The Betrayed Wife

by Kevin O'Brien

  “You’re right. I’ve never cheated on my husband. I think I’d be pretty terrible at it. I don’t know Sheila. But I’m guessing she’s a nice person. And despite the problems we’ve been having, my husband’s a kind, decent guy. I think they both deserve better.”

  The waiter returned with the check, Dylan’s credit card, and the boxed leftovers. “Thanks a lot. You folks be sure to come back soon.”

  Nodding, Dylan worked up a smile for him. Then he signed the dinner receipt and put his credit card away. He sat there for another few moments and gazed at her.

  “You should go,” she said.

  “Can I at least drive you home?”

  She shook her head. “I’m just two blocks away, and I want to walk. You go home to your family, Dylan. I’m going to sit here a little longer. I may even buy myself a drink.”

  He stood up. “So that’s it?”

  She looked up at him, smiled, and nodded.

  He took a step back from the table.

  “Don’t . . .” she cleared her throat, “don’t forget your leftovers.”

  Frowning, Dylan grabbed the box. “It was nice meeting you, Brooke,” he murmured.

  She nodded and looked down at the table.

  Dylan hurried out of the restaurant and down the block to where he’d parked the car. Jumping into the front, he put the leftovers box on the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

  “Goddamn it!”

  Saturday, September 22—1:10 A.M.

  Usually, Dylan fell asleep just seconds after his head hit the pillow. Not tonight. Sheila, who usually had trouble with insomnia, was sound asleep beside him. She’d taken an Ambien around midnight, and that had immediately knocked her out. Dylan was left to toss and turn, mulling over his shitty evening.

  Thwarted expectations were bad enough. But he couldn’t even bellyache to anyone about how disappointed he was. On top of that, he felt like a total jerk for leaving the boys home alone earlier tonight. They were fine, of course—just a little shaken up. Still, Sheila was pretty damn unforgiving. And she was right, damn it.

  Yet, given the choice, he’d do it all over again if it meant he’d have another chance to be with Brooke.

  Dylan climbed out of bed, put on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and then crept downstairs. He was tempted to try Sheila’s trick with a couple of shots of bourbon. But he hated bourbon. Besides, he didn’t want to wake up in the morning feeling even lousier with a hangover. He needed to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow (his mother’s favorite expression). Gabe had a football game in Auburn, and Dylan was one of the carpooling parents.

  He checked the refrigerator for something to eat. He eyed his leftover burger and fries. He’d thought about finishing up the dinner earlier, after returning home. He’d ended up watching Black Panther with the boys—or some of it.

  A little more than halfway through the film, Sheila had come home. Dylan had joined her in the kitchen while the boys remained down in the basement with the movie blaring. As she fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for herself, Sheila lit into him again for leaving the boys alone at home.

  Dylan just kept on apologizing.

  She showed him the photo she’d taken of the guy from the bus—along with his girlfriend. Dylan felt awful for not taking her more seriously. It was now frighteningly obvious that this blond kid was indeed stalking Sheila, for one reason or another. Whatever—or whomever—she’d seen outside the house the other night could no longer be dismissed as the product of too much bourbon and an overactive imagination. And maybe she was right about this stalker sending her that strange text.

  The guy in the photo was a sketchy-looking creep. Dylan wished he could call the police on him, but the son of a bitch hadn’t really tried anything yet. He hadn’t even gotten within twenty feet of Sheila. And they couldn’t prove he’d been anywhere near the house. What could the police do?

  Even Sheila agreed that, at this point, it seemed useless to get the police involved. “Maybe he’ll back off now that I have his photo,” she said. Still, she texted the photo to Dylan, Hannah, and Steve so they’d all be on the lookout for the guy and his girlfriend. Sheila talked about printing up the shot and taping it to the refrigerator door, just to keep the kids extra aware. Dylan wasn’t sure that was such a terrific idea. It would be like the creep was already inside their home, scaring the kids.

  Dylan had talked her out of it for now.

