The Guilty Husband

by Stephanie DeCarolis

‘Picked this up on my way home earlier,’ he says, clearly proud of himself.

  I know the cheap wine is inevitably going to give me a headache, but I appreciate the gesture and I take the cold glass gratefully.

  ‘Thank you.’ The wine feels blissfully cool on my tongue. ‘This really was thoughtful.’

  ‘Well I saw the World View article this morning. Kind of figured you weren’t having the best day. Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No. I definitely do not. I want to talk about anything except that case right now. I think I need some time to clear my head, maybe looking at it with fresh eyes tomorrow will help.’

  ‘You got it, Babe. In that case, I’ll tell you about my day instead.’

  Josh begins to tell me about the competition he’s hosting at Lift and how many new members have been signing up to be a part of it. Admittedly I’m only half listening as the wine is already going to my head, but I love listening to the animated cadence of his voice when he talks about something he’s passionate about. Before long we fall into a quiet rhythm, me tucked up against Josh’s side as we switch on the TV to some stupid reality show and pretend we can hear what the contestants are saying over the sound of The Dinosaur humming away.

  I wake up in the middle of the night, the sheets tangled around my legs. I look over at Josh and he’s lying on his back snoring gently with one arm draped over his eyes. I don’t know how he sleeps like that. Something is pulling at my mind. I can’t quite place what it is, but there’s something about this case that has been bothering me. Maybe it’s because it all seems to revolve around a world I don’t understand. Vince’s world. A world where people connect through wires and cables and Wi-Fi. Where genuine connection, looking into someone’s eyes while you share the details of your life, is reduced to an awkward inconvenience. Social media has let us design how we want the world to see us, while conveniently cropping out all of the unsightly messes that make up a real life.

  I pad out of the bedroom and fire up my old laptop. I really should replace it soon. Stu would probably have a heart attack if he saw this thing. I tentatively type in the address for Friend Connect. Ugh, I’ve resisted joining for so long. I just don’t understand the appeal. Why would I want to know what some girl I went to high school with is eating for lunch? But if I’m being honest with myself, that’s not the only reason I haven’t joined. I know I have a lot to be proud of with my career, but the rest of my life isn’t exactly where I thought it would be by the time I turned 35. I thought I’d be married now, house with a white picket fence, and a kid or two. It stings to see everyone I used to know living the life I used to think I’d have. I type in my information.

  Name: Allison Barnes.

  No, I shouldn’t give my real name. The last thing I need is for suspects to be looking me up on Friend Connect. Delete, delete, delete. I decide to go with Ali Marie – my middle name.

  Birth date: October 21, 1985

  Occupation: … I think it’s best to leave that one blank.

  ‘Upload profile photo?’ it prompts. Fine. I suppose I’ll have to. I flick through the handful of photos I have stored on my laptop, looking for one that I wouldn’t mind showing everyone I know. There’s one of Josh and I from a friend’s engagement party last summer that was hosted at a rooftop bar. It’s a candid photo that was taken by the photographer the couple of the hour had hired. I’m wearing a sundress and sandals, my hair is down for once and it’s brushed into soft waves. Josh is looking off into the crowed laughing and smiling as he always is, but it’s the look on my face that causes me to pause for a moment. I’m looking up at Josh, while I lightly hold his arm. I look like a love-struck teenager. I do love Josh, I really do, but I’m always so careful to keep my guard up. I can’t help it. The tough exterior is just part of who I am. It seems that this photographer snapped a photo of me in one of the rare moments when I let the armor slip. I click the photo and upload it as my Friend Connect profile photo. Maybe it’s not the most accurate representation of who I am, but isn’t that what this stupid site is for? To convince everyone that you’re this shiny perfect version of yourself that you could never possibly maintain?

  Upload complete. I guess it’s official. I’m on Friend Connect now. The first thing I do with my account is search for Layla Bosch. I can see her name, but there’s no photo attached to her profile. And then it dawns on me. The missing piece of the puzzle that has been needling me.

  I pick up my phone and call Lanner.

