by N L Hinkens
They were mostly silent on the drive back from the hospital to Quinn's house. Even Harper seemed to sense that mindless chatter was inappropriate in the interim. When Steve pulled up alongside the curb, Bridget's heart almost leapt out of her chest at the sight of a squad car parked in Quinn’s driveway. Why were the police here already—investigating a missing adult who’d only been gone a few hours? It didn't make sense, not unless there was more to the story.
“We should accompany Quinn to the door at least,” Steve suggested. ”See if there's anything we can do.”
Dumbfounded, Bridget stared at her husband for a moment and then gave a wooden nod. Was he genuinely concerned about his missing former classmate, or was he fishing for information? Isn’t that what murderers typically did after they committed a crime—hover around the scene and converse with the cops?
“Henry and Harper, you two sit tight,” Steve said. “Your mom and I will be back in a couple of minutes.”
A tall, broad-shouldered man opened the front door to them before they reached it. “Thanks for bringing Quinn back so quickly.” He stuck a hairy hand out to Steve and nodded at Bridget. “I’m Keith Carson.”
Bridget mumbled an introduction in response.
”Is there anything we can do for you?” Steve asked.
Keith frowned at his son. “Go on inside, Quinn. Your grandpa’s waiting for you.”
Quinn scowled at his father and disappeared down the hallway. Keith turned his attention back to Bridget and Steve. He reached an arm behind his head and dug his fingers through his hair in an agitated fashion. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Quinn, but … they found Jen—my wife.”
Bridget's lips parted in trepidation as she waited for him to continue.
At her side, Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Is she … okay?”
Keith let out a tremulous breath. “She's … dead.”
Bridget shot a sideways look at her husband to gauge his reaction. His jaw was slack, and his face had turned an ashen gray. ”What?” he gasped. “I don’t understand.”
Keith rubbed a finger distractedly over his temple. “Her body was found in a dumpster at the back of the drive-in movie theater on the edge of town.”
Bridget let out an involuntary moan. She threw a quick glance at the shrubs on either side of the pathway leading up to the front door, half afraid she was going to be sick.
“I’m so sorry.” Steve shook his head disbelievingly. “Do they know what happened?”
Bridget sucked in an icy breath, studying her husband with morbid fascination. If he was feigning shock, his performance was impeccable. He sounded so convincing, an exquisitely smooth blend of shaken and sympathetic.
Keith rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “The police said she was murdered. It looks like she was strangled, but it’s too early to say for sure.” He hesitated, a hitch in his voice. “They don’t know when it happened either. I texted her yesterday around noon, but she was out last night when I got home from work.” He shuffled his feet, dropping his gaze momentarily. ”The truth is, we haven't been getting along all that well lately. She does her thing and I do mine, if you get my drift. I didn't think anything of it when I got up this morning and she wasn't home. I thought she might have spent the night elsewhere or got up early and gone shopping or something. She spends enough time at the mall—money too.” He grimaced. ”My dad basically raised Quinn.”
A police officer appeared in the hallway and cleared his throat in a polite prompt of sorts. ”Mr. Carson, we’d like to talk to your son now if you wouldn’t mind sitting in on the interview with him.”
Keith gave a detached nod before turning back to Bridget and Steve and lowering his voice. “I might ask you to help out with Quinn here and there over the next couple of days. I know how tight he is with Henry, and things are going to get crazy here. The cops have been grilling me for hours already. You know how it is. They always suspect the spouse first.” He furrowed his brow. “You’ll find out sooner or later, so I might as well tell you—Jen was having an affair. So the police think I have a motive.”
Bridget’s stomach muscles tightened at the revelation. Yet another coincidence? Or was it possible Jen Carson was the woman she’d seen exiting Steve’s office?
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Steve said quietly. “Of course we’re happy to have Quinn over any time. Just say the word.”
Keith nodded his thanks and went inside the house, pulling the door closed behind him.
Bridget and Steve returned to their car in silence.
“Did they find Quinn's mommy?” Harper piped up the minute Steve turned the key in the ignition.
“She probably went to the mall and forgot where she parked,” Henry said with an air of contempt, not glancing up from the game he was playing on his phone.
Steve slid an exasperated glance in Bridget’s direction as he shifted the car into drive.
She gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. It was uncharitable of Henry to be so self-absorbed and cavalier about something that didn’t affect him directly, but they would have to address it later. After all, he didn’t realize yet that his friend’s mom had been murdered. And it wasn't as if they could discuss it with Harper in the car. They would have to think carefully about how much, if anything, to divulge to her.
“If Quinn’s mommy’s lost, she could call somebody on her phone,” Harper suggested.
“What if her battery’s dead?” Henry chipped in.
“Stop antagonizing your sister,” Bridget admonished, the words spilling mechanically from her lips even as her thoughts were spinning in circles trying to make sense of everything that had gone down in the last twenty-four hours. Steve had known Jen from high school. They might have been an item back then, for all she knew. And if Jen had given him some kind of an ultimatum—asked him to choose between his family or her—Steve could have lashed out in a moment of rage and struck her. It was hard to envision her husband deliberately killing her, but it could have been a terrible accident that he’d subsequently tried to cover up.