  He heated the burger and fries in the microwave and opened a root beer. He sat in the dinette booth and ate. He’d left his phone recharging on the table earlier. Unplugging it, he once again looked at Sheila’s photo of the lowlife guy and his girlfriend.

  Scumbag, he thought. The girlfriend looked like a junkie. Dylan thought she might have actually been pretty without all the obnoxious Goth affectations. In the photo, she seemed startled and slightly out of it. She also had a strange, childlike innocence.

  She actually had a very sweet face.

  Though Dylan had never set eyes on the girl before, he somehow recognized that face.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday, September 24—1:24 P.M.

  Sheila was in her element. Gardening was right up there with dancing as ideal therapy for whatever bothered her. She wore her comfy, ancient, University of Oregon sweatshirt, gardening gloves, and an old blue baseball cap, which Dylan claimed made her look like Donna Reed in It’s a Wonderful Life, specifically the scene in which they’re helping the Martini family move into their new home in Bailey Park. She couldn’t help feeling a bit like Donna Reed whenever she wore it.

  She was kneeling on a cushioned pad on the ground, planting perennials for fall: Coral Bells Cassis and Daylily Daring Deception. She’d propped open the door to the den so she could listen to the eighties station on the radio. Right now, they were playing Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’,” which they repeated about four times a day. But she didn’t mind right now.

  Lush with blooming plants, flowers, and two small Japanese maple trees, her three-tiered garden took up about a third of the backyard. Carefully arranged stones and boulders divided up the beds. Dylan said it was a work of art. The garden’s birdbath centerpiece attracted an array of feathered friends, and bees buzzed around the flowers. Her garden was this living, breathing thing that she took care of. Sheila would start working on it and forget all about the time. In fact, she had her phone balanced on a nearby rock with an alarm set for two-thirty so she’d remember to stop, get cleaned up, run to the store, and be back before the kids came home from school.

  She didn’t want any of them to be alone in the house, not even for a few minutes. She hadn’t seen the blond creep since snapping his picture at the dance on Friday night. But she wasn’t taking any chances. That was another reason she had her phone close by, just in case something happened.

  Now that Dylan had seen proof of her stalker, he seemed genuinely concerned about her and the kids. It made her feel as if they were protected—finally. Even with him at work right now, she felt more secure than she had last week. It was as if Dylan was now doing all the worrying for everyone.

  On Saturday morning, he’d ordered two mini-canisters of pepper spray from Amazon, one canister for her and one for Hannah. They had arrived this morning in the kind of heavy-duty cardboard and thick-plastic packaging that could only be opened with garden shears or a buzz saw. Sheila hadn’t taken them out of their packages yet.

  She’d noticed two college-age guys unloading some boxes from a Starving Student Movers truck in the Curtises’ driveway on Saturday. No one had seen the new neighbor yet, but it looked like she’d moved in. A car had been parked in the driveway for the past two nights. With the house next door once again occupied, Sheila knew she wouldn’t feel quite so isolated. She wouldn’t be spooked by the darkened windows across the way.

  She made a mental note to take some garden flowers to the new neighbor—and maybe a bottle of wine.

  She was spreading mulch around the new plan
ts when her phone chimed.

  Taking off her gloves, Sheila reached for the phone and squinted at the text notice. She didn’t recognize the sender. Immediately, she thought of the last text she’d received from a stranger, and a little jolt of dread hit her in the stomach.

  And up until just a few seconds ago, she’d been feeling so content.

  Frowning, she clicked on the message. All it said was:

  He knows.

  The text came with an image attachment that had been blocked.

  With the phone in her hand, Sheila got up and moved into the den so she could see the screen better. She noticed the standard warning about the blocked image. For a few moments, she wasn’t sure what to do. The other night, Dylan had reminded her about all the potential hazards of opening a link from an anonymous sender. But Sheila kept staring at that message: He knows.

  “Shit,” she muttered, clicking on the attachment.

