting as their time together had been. By all accounts, it was proven they had spent only that one evening together. The security cameras from the garage confirmed that. They both left that night in separate vehicles.
“If you hadn’t come back that night to retrieve your purse…” my voice drifts, “Steven might not have made it.”
“Yes, he would have.” She’s firm. “You would’ve called 9-1-1. I know you.”
“Aly, if your husband can confirm your story, your chain of events, that it wasn’t you who tried to kill him, you might be able to take a plea bargain for involuntary manslaughter for her.” Neither of us can say her name. “You might serve only a couple of years… and then probation.”
The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller Page 21