“I’m sure the police will do their job and find Mrs. Carson, Harper,” Steve said. “It’s nothing for you guys to worry about.”
“I’m not worried. Neither’s Quinn,” Henry retorted. “That cow couldn’t care less about him.”
”Henry!” Bridget exclaimed. “How dare you talk about Quinn’s mother like that!”
“You better watch your mouth, young man!” Steve added, narrowing his eyes in the rearview mirror at Henry.
“Or what?” Henry challenged back.
“Or you're grounded, and your phone’s mine,“ Steve growled as he made a sharp U-turn and merged with the traffic onto the main road heading out of town.
“Where are you going?” Bridget’s voice rose. “We need to drop off my tire.”
Steve scowled. “I’ve had enough of Henry’s attitude. I’m taking you guys home first and then I’ll drop off the tire myself.
Bridget slid him a questioning gaze, an uneasy feeling swirling around in her gut. She had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t Henry’s attitude, but rather the discovery of Jen Carson’s body, that had prompted this sudden change of plan. Where was Steve really intending to go?
7
Bridget went through the motions of making grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids’ lunch, her mind a million miles away from the cast iron pan on the stovetop. Was it her imagination, or had Steve appeared overly eager to take off by himself? Alarm bells were ringing in her head. What was he up to now? Had he really been carrying on with Jen Carson all this time—their son’s friend’s mother? It was a nauseating thought. Part of her brain still refused to entertain the idea that her husband could have had anything to do with the body in the trunk of his car, but she couldn't deny what she’d seen. If Steve had accidentally killed his lover, it was entirely plausible that he’d panicked and hidden her body in the trunk. After all, their two families were connected through Henry’s friendshi
p with Quinn. The horror of the boys finding out that Steve had killed Jen would have been too overwhelming for Steve to contemplate.
Bridget served up the bubbling cheese sandwiches on plates and called the kids in for lunch as she set the table. After pouring Harper a tumbler of lemonade, she left her and Henry to eat, and went into the family room to turn on the television. She wanted to catch the midday news in case there was any mention of a woman's body being found. To her horror, it was the lead story. She sat frozen on the edge of her seat as the news anchor shuffled illustratively through the pages in front of her and began reading from the teleprompter.
“Early this morning, police recovered human remains from a dumpster behind the drive-in movie theater in the area of Glenwood Lane and Pine Street. The body was later identified by the county coroner as that of missing thirty-four-year-old wife and mother, Jen Carson.”
A picture of a willowy, raven-haired woman standing by the rail of a cruise ship in a strapless white sundress flashed up on the screen. Bridget sucked in a ragged breath as the room began to spin around her. It was her—the other woman! In life, Quinn’s mother had been gorgeous—the kind of woman men dreamed about having affairs with. Bridget swallowed back the nausea surfing in her throat at the thought of Steve and Jen secretly conducting a lurid affair right under her nose.
“If anyone has any information about Jen Carson’s movements in the last twenty-four hours, or any other information that could help police in their investigative efforts,” the news anchor continued, “please contact the department at (469) 335-4321 or the City Crime Line at (432) 335-5555.”
The camera panned to a dumpster and a cordoned-off street where a reporter was clutching an oversized mike in her fist, waiting to interview the garbage truck driver who’d found the body.
The reporter opened her mouth to speak, but Bridget pointed the remote at the television and switched it off before the woman could begin recounting the details of the grisly discovery. She dropped the remote and buried her face in her hands, awash with despair. She couldn’t bear to hear any more. It was all too horrendous to comprehend. What kind of a person murdered someone they were sleeping with? Surely not the father of her kids.
Straightening up after a few minutes, Bridget glanced at the time on her phone. Steve had been gone over two hours. More than enough time to drop off a tire. Maybe he’d decided to wait for it to be repaired. Or maybe he was somewhere burying his tracks. But, what tracks could he possibly be trying to hide at this point? Jen's body had already been discovered. Unless he’d gone to the scene of the crime where he’d killed her to get rid of some other evidence.
Bridget frowned. It seemed odd that he hadn’t taken the time to vacuum out the trunk of his car thoroughly. Everyone knew the police could pick up on fibers and hairs, even a skin cell could seal your fate nowadays. It wasn’t like Steve, who was so meticulous about everything else in his life, to overlook such an obvious detail. But then again, he must have been under an inordinate amount of stress attempting to cover up what he’d done. And that’s when murderers slip up and make the kind of mistakes that inevitably lead to their downfall.
Bridget rocked gently back and forth on her chair, repeating the Crime Line phone number over in her head. She had to do something. If she called in an anonymous tip, she wouldn’t have to mention anything about finding the body in her husband's car. Bridget scratched her wrist raw, frantically trying to assemble her thoughts. She would tell the Crime Line she thought she’d seen someone who looked like the woman on the news exiting the building where her husband was working on Friday night. That would be enough to prompt an investigation. The police would likely interview everyone who worked at Bartlett and Hartman. She wouldn't exactly be throwing Steve under the bus, but she’d be pointing the cops in the right direction. If they did their due diligence, they were bound to find out that her husband had stayed late at the office that night and put two and two together. It was enough to appease her conscience. The rest was up to the professionals.
