The Guilty Husband

by Stephanie DeCarolis

  Kinnon hits play on the footage and indeed the man begins to pace nervously. I watch him take his hands in and out of his pockets, fidgeting, occasionally glancing over his shoulder, as he keeps watch on the front door of Layla’s building.

  ‘What’s the date on this?’ I ask.

  ‘August fifth,’ Kinnon replies.

  ‘Almost three weeks before Layla was killed then.’

  We continue watching the footage, huddled around the screen.

  ‘Look, there!’ Lanner exclaims. ‘It’s Mindy.’

  There is no mistaking the mane of black curls on her head, the shuffling way she walks with her eyes trained down at the sidewalk in front of her, as if she doesn’t want the world to notice her.

  We watch the strange man look up at her and pause, his head tilted to the side, like a curious puppy. And then he walks out of sight.

  ‘We need to finish reviewing the footage from the last three weeks, and then we’re going to have to go back to the beginning. Go through all the footage again. Flag any sightings of this guy,’ I say.

  Lanner groans and throws his head back dramatically. He knows we’re going to be in for a long night.

  ‘Done,’ Lanner announces, pushing his chair back from the table. He stands up and stretches his long arms, pulling each one across his chest in turn.

  ‘I’m done too,’ Kinnon adds.

  ‘So am I,’ I say.

  The conference table in front of us is scattered with empty soda cans, crumpled napkins and the remains of a pizza that we dove on like vultures earlier in the evening.

  ‘Ok, let’s see what we’ve got.’

  I walk over to the whiteboard we set up in the back of the room. Each time one of us spotted the man in question, we added the information to the board, building a timeline of his visits to Layla’s apartment. Overall, we’ve seen him four times over as many months.

  I read the board aloud.

  ‘Sunday July 21, 3.09 p.m.: Stands outside building for eight minutes. Does not enter.

  Saturday July 27 10.11 a.m.: Stands outside building for seven minutes. Does not enter.

  Monday August 5, 8.27 a.m.: Stands outside building for nine minutes, looking nervous. Seems to take note of Mindy. Leaves shortly after, not in same direction as Mindy.

  August 23, 6.59 p.m.: Stands outside building for fourteen minutes. Watches Layla and Mindy leave building together. Follows in their direction.’

  We’re all silent for a moment while we consider the board, our heads fuzzy after spending the day glued to our computer screens.

  ‘So,’ Lanner begins. ‘He shows up three weekends in a row. Then he sees Mindy, and doesn’t show up again for three weeks.’

  ‘Right, and that was the night before Layla died,’ Kinnon adds.

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ Lanner says, a puzzled look on his face as he sweeps his eyes back and forth over the board.

  ‘I’m not sure either,’ I reply. The information swirls around my head, I see it strewn out before me like scattered puzzle pieces. I know there is something here, but I can’t quite slot the pieces in place to reveal the full picture.

  Kinnon looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to do my job and lead this investigation forward.

  ‘Ok, here’s what we’re gonna do,’ I say more confidently than I feel. ‘Let’s find the clearest freeze-frame we can get of this guy. One where you can see his face. And then we’ll see if anyone in the area can identify him.’

  Chapter 28

  Vince

  DAY 6

  The Tesla flies down the parkway, quietly and smoothly, as I whizz past a large wooden sign, ‘Welcome to Pennsylvania’. It was a two and a half hour drive from my house to Philadelphia. Surely by now Nicole found the note I quickly scrawled for her, ‘running some errands, be back tonight’, not that she’s tried to call. My phone sits dark and silent in the cup-holder to my left. I suppose it’s a fair representation of our relationship right now though. My own fault. But I’m going to make things right no matter what it takes.

  I thought the long drive would settle my nerves. It usually does. Our friends, or, I should say, wealthy acquaintances that we are forced to socialize with due to sheer proximity at certain events, have suggested on countless occasions that I really should hire a driver. As if the sight of me driving my own car is somehow unseemly in light of the balance in my bank accounts. My insistence on maintaining some semblance of a normal life is apparently offensive in certain circles. Oh well. I love driving, the feeling of my tires connecting with the road, and I never wanted to lose who I am. Although, I suppose I did. Nicole was right. I have changed.