  ‘Guess what?’ I say the instant he picks up the phone.

  ‘Do you realize that it’s three in the morning? There’s only one reason I like women calling me at three a.m., and I have a feeling this isn’t that.’

  ‘Can you stop being a pain in the ass for two seconds? I thought of something about our case.’

  ‘What is this important revelation that couldn’t wait until a decent hour?’

  ‘I can see that Layla was on Friend Connect, but—’

  ‘Wait, are you on Friend Connect now?’ Lanner laughs.

  ‘Maybe. But that’s not the point. What about Date Space? How can we find out whether she was using that app too? Maybe that’s how she really met Vince! Maybe that’s how she ended up landing a cushy job she didn’t know the first thing about!’

  ‘She did have the app on her phone, but she also had all of the other KitzTech apps. I’m sure all the employees do.’

  ‘Don’t you use that sleazy thing? Can’t you look her up?’

  ‘I could try, but most people don’t use their real names on there. Hang on.’

  I hear Lanner shuffling in bed. A few second later he’s back on the line.

  ‘Nope. Couldn’t find her. But like I said, that doesn’t mean she didn’t have an account under a different name. Let’s see what Stu can find in the morning. You know, when normal people are awake.’

  ‘Fine. Go back to bed, Sleeping Beauty.’

  I end the call and climb back into bed next to Josh who hasn’t moved a muscle since I left. Right before I drift off to sleep, I see my phone light up with an e-mail notification: ‘You have a new Friend Connect request from Jake Lanner.’ I roll my eyes and give in to sleep.

  Chapter 22

  Vince

  DAY 4

  I stretch my arms over my head, my spine cracking. I lift my hand to my neck, massaging it gently at the side as I stretch the sore muscles. I spent the majority of the afternoon locked away in my office, tying up some loose ends before I take some time away from KitzTech. I feel like a parent leaving their child unattended for the for the first time. At least I think I do. What would I know about parenting? But ever since I started KitzTech, I’ve kept a tight hold on the reigns. Even on the rare occasions that I’d take vacation time, my phone was always glued to my hand, ready to put out any fires that could spark in my absence. I know my staff are well-trained, they can handle things in my absence, and yet letting go of the helm for the time being feels like being swept out to sea.

  But the truth is, work hasn’t been the only thing on my mind. I’ve been consumed with thoughts of Layla. Of what I can do to stop her death from tearing through my life, my marriage, like a runaway freight train. The last four days have been a whirlwind of emotions: anger, fear, panic, and also sadness. In this quiet moment, it washes over me anew. Things between Layla and I may not have ended well, but I never wanted this for her. Her young life cut short, reduced to nothing more than a headline, another poor girl lost to the dark undercurrent of New York City.

  I hear Nicole’s soft footsteps overhead. She’s probably getting ready for bed. I look over at the Chinese takeout containers pushed to the corner of my desk, grease congealing in a film over the remaining noodles, giving them a nauseating gray sheen. I heard Nicole in the kitchen earlier, making herself something to eat. I crept into the kitchen like a dog with its tail between its legs, but Nicole fixed me with a cold glare and I instantly stopped in my tracks.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t do thi
s tonight.’ She swiped her plate off of the counter and took it upstairs with her.

  I skulked back to my office, limping on my injured ankle, with my tail tucked even further between my legs, and ordered my pathetic dinner for one.

  I have to do something now. About Layla. About this investigation. I can’t wait for another headline to take us by surprise, to pull Nicole even further away from me. The chasm between us is already growing so wide that I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to reach her again.

  But what could I possibly do? If things were different, I would ask Jeff. But I already know he’d tell me stay out of it, to just sit here and wait to be arrested. Maybe that’s exactly what he’s hoping for. No. Not Jeff. He wouldn’t do that to me. We’ve been friends since we were ten years old, playing baseball together in a kid’s league. Not that I was any good. I couldn’t have hit the side of a barn, but Jeff was a superstar. All the dads on the sidelines were already talking about seeing him in the Majors some day. When Jeff approached me after practice one day and asked if I wanted to walk to the arcade, I couldn’t believe my luck that the coolest kid in school wanted to be my friend. I didn’t realize he even knew my name.

