"Yes." She leaned forward. "If you insist on doing something, perhaps you should discreetly follow your husband when you believe he may be going to see another woman. Chances are you'll see nothing out of the ordinary, which could go a long way in allaying your fears."
I wasn't so sure about that. I'd followed Evan before, but felt he'd been on to me and adjusted his plans accordingly.
"I'll think about it," I told her, having already made up my mind.
I made an appointment to come back in two weeks.
* * *
"Will you be gone long?" I asked Evan. It was Saturday afternoon and he'd supposedly gotten a call from the office telling him they needed him to come in.
"I shouldn't be. If it looks like I'm going to be late, I'll call you."
"Okay."
"Why don't you go see that movie we talked about?" he suggested.
"I was hoping we could see it together," I said, pouting.
"I know." He smiled softly. "I promise I'll make it up to you."
I wondered if he was planning to meet his lover instead of going to work. Yes, he was, I was sure. Did he really think I was stupid enough to fall for his lies? Not anymore.
"I think maybe I will check out the movie after all," I said, pretending to go along with his plan to keep me occupied.
He grinned. "Good idea. With any luck, we'll get home at the same time."
Evan gave me a quick kiss and was out the door.
I grabbed my keys and waited till he drove off before getting in my car and following him.
I kept my distance, hoping and praying that Evan was being honest with me. I couldn't keep living like this, convinced my husband was an adulterer yet having nothing to go on other than a voice in my head that said it was so.
It soon became clear that he wasn't going to his office.
I followed Evan to the other side of town, where he turned onto a street I was quite familiar with.
My heart skipped a beat when he pulled into the driveway of Joanne's house. Though she was my best friend, fond of Evan and vice versa, I'd never known him to visit her without me.
So why was he here now when he supposedly had some emergency that required his presence at the office? Had Joanne actually invited him to her house? If so, why did he have to lie about it?
A thousand thoughts zipped through my mind. The only one that had any staying power was that Evan was having an affair with Joanne.
The more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense. She had been Evan's most avid supporter when it came to insisting he was faithful. Obviously, she'd wanted to keep me clueless while they were having an affair right under my nose.
I took out my cell phone and called Evan.
"Hi, honey." He sounded out of breath.
"Are you at work?" I asked casually.
"Yeah, I am," he said smoothly. "Where are you?"
Liar.
"I'm at the movie theater." I could lie, too.
"Look, I think things are going to wrap up sooner than I thought. Chances are I'll be home when you get back."
Yeah, right. "See you then."
I hung up, fuming. The thought of what they were doing together in that house and in her bed made me want to throw up.
An even stronger desire was to get even.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a gun I bought from a pawnshop. I had planned to kill myself just like my father had when he'd learned the ugly truth about his marriage and wife. But then I decided it was better to kill the ones responsible for ruining my life. They deserved to die more than I did.
Twenty minutes passed before Evan emerged from the house with Joanne. They embraced for a long moment, too long to be just friends.
Joanne waved goodbye as Evan headed to his car.
I stayed crouched down in the front seat until he drove by. I hated Evan and wanted him to hurt as much as I did.
But first I needed to deal with my so-called best friend.
* * *
When Joanne saw me at the door, she was clearly shocked, almost as if I were a ghost.
"Cass... what are you doing here?"
"Aren't you going to ask me in?"
"Of course." She stepped aside.
I could smell Evan's cologne as I stood in the living room. I wondered if this was where they'd been intimate—on the couch, or maybe the floor.
Joanne looked at me. "Shouldn't you be at—?"
"The theater?" I hadn't told her I was going to the movies. That meant Evan had spilled the beans, probably as they both had a good laugh at my expense while carrying on like a couple of horny teenagers.
"I just meant—" she began and froze.
My eyes narrowed. "I know what you meant. It's what Evan told you, right?"
"Evan?"
"Yes, my husband—your lover!"
"Are you crazy?" She glared at me. "We've already been through this. I'm not sleeping with—"
"I saw him leave," I said bluntly.
A look of shock crossed Joanne's face in that instant and then she tried to recover. "Oh that. I can explain—"
"Don't bother," I cut her off rudely. "You've done enough to destroy my relationship and now you have to pay!"
I pointed the gun at her chest.
"No, don't do this, Cassandra. Whatever you've conjured up in your mind, it's wrong. If you'll just hear me out, I can—"
"It's too late for phony explanations," I told her. "You and Evan have played me for a fool for the last time!"
She put up her arms defensively. Unfortunately for her, they were little match for the three bullets I fired into her. The last one went right between her eyes, shattering the face Evan had obviously been so attracted to.
I watched Joanne crumple to the floor and felt a strange sense of relief as I stepped over her body and left.
* * *
On the way home, I dialed 911.
"My name is Cassandra DuPont. I just killed my friend Joanne Rochester and now I'm going to kill my husband Evan," I said calmly to the operator.
"Where are you now, Ma'am?"
"Does it really matter?" I asked.
"Where is your husband?" the operator asked frantically.