  I can’t help thinking about the day I proposed to her. The memory plays in my head unbidden, like a familiar song from long ago. I rented a bungalow in Montauk for a long weekend in May, just before the busy season began. It was still cool enough that we could meander along the sandy shorelines in shorts and light sweatshirts, enjoying the spray of the salty sea air on our faces. We spent four long and lazy days wandering the little beach town, among the brightly colored shops offering slow churned ice cream, painted seashells, and shiny new surfboards. The aroma of freshly baked croissants greeted us each morning, and we spent the sunny afternoons nestled under a shady umbrella enjoying fresh oysters and frozen cocktails on Gosman’s Dock, surrounded by the tinny sound of wind chimes blowing in the warm breeze and seagulls circling overhead.

  On the last day of the trip, I booked us a tour of the famous Montauk Lighthouse located at the furthest tip of Long Island. We strolled through the tiny maritime museum, admiring the model ships, whale hunting artifacts, and photographs of days gone by, before we made our way up the narrow winding stairway leading to the top of the red and white lighthouse. As I walked up the stairs, I patted my pocket repeatedly to make sure I hadn’t dropped the ring. I’d spent my last dime to buy it. When we reached the peak, we looked out at the wide expanse of sparkling blue water all around us, the Long Island Sound colliding with the Atlantic Ocean before our eyes. A misty gray fog swirled around the base of lighthouse beneath our feet as I got down on one knee, with tears in my eyes and butterflies in my stomach, and asked Nicole to be mine forever.

  That man, the man down on his knees begging the love of his life to be his happily ever after, could never have imagined hurting Nicole the way I have. The memory of happier times falls away from me now, like a ship slowly claimed by a dark sea. I lost sight of myself, but it’s time to get back to the person I once was, the man Nicole made me want to be.

  I pull up to the address Mullins gave me earlier this morning. It was only a few hours ago that I got his call, but yet it feels like it belonged to another lifetime: The one before I started tracking down Layla’s past, before I took the first step towards taking my life back. I park the Tesla on a shady block, where kids have freed a fire hydrant and are dancing in its geyser-like spray. A rainbow reflects off of the escaped mist, and the children shriek and squeal with joy as they dart in and out of the cold water. It drips off the ends of their hair and rolls down their backs; summertime in a city. As I climb out of my car, I wonder for a moment if this was what Layla’s childhood, her real childhood, looked like. Did she dance in rain that she made herself?

  I approach the building Mullins directed me to on foot. A four-story town house, long ago painted red, with a sagging roof and fading shutters. Bars clutter the upper windows, and the curtains appear to be made of old bedsheets tacked to the window frames. A loosened gutter hangs listlessly from the roof, and a pair of worn sneakers dangles from the telephone wires cross-hatching the sky overhead. Far from the farm life Layla described. I feel a rush of renewed anger as I climb the front steps, the bricks wobbling beneath my weight. She lied to me. From the very beginning.

  I press the buzzer for the basement apartment. None of the five doorbells are labeled with the names of the tenants, just the floor that they belong to. I’d imagine the tenants change often, this sad looking house a trans
ient arrangement. I have no idea if I’ll find anyone here who knew Layla, but it’s worth a try.

  ‘Who’s ringin’?’ a deep raspy voice barks over the intercom. I believe it’s a woman’s voice but I can’t be certain.

  I’m momentarily at a loss for words. How do I explain who I am and why I’m here? I lean in towards the intercom, and explain as best I can.

  ‘Hi, I’m looking for someone who may have lived here at some point. Her name is, was, Layla?’

  The voice goes silent. Maybe I’ve struck out. Maybe there’s nothing to find here after all. I’m just about to walk away when the voice blares over the intercom once again.

  ‘Come in then. Back door.’