  Someone had scanned a handout from a memorial service for Antonia “Toni” Newcomb. There it was: that name again, this time with a slightly out-of-focus photo of the pretty brunette beneath it. Smiling over her shoulder in the shot, she had her hair up and looked about ten years younger than she did in her Facebook photos. Under the photograph was a sort of stencil drawing of a rose above more text: In Remembrance, 1974–2018. At the very bottom of the page was the funeral parlor’s name in small print—MARCH-MIDDLETON FUNERAL SERVICES, PORTLAND, OREGON.

  It looked like the cover of a thin leaflet. Sheila couldn’t figure out why anyone would text this to her. He knows. What the hell did that mean? Had Dylan lied when he’d said he’d never met this woman? As much as she tried to suppress the thought, she wondered if Dylan was connected to her death in some way.

  Sheila still couldn’t get over the horrible way Antonia Newcomb had died.

  She tried to reply to the text. But her hands shook so much that she kept making mistakes and having to backtrack. She finally spelled out the short message:

  Who are you?

  She clicked on Send.

  Within moments, the text bounced back as undeliverable.

  “Damn it!” she hissed. She wanted to throw the phone across the room, but she stifled the impulse and set it down on Dylan’s desk. Almost automatically, she reached for the handle to the top drawer and yanked it open. All she could think was that Dylan must be hiding something from her. She started riffling through the drawers, feverishly piling things on top of the desk: a box of staples, a packet of Sharpies, envelopes, notepads, receipts, papers. She had no idea what she was looking for—just some kind of proof that he knew Antonia Newcomb. Maybe her name was on a cocktail napkin, or perhaps he’d saved an old love letter or two. Sheila anxiously read over the receipts to see if any were from Portland or somehow connected to “Toni.” When she didn’t find anything, she tried the other drawers and found work papers, old contracts, warranties and pamphlets for their TV, the music system, and his computer. In the bottom drawer, she uncovered birthday cards he’d saved from her and the kids. They went back for years.

  Sheila started crying. She was so frustrated—and so mad at herself for suspecting him. But she couldn’t help it.

  Heading across the hall to the bathroom, she plucked a couple of Kleenex from the pewter tissue box on top of the toilet tank. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. After throwing out the tissues, Sheila reached over and switched on both the light and the vent fan. She was the only one at home, but out of habit, she shut the door before she sat down on the toilet. While she peed, she thought about the awful mess she’d made in the den. How was she going to explain to Dylan why everything from his desk was in the wrong drawers?

  Past the churning of the vent fan, she could hear Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” on the radio and a strange, shuffling noise, like something had fallen from the mountain of papers and junk she’d piled on top of Dylan’s desk.

  She realized she’d left the den door open when she came in from the garden.

  Had someone snuck inside the house? Was that what she’d heard—or was it just a breeze rustling the papers on Dylan’s desk? Sheila couldn’t be sure, not with the radio on and the bathroom vent humming.

  Now she heard footsteps.

  She felt so helpless and stupid, sitting there. She quickly grabbed some toilet paper, wiped herself, and then pulled up her underwear and jeans. If someone was in the house, she didn’t want them knowing where she was. She didn’t flush the toilet, but quietly lowered the lid. Then she crept over to the door and listened.

  Someone was whispering. And it wasn’t the radio.

  Sheila’s hand hovered over the doorknob with the button lock in the center. She’d left her phone on Dylan’s desk, and the pepper spray was on the kitchen counter, still in its packaging.

  She couldn’t breathe. What good would locking herself in the bathroom do? There was no window for her to escape. All they had to do was kick down the door. Still, she slowly pushed in the button until it clicked.

  There was more whispering. It sounded like they were in the den or the dining room. She heard a man cackle—a horrible, smug laugh. Someone shushed him.

  Sheila glanced around for something to defend herself. She wondered if she could extract the towel bar from its holders without making too much noise. Like that would be any defense against two intruders.

  She’d left her purse with her wallet inside on the kitchen table. She wished they’d just take it and leave. But Sheila was convinced that the blond creep and his girlfriend were the ones who had invaded her home. And they weren’t here just to steal money. No, they had some sort of other agenda.