I gave her my address and told her where to find Cassandra's corpse; then disconnected, having said all I could bear to.
* * *
I arrived home moments later. Evan's car was in the driveway as expected. He had come back home from his sexual rendezvous with Joanne, pretending like he had finished his work at the office.
I wondered if he and Joanne had ever had sex in our bed. Had this been going on as long as I'd known Joanne—for the duration of our marriage? The thought paralyzed me with indignation, then hatred.
I unlocked the door and went in. The gun was in my purse, as I didn't want to give Evan a chance to wrestle it from me. Or escape death only to cheat on me with someone else.
"Evan...where are you, darling?" I asked sweetly.
I wondered if he could actually be waiting for me in bed, hoping to assuage his guilt while demonstrating his ability to go from one woman to another without missing a beat.
At the last moment, I decided to check Evan's study in case he'd gone in there for an after sex cocktail.
I opened the double doors and was about to give him quite a shock. But I was the one in for a shock.
"Surprise!" The word rang out in a chorus.
The room was filled with our friends who shouted in unison, "Happy anniversary!"
Evan grinned and moved toward me. "Happy anniversary, sweetheart. You didn't think I'd forget our tenth anniversary, did you?" He glanced around the room. "And if you're wondering where Joanne is, so am I. We planned this event together and I was sure she'd be here by now...."
I was completely numb as he hugged me lovingly while our friends cheered. In the background, I could hear sirens wailing—with the authorities en route as I awaited my fate.
* * *
"Convinced" is part of an ant
hology of bestselling tales of mystery and suspense, MURDER HERE, MURDER THERE, edited by R. Barri Flowers and Jan Grape, available in eBook and print.
# # #
The following is a bonus story by R. Barri Flowers
DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR
She wanted to kill the bloody bastard.
But how?
Run him down with her car?
She could imagine him begging for his life as he lay wounded in the street, bones broken from head to toe. She would make him suffer before once more rolling the car over the damaged goods.
And again, until the life had been snuffed out of him.
Perhaps she should lace his chicken noodle soup with cyanide?
She would get a great thrill out of seeing him clutch his burning throat in a desperate attempt to relieve his agony. Or roll his eyes from a combination of the poison taking effect and the sheer disbelief of it all.
She would dance with delight watching him squirm on the floor as if he had been possessed by the devil himself.
And in that final moment of distress between life and death, she would laugh at him spitefully, the way he surely had been laughing at her for the last six months. Or however long it had been since he'd decided sharing another woman's bed gave him more pleasure and passion than sharing hers.
It was exactly one week ago that Harrison had told her about his affair. His intonation, usually deep with assurance and rich with confidence, had come across as flat and unrepentant. She felt as if she had been lowered into molten lava. Or told that she had a malignant brain tumor. The pain could not have been any worse.
"What—?" The word had shot from her mouth like a cannon. She was certain she had misunderstood him. Or even if she had understood him correctly, he surely couldn't have meant that which she feared most.
Perhaps he was only playing with her, looking for some sort of reaction. He often liked teasing her, telling her things that would incense her, only to laugh playfully like a schoolboy who had pulled up a schoolgirl's dress merely for the sake of fun and frolic.
She hated that part of Harrison, the power he had over her to bring her to the brink of tears, to make her feel her whole world was about to collapse; then just as easily make her believe she had the whole world and all its blessings in the palm of her hand.
With him being her most cherished blessing.
Yes, he brought out the best and worst in her, often with merely a gesture, a smile, a frown, a comment, or some other manner of communication that could only exist between a husband and wife.
She looked at him standing in the doorway of the bedroom. For an instant, it was as if she had traveled back in time some two decades earlier when she first met Harrison Kincaid and fell in love with him the moment he flashed his megawatt smile at her. He was tall and solidly built, as if to her specifications. Dark, wavy hair was swept to the side and his eyes were a deep shade of blue. They were the kind of eyes that penetrated to the depths of your soul when he looked at you. She thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.
And he still was.
It had been a childless marriage, borne as much from genetic mismatches as the decision to forgo having children in favor of their careers and each other.
He had gotten up, careful not to wake her, and dressed as if it was just another day in the life of Harrison Kincaid: author, lecturer, philanthropist, and asshole. She wondered how long he had stood there watching her, probably replaying his revelation over and over in his mind, trying to think of how best to let her down easily. For all Harrison's faults, he had always tried to cushion the blow when he had something bad to tell her, as if he could somehow come across as an angel of mercy rather than the devil in disguise.
Sitting up in bed, Emma suddenly felt more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. She saw herself as a forty-five-year-old hag with breasts that had begun to sag, hips that had expanded every year, and thighs that were beginning to resemble something akin to cauliflower. Her hair, once a lustrous shade of crimson, had become thin, flat, and seemed determined to remain a convoluted gray no matter how many different dyes she applied to it. Crow's feet had taken up permanent residence at the corners of her rich green eyes. Her taut porcelain skin was now dull and wrinkled.