  I walk around to the back of the building, picking my way around crushed soda cans, broken beer bottles, and discarded candy wrappers that litter the tight alleyway separating this building from the next. When I reach the back side of the building, I see a rusted fire escape climbing the facade. A child sits on the second-story landing eating a Popsicle, his feet dangling over the side, his shoe laces untied and hanging like tendrils. Beneath the fire escape is a small cement stairway leading to a dingy white door. That must be the entrance to the basement apartment.

  ‘Come on, I don’t got all day,’ a woman says, craning her neck out the basement door. Her hair which was likely once black, is streaked with gray, and it hangs in matted tufts. Her dark eyes seem hollow and haunted against her pale, gaunt skin. The woman’s fingers, long and thin, grip the side of the door and they seem to be nothing more than skin pulled over bone.

  I follow her into the apartment and it’s like I’ve stepped into another world, the dark underbelly of a life I never knew. The single room that makes up the basement apartment is shabby and worn, and clouded with smoke, the walls and ceilings coated with a brown film. In the center of the room is a stained couch with tufts of stuffing pushing its way out of the torn fabric. The couch has been pulled out to a bed, which dons graying sheets that are worn threadbare in the center and reek of sweat.

  The woman sits on the edge of the bed and crosses her legs at the knee. She gestures for me to sit in a small wooden chair that’s pushed up against the wall, clothes hanging off of its back.

  She picks up a small glass pipe and takes a long drag. Marijuana, judging by the smell of it.

  ‘It’s medicinal,’ she says, eyeing me through a curling cloud of smoke. ‘Willing to share if you want though.’

  She pulls the pipe away from her thin, cracked lips and offers it to me.

  ‘No, thank you, I’m fine.’ I try to sound polite and not repulsed at the thought of putting my mouth where hers had just been.

  The smell in the apartment is nearly unbearable and I find myself suppressing the urge to burst towards the one small window at the other end of the room to gulp in fresh air. The window is cracked open, offering a view of asphalt and passing sneakers.

  ‘You said you were looking for Layla?’ The woman says, her eyes half closed as she gently sways in her seat.

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘Welp, sorry to tell you this, but you ain’t gonna find her here. I dunno what kinda girl doesn’t visit her mother, letting me rot away in this shit hole by myself, but there you have it. That’s Layla for ya.’

  Her mother?

  ‘You’re Layla’s mother?’ I ask bewildered. I would have thought her old enough to be Layla’s grandmother, but her bedraggled appearance makes it difficult to estimate her real age.

  ‘Sure am, not that she seems to remember that.’ The woman huffs.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that she told me—’

  ‘I bet she told you I was dead or somethin’. Wouldn’t be the first time. Only she wishes that was true.’ The woman coughs into her arm, a phlegmy, wet cough. ‘Ain’t dead yet though.’

  ‘She told me that she was raised by her grandmother. On a farm.’

  The woman laughs now, a deep laugh that has her doubled over and sputtering for air between coughs. Her yellowed and rotting teeth on full display.

  ‘Ain’t no way. Her daddy ran off after she was born, didn’t have the stomach for all that crying and screamin’, and my own mother wrote me off years ago. Far as I know, Layla never even met either of her grandmothers. A farm, ha! I raised that little ingrate myself, not that she ever gave me any thanks for it.’

  I notice the woman scratching at her arm as she speaks. It’s riddled with small red and purple dots. Needle wounds, track marks, if I had to guess.

  ‘What’d you say you name was again?’ The woman leers at me now, suspicious.

  I suddenly realize that I shouldn’t tell her who I really am. It seems that she doesn’t know that her daughter is dead, so I assume she hasn’t seen the news yet, but when she does, I don’t want her knowing that she was paid a visit by the prime suspect in her daughter’s murder. I can only imagine that trouble that would cause me.

  ‘My name … Jeff.’ It was the first name I could think of.

  ‘Well, Jeff. I’m Gemma. How’d you know my daughter?’

  ‘Oh, we met at a bar. A while back. I was just looking to get in touch with her again, and this was the last address I had for her.’