  My friendship with Jeff carried me all through high school. I knew I wasn’t the coolest kid. I had thick, dark-rimmed glasses, far before they were fashionable, and my interest in computers hardly helped me make friends. But with Jeff on my side, the popular crowd tolerated my presence. I wasn’t part of their inner circle, but I was allowed to exist on the periphery of the good life. I tagged along with Jeff to all the right parties, and even though the popular guys never talked to me, and the girls didn’t seem to notice I existed, I was there, sipping my beer in some forgotten corner. And I got to walk home with Jeff, laughing in the streets about who got too drunk, who hooked up with who, and all of the juicy high school drama that felt like the most important thing in the world at the time. Jeff was my life raft. But what did he get from that friendship? I’m still not entirely sure.

  Later in life, when all my time in front of a computer finally paid off, and women like Nicole finally started to notice me, Jeff made all the right noises. He told me he was happy for me, that he knew I’d make it some day. But I couldn’t help but feel like he was jealous. He was always supposed to be the superstar, and I was supposed to be the sidekick, just happy to exist in his shadow. Jeff claims he’s happy with his lot in life. He has a successful legal career, a fast car, an expensive condo on the beach, and no one to answer to. But sometimes I think that he wishes he had more. He’s reminded me so many times over the years how lucky I was to find someone like Nicole. But now, I’m starting to think that Jeff doesn’t want ‘someone like Nicole’, he wants Nicole. She is the one thing I have that Jeff doesn’t, something money can’t buy – someone who loves me.

  It’s painful to feel like I no longer have Jeff in my corner, and I don’t want to feel distrustful of my friend, but someone somewhere is going to a lot of trouble to make it look like I was responsible for Layla’s death. I can’t take any chances trusting the wrong people. I will have to do this without him. I run a search for a private detective agency. Maybe they’ll know where to start.

  I look at the list that Google generated for me. Apparently ‘private investigator’ is a popular career choice. I start browsing websites. Most of them promising to find evidence of cheating spouses, to catch employees stealing from their employers, to pull up sludge for cash payments up front. I feel dirty just looking at their websites. I’m about to give up, when I come across David Mullins, a retired detective who now takes on select cases. He advertises that he’ll only work with you if he feels it’s worth his while. Perhaps not the best business plan, but it makes me feel like I can trust him. I type out an email to David Mullins, hoping that he finds my plight worth his while:

  Dear Mr Mullins,

  My name is Vince Taylor, and if you’ve read the World View lately, you may think you already know my story. I was having an affair with an intern at my company, and now she has been found dead in Central Park. The police seem to think I’m responsible for her death, but there is far more to this story than what’s been printed under the salacious headlines. I hope you might be willing to assist me, as I’m not sure where else to turn.

  Sincerely,

  Vince Taylor

  My fingers linger over the keyboard wondering if I’m making the right decision. If I should listen to Jeff or to my instincts. I click the send button, and hope for the best as I make my way back to the guest room where I seem to have taken up permanent residence.

  Chapter 23

  Vince

  BEFORE

  I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly, blowing a long plume of air between my lips, as if I’d just taken a pull from a cigarette. Layla’s hand is resting on my bare chest, one leg splayed over mine. The white, Egyptian cotton sheets are bunched into ropes and tangled around us like creeping ivy as the early morning light seeps in through the bedroom window. I look down at Layla, her brown hair tussled, her cheeks flushed with sex. Her eyes are closing sleepily as she absently runs her fingers up and down my sternum, her touch as light as the wings of a bird.

  This is the first time I’ve taken Layla to my apartment. I couldn’t risk sleeping with her in the office again. It’s happened a few times, and I know we were lucky not to have got caught yet. But renting a hotel room for a few hours felt too tawdry. Bringing her here was yet another boundary I’ve crossed. Nicole rarely stays in the apartment, only on the odd occasion that we attend an event in the City, but her spare toothbrush is in the bathroom, her dresses hang in the closet. This is Nicole’s territory, and I’ve invited another woman into it. Into our bed. Layla’s scent is permeating Nicole’s pillows and my stomach clenches at the thought of it. Will Nicole notice? The sheets will be laundered, the apartment restored to its pristine condition by Marta, our housekeeper, but will Nicole somehow know? Will she pick up on the traces of Layla’s intrusion?