Her fingers trembled as she fished her phone out of her pocket. Before she could talk herself out of it, she punched in the Crime Line number and hit dial, and then abruptly ended the call. She shook her head. This wasn’t going to work. First, she needed to iron out a few details. She had to be clear on what she was going to tell the operator. Blurting out everything was a really bad idea and might lead to her inadvertently incriminating herself in the process. She took a quick calming breath and then mouthed each digit as she carefully punched in the number again.
“Mommy!” Harper burst into the room like a tornado. ”Can I watch a movie, please?”
Bridget quickly hit the end call button and blinked at her daughter, trying to wrangle her thoughts back to the simplicity of a seven-year-old’s world. “Did you finish your sandwich?” she stammered.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
Harper gave an emphatic nod. “Henry had four cookies. I only had one.”
Bridget gave her a fleeting smile as she got to her feet. “I'll speak to him about it.” She handed her daughter the remote control.
“Do you want to watch a movie with me?” Harper’s face lit up with a flicker of expectation.
“Maybe later,” Bridget replied. “Mommy has some work to do first.” She smoothed a hand over Harper's head, and then made her way to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. With a resolute sigh, she sank down on the bed and dialed the Crime Line for the third time. This time the call went through.
“Hello, Crime Line, how can I help?” a male voice said.
Bridget wet her lips nervously. “I … I need to make sure this call is anonymous.”
“Yes ma'am. We're a completely anonymous service. We don't have caller ID, we don't record calls, and we don't want to know any information about you. We’ll simply make a note of any information you have and pass that on to the police.”
“And … I won't have to appear in court, or anything like that.”
“No, absolutely not. You don't have to make a statement either. All we need is whatever information you have.”
“It’s about the missing woman whose body was found in the dumpster. I'm not sure it was her, but I think …” Bridget broke off brusquely, her heart pounding like the thudding of hooves on a hard-packed road. Once she said it, there was no going back. Sooner or later, the police would interview Steve and get to the bottom of what had happened. Her world was about to implode.
“Take your time, ma'am.”
“It's just that I could be wrong about this and I don't want to be prosecuted.”
“I can promise you that you won't be prosecuted for anything you say on this line. This call is one-hundred-percent confidential. We don't even tell the police if it was a male or a female who called in the tip.”
“Okay.” Bridget took a butterfly-laden breath before continuing. “Last night, I happened to pull over near Bartlett and Hartman Accounting on Rhode Street to make a call. A woman was exiting the building. She looked like the woman on the news. I can't be certain it was her because it was dusk, and I didn’t get a close look.”
“What time approximately was this at?”
Bridget hesitated and pretended to think about it. “Six-thirty or seven-ish.”
“And was the woman alone?”
“Yes, she walked around to the parking lot behind the building and drove away a moment or two later.”
“Did you happen to see what make or model of vehicle she was driving, ma’am?”
Bridget scrunched her eyes shut, picturing the vehicle emerging from the parking lot. “It was a Land Rover, dark, maybe gray or green. I can't be sure.”
“No problem. Is there any other information you'd like me to pass along?”
Bridget's nails dug into the fabric of the duvet beneath her. Yes, please tell the cops that I saw her in the trunk of my husband’s Mercedes the next day. “Uh, no, that's everything.” Her voice wavered a fraction. Surely the man on t
he other end of line had taken enough calls to recognize when someone was lying. But he’d promised her she couldn’t be prosecuted for anything she’d said or hadn’t said. She would have to take him at his word.
“Thank you, ma'am. I'm going to give you a case number in the event you elect to call back and check on the status of your crime report at any point. Do you have a pen handy?”
Bridget got to her feet and pulled open a drawer in her bed side table. “Go ahead.”
She scribbled down the case number and ended the call before sinking back down on the bed in a daze. It was done. Soon, the wheels would begin turning. Her life as she knew it was over. The police would follow the trail like sniffer dogs and, before long, they would come knocking on her door.
8
Bridget tossed the pen back into the drawer and slammed it shut before walking around to the other side of the bed where Steve slept. Blood like a jungle drumbeat pounded in her ears. She felt like a prowler in her own house. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her hand beneath the mattress and slid it along the entire length, feeling for anything Steve might have hidden there—a second phone, perhaps? Coming up empty, she yanked open the drawer in his bedside table next. She had no clear idea what she was looking for, but maybe she would stumble across something that would tell her who her husband really was. She rifled skittishly though the drawer contents: a box of Breathe Right nasal strips, some coins, a highlighter, a Swiss army knife, a yachting magazine. Was it possible to identify a cheater or a killer by the kinds of things they kept next to their bed? It wasn’t as if they would leave anything incriminating within a spouse’s reach.
She lifted out a crumpled receipt and stared at it in her fist for a moment before swallowing back her dread and unfolding it. The Habit Burger Grill. Apparently, Steve had recently partaken of a number one meal with a Diet Coke—hardly a criminal activity by any standard. Her fingers froze at the sound of the front door opening. Tossing the receipt back into the drawer, she closed it quietly before smoothing down her hair.