  ‘Surprised she’d give it. She hasn’t lived here since she was sixteen. And even then, hardly spent any time here. Always thought she was too good for this place, too good for her only mother. If she only knew how much I gave up for her. I was going to be a famous singer, you know. I know I’m not much to look at now, but in my day I was really something.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I reply, trying my best to sound genuine. ‘When was the last time you heard from Layla?’

  Gemma narrows her eyes, and points a bony finger at me. Her mood seems to swing back and forth like a pendulum.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re snoopin’ around here after Layla, but whatever it is, I don’t want nothin’ to do with it. I ain’t seen that girl since the day she left.’

  ‘Alright, ma’am, I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ I say as I turn to leave.

  Gemma follows me to the door. As I walk across the back lot, I hear her call after me. ‘I’ll tell you this much, if you’re involved with Layla you better be careful.’

  I turn around, wanting to ask what she meant, but she slams the door and I hear a lock slide into place behind her.

  Chapter 29

  Vince

  BEFORE

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere else?’ Layla asks seductively, a red straw held between her teeth. She steps towards me, and I can smell the whiskey on her breath, hear the ice rattling in her glass.

  ‘Layla, not now. We’re at a work function.’ I can’t seem to keep the irritation out of my voice, though, admittedly, I’m not really trying. She’s drunk, sloppy, but she should know that we can’t take risks like that. I take a step back from her and scan the room to make sure no one is watching us. We just finished developing a new app, Layla’s app actually, and it’s tradition that I take the whole team out for a happy hour as soon as it’s released. From what I can tell, my employees seem to be taking full advantage of the open bar and are paying little to no attention to Layla and me at the far end of the bar. But you can never be too careful.

  ‘Come on, Vince, you don’t need to be so uptight all the time. Have a little fun, for once,’ Layla pouts.

  She’s behaving like a spoiled and petulant child. Maybe it’s the age difference, maybe I am just a grumpy old man who’s forgotten to how to have fun, but I have little patience for her neediness, her immaturity lately. It seems that Layla always finds a way to get what she wants.

  Ever since Marta almost caught us in my apartment, I’ve been trying to put some distance between Layla and me. She told me not to worry about it, Marta didn’t actually see anything, so who cares if she heard the shower running? But I do. I care. It was too close of a call and made me realize how dangerous this game we’ve been playing really is.

  I’d like to say that that time in my apartme
nt was the last time I was with Layla, but truthfully it wasn’t. As much as I’ve tried to avoid Layla, it seems that she is trying just as hard to find ways to be alone with me. Whether she’s cozying up to me in the copy room, working late so that she can walk out to the parking lot with me, or hand-delivering memos to my office, Layla never seems to be too far away. I can’t say for certain that she’s doing it intentionally, but it certainly feels that way.

  Earlier this week I was out to dinner with an important investor who was interested in learning more about the new video game branch, when Layla sauntered in draped on the arm of another man while wearing a tight red dress that left little to the imagination. I thought perhaps it was a coincidence that we ended up in the same restaurant, that perhaps she hadn’t even seen me sitting on the other side of the room, but when the investor got up to use the restroom, Layla walked straight over to my table. She sat herself across from me and said, ‘I’m sorry if this is a bit awkward for you, Vince. I wasn’t expecting to run into you tonight.’

  ‘Who’s the guy?’ I replied, nodding in the direction of the hulk of a man waiting for her at the bar.

  ‘Oh, that’s Adam. He’s just a friend. That doesn’t bother you, does it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I lied. I could feel the jealously churning in my gut. Layla wasn’t mine to possess, I knew that I was in absolutely no position to tell her that she couldn’t sleep with other people, but I still felt territorial. ‘It’s none of my business who you choose to spend your time with.’

  Layla smiled, almost pityingly. ‘Right, I know. But call me later if you find yourself available.’

  As she rose from the table, I thought to myself that her dress was far too short for a dinner with a friend. Especially a muscular, male friend with a chiseled jawline.