  I look around the room, at the evidence of my poor decisions: Two wine glasses on the nightstand, one with a perfect imprint of Layla’s lips on the rim, the dregs of blood red wine clinging to the bottom of the glasses; Layla’s clothes scattered on the floor, in a telling trail leading from the front door to the bedroom.

  ‘I’m going to get a glass of water,’ I say. ‘Would you like some?’

  Layla nods sleepily, her eyes fully closed now, a look of dreamy bliss on her face.

  I walk out into the kitchen and pull open the heavy door of the stainless steel refrigerator. This apartment, which I purchased primarily for occasions when I had to work late and didn’t want to make the drive back to Loch Harbor, is nothing like our home. It lacks all of Nicole’s warm touches. Everything is cold and modern. The marble floors are cool beneath my feet and the kitchen, largely unused, looks more like a showroom than a home. Nicole thought the idea of purchasing an apartment in Manhattan was absurd when we live less than an hour away. Maybe she was right. Maybe this place was a mistake.

  ‘Do we really need all this, Vince?’ Nicole said when she first toured the expansive penthouse apartment, with all its polished surfaces and soaring ceilings. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit much?’

  ‘We can afford it,’ I reminded her with a shrug.

  ‘Just because we can doesn’t mean we have to.’

  I don’t know why I was so insistent. Perhaps it was because I grew up never knowing if we’d have enough money to keep the lights on, and I felt like I had to prove to myself how far I’d come since then. I didn’t want to live in Manhattan, but I loved the idea of owning a piece of this highly coveted island. I didn’t see it at the time, but this apartment, this penthouse, is nothing more than a status symbol. I wanted to own real estate in one of the old, distinguished buildings in Central Park West. I wanted to lay claim to what few others could have, to prove that I was no longer the boy who wore hand-me-down jackets that I’d fished out of the school’s Lost and Found box, which was stuff
ed with the items the other kids casually discarded and never thought of again. No, if I could own a piece of this building, its old-money status evident by the baroque architecture, uniformed doorman flanked by red velvet ropes, and the private elevator exclusively servicing the penthouse apartments – the world would know that I mattered. I would know that I mattered; and I would no longer feel like an impostor amongst the ranks of the wealthy.

  ‘Nicole, I know it’s a lot but just look at the view.’

  She walked over to the large Palladian window in the center of the living room and looked out over Central Park. A green oasis flourishing in a sea of concrete.

  ‘It is impressive. But I don’t know …’

  ‘I do,’ I told her, taking her in my arms, and kissing her neck. ‘You’ll see. We’re going to love this place.’

  I’d had such high hopes for this apartment then. I imagined glittering nights out in the city, Nicole on my arm. Attending galas, the opening at the Met, ballets in Lincoln Center, and then retiring back here, tipsy with champagne and desperate to find our way to the bedroom. But that fantasy didn’t exactly become a reality. Soon after I bought the apartment, our love-making became organized with near military precision. The spontaneity of nights out fizzled away, and champagne was a thing of the past. And now Layla is here in Nicole’s place, draining the final drops of color from the dreams I once had for my wife and I.

  ‘Did you get lost?’ Layla teases as she walks out of the bedroom with one of my white collared shirts wrapped around her. It hangs off her shoulders seductively and her bare thighs are on display. She’s looking at me with her deep brown eyes, and smiling innocently, her hands hidden beneath the crisp cuffs of my shirt.

  ‘Sorry, I was just lost in thought for a moment.’ I hand her a glass of water.

  ‘Thanks.’ She walks over to the grand window in the living room and looks out over the park, just the way Nicole once did. ‘This place is amazing, Vince. It’s like a palace! I feel like a princess in a tower up here.’