She wondered if he saw her the same way. Had she grown too old and unattractive? Was she no longer enough for him now that he had begun to sense his own mortality at the age of forty-eight?
Had he really betrayed her in the worst way that a husband could ever betray a wife?
He seemed to be reading her mind as he stared at her without blinking. He remained wedged inside the doorway, as if to come closer would only make what he had to say that much more difficult. His lips were opened slightly as if trying to say words that wouldn't come out. She noticed the deep furrow on his brow and couldn't help but think that he suddenly looked every bit his age and some.
Finally, he stepped into the room and up to the foot of the bed. He turned away, as if he could not stand the sight of her, before meeting her gaze head on.
"I said I'm involved with another woman—"
This time there was no mistaking his meaning. He was having a sexual relationship with someone else. He had forsaken their marriage vows to be with someone who was probably younger, sexier, able to bear his children, and brainless.
Even then, painful as it was, she wanted to make him tell her in clear English what he meant.
And tell her who this woman was.
She was wearing a nightgown—a blue silk gown he had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary this very year. But she felt naked, as if she had just been violated, and pulled the covers up over her chest.
"I'm not a mind reader, Harrison," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "What the hell are you talking about? You mean you're involved with a woman on yet another committee for dealing with substance abuse or illiteracy?" Aside from his writing, Harrison had practically made a career out of taking on various causes for making the world a better, kinder place to live.
Now she wondered if he had been thinking more about his world.
His eyes hardened and his lower lip quivered. "For heaven's sake, Emma, don't make this any more difficult than it already is."
She felt the bile rise in her throat. Glaring at him, she said, "If you expect me to make this easy for you, you're sorely mistaken." She could feel her heart slamming against her chest like a hammer. Did she really want to hear what he had to say? Might this all somehow turn out to be a bad dream—someone else's bad dream—if she refused to listen to any more of this?
But Emma knew she must listen. She wanted to—had to—hear all the gory details of his betrayal. It was the only way she could possibly come to terms with it.
And deal with him.
* * *
Maybe it would be better if she shot him between the eyes?
She had become an expert markswoman thanks to him and his fascination with guns. She would make sure that the last thing he ever saw with those smug, deceiving eyes was the hatred he had created in her before she pulled the trigger.
Then, for good measure, she would shoot him down there between his legs where he had taken what was hers and given it to someone else.
Someone who had no right to him.
Someone who hadn't been through the ordeals, stresses, and strains he had put her through.
Someone who hadn't bankrolled his aspirations for years till they finally began to pay off.
Someone who hadn't invested years in a marriage that was supposed to be till death do them part.
She found him in the study that morning, having said that he would wait for her there while she got dressed. She had not argued, having no desire to hear about his infidelity in the bedroom of all places.
Their bedroom.
Had she slept with him in there?
Had they made love in their bed?
Over and under their sheets and blankets?
Harrison had taken the liberty of
fixing them both a drink. Emma suspected that this was probably his third or fourth this morning. He wasn't a heavy drinker by and large. But that didn't stop him from indulging whenever it suited his fancy, usually to calm his nerves.
Or guilt.
She took the glass he gave her, but didn't drink from it.
"I never planned for this to happen," Harrison uttered pathetically. "It just did—"
Nothing ever just happens, Emma thought, seething. It takes two selfish people to make it happen.
She flashed hateful eyes at one of them. "How long?" she heard herself say, as if this would somehow make a difference in the way she felt.
Had it been going on for years without her ever suspecting?
Or had he decided practically overnight that having another lover was just what the doctor ordered to satisfy him?
Harrison put the glass to his lips thoughtfully. "Is that really important?"
"How long?" Her voice rose threateningly. She needed to know how long he had played her for a fool.
How long he had abused her love and devotion to him.
How long he had taken everything she had ever wanted in life and destroyed it in an instant.
"Six months," he said matter-of-factly.
Half a year.
One hundred and eighty days.
One hundred and eighty nights.
When he wasn't with her, he was with her.
When they made love, which wasn't very often in the past six months, had he really been making love to her?
And what about when they weren't making love? Had he been sleeping with her when he claimed to be at his office or at the cabin writing?
Or when he was supposed to be on a book tour?
Or hunting?
Had she been the first? Or was she just the latest?
Emma felt sick to her stomach. She bent over in pain, as if she had been on the receiving end of a punch to the midsection. Harrison, feigning concern, put his hands on her.
"Are you all right?" His voice was coated with sincerity. Or perhaps pity.
She would accept neither. Whatever he was offering came too late.
She willed herself to put aside the nauseous feeling, straightening up, and slapping his hands away as if they were hot coals.
"Don't touch me, you bastard!"
He looked as if it was he who had been crushed, betrayed, and humiliated. "I know how you must feel—"
Her eyes became razor slits. "You can't possibly know how I feel! How could you? I've given my life to you. I've been faithful to you. I've allowed you to lead a life often separate of our life. All I ever asked in return was that you remain loyal to me, in and out of bed. But you took advantage of my love and naivety and I hate you for it."
Convinced (A Women’s Suspense Short) Page 2