  Suddenly, they got quiet. Sheila couldn’t hear anything beyond the vent fan. She waited a moment, then reached for the vent switch and turned it off.

  The radio was still on. It was playing The Police’s “Every Breath You Take.” Past the music, Sheila could hear footsteps again. Then a door shut. She couldn’t tell if the sound came from the den or if it was the door to the basement or the closet.

  After that, there was just the music, no other sound.

  Her heart racing, she listened to the song end. Then the disc jockey started talking.

  Sheila remained paralyzed with fear for several minutes. She kept waiting for the next footstep or whisper or that awful cackle. She couldn’t hear anything but the DJ on the radio. She finally reached for the doorknob and slowly turned it. The lock button popped out with a click. Wincing at the sound, she opened the door.

  Across the hall, in the den, she saw her blond stalker glancing at some of the papers on Dylan’s desk. He was wearing his army jacket. A few papers fell out of his hand and drifted to the floor as he glanced over at her. He grinned.

  Frozen in the bathroom doorway, Sheila gasped.

  “Hey.” The voice came from the kitchen.

  Sheila swiveled around to see the punk girl gazing back at her. The girl had a pink streak in her greasy-looking platinum blond hair. She wore a red hoodie, unzipped in the front to reveal a torn, black T-shirt. She carried a huge brown purse. The girl had a framed photo of Dylan in her hand, one that Sheila kept on her computer desk.

  Sheila was speechless. The two intruders seemed so nonchalant about breaking into her home; they might as well have wandered into a furniture store and started browsing. It took a few moments for Sheila to get any words out. “What—what are you doing? You have no right to be in here.”

  The blond creep snickered.

  “I mean it!” Sheila yelled, unhinged. “You need to leave—now!”

  “God, chill,” the girl said. “We knocked, and no one answered.”

  “The door was open, lady,” the creep chimed in.

  “It’s not like we’re stealing anything,” the girl said. Approaching Sheila, she held out the framed picture. “This is your husband, right? This is Dylan O’Rourke.”

  Sheila glanced over at the blond creep who had wandered over to the bookcase. He took a CD off the shelf to glance at it.

 
She turned toward the girl. “Yes, that’s my husband,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “And he’s upstairs right now. So you’d better leave.”

  The guy laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said, inspecting another CD. “We saw him go off to work this morning.”

  “Who are you?” Sheila whispered. “What do you want?”

  “Why don’t you call your husband at work?” the girl said. “Tell him I want to see him.”

  “Just who are you?” Sheila asked again.

  “I’m his daughter,” the girl said. “Tell him that his daughter wants to see him.”

  Sheila stared at her.

  “Call him,” the girl whispered.

  “I’ll call him,” the blond creep said, tossing aside the CD. “He’s supposed to be upstairs, right?” He sang out: “Daddy! Hey, Daddy, your little girl’s here!”

  The girl turned to him. “Don’t be an asshole, Brodie. Can’t you see you’re freaking her out? Go outside and have a smoke.”

  “Don’t fucking boss me around,” he muttered.

  She sighed. “Okay, please, take your ass outside and smoke a goddamn cigarette. Just get out of here! God.”

  “Screw this,” he grunted, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. “I’m going to Jimmy’s. I’m taking the car. You’re on your own. You want to meet me there later, you can get a ride from Daddy—or maybe your new stepmom.” He lit up his cigarette, headed out through the den door, and tossed the match away.

  The girl handed Sheila the framed photograph of Dylan. “Call him.”

  Sheila finally stepped away from the bathroom door. She set the framed picture on the kitchen counter. Then she turned toward the girl again. She clutched the edge of the counter to steady herself. “I don’t believe you’re his daughter,” she whispered. Yet, even as she said it, Sheila thought of how much this girl—as she’d argued with her boyfriend—reminded her of Hannah whenever she pitched a fit. “Who are you?” she asked.