by Laura Wolfe
“Hey. Do you want some company?”
I released my head back into my pillow, the burn in my midsection subsiding. “Sure.”
My sister eased the door closed behind her and slunk over to the bed where she climbed in next to me, the way we sometimes used to sleep when we were kids. Her eyes were raw and puffy from the crying, and her body excruciatingly thin.
It turned out I’d been wrong about her and the drugs. She’d voluntarily gone in for a drug test as soon as she and my parents had returned to Kalamazoo, and the test had come back clean. She and Josh broke up shortly afterward. The guilt over my wrongful accusation was crushing, especially seeing her now, so frail and breakable. Yet, somehow, Caroline was still strong enough to be here for me. Loyal to a fault.
“You okay?” I asked as Caroline lay motionless next to me.
She snorted, a half-laugh, half-cry, “No. You?”
“Not even close.” I reached for her hand and held it in mine.
Caroline turned her face toward mine. “You’ll get through this,” she said. “We both will.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper, focusing on the solid black pupils of Caroline’s eyes. “I need to tell you something about the car accident. You have to promise you won’t say anything to anyone. Not even Mom and Dad.”
She stared at me, expressionless. “Yeah. Okay, I promise.”
I told her the whole story, from picking up the sandwiches at the deli to my ill-timed turn onto southbound Woodward Avenue and the moment of impact. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in horror.
“He’s the reason my baby is dead.” Tears leaked from my eyes. “I didn’t have time to put on my seat belt because I was chasing him.”
“Oh my God. That bastard!” Caroline propped herself up. “How can you be around him? Why is he still living here?”
I held my finger to my lips, “Shhh! He doesn’t know that I know. No one does.”
She cocked her head at me. “You haven’t said anything to him?”
“No. We need to keep it that way.”
Caroline huffed.
I rolled toward her. “Don’t you get it? I’m going to surprise him, to make sure he ends up as devastated as I am. I need time to get my strength back and make a plan.”
Caroline tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, then fixed her gaze on me and nodded. “You better come up with a good one.”
“I will.”
“If you don’t take down the bastard, I’ll do it.”
We stayed in bed for another hour, brainstorming Jason’s downfall.
It had been almost two weeks since the memorial service. I’d taken extended time off work to let my wounds heal. I lay on the couch, my feet propped up on two pillows as Tiny House Nation played on the TV. This episode featured a single woman who’d rejected her career as an attorney and decided to go back to nature.
“Do you want some tea?” Jason appeared in the doorway dressed in a black suit. “I’d stay with you, but I’ve really got to get into the office.”
“No. I’m fine,” I said without looking at him. It had only been in the last few days, and only because of my secret plan for revenge, that I’d been able to poke my head above the surface and gulp some air. Jason had worked from home the two days following the memorial service but had quickly gotten back into his old routine, saying he preferred to keep himself busy, that people grieved in different ways. I didn’t understand how he could go on as if nothing had happened. Then again, maybe losing the baby had been a relief to him. Now he’d have more time to cheat on me.
He stepped toward me. “Listen. You don’t have to go out on the yacht this weekend. Connor would understand if you didn’t feel up to it.”
“I want to go,” I said, my voice flat. My body had recovered relatively quickly from the C-section. I could walk normally and drive again. The insurance company had replaced my car. It was my mind and my heart that were irreversibly mangled. My hatred for Jason consumed me from the moment I’d awoken in the hospital. Each time he fluffed my pillows, brought me toast in bed, accepted condolences from neighbors on my behalf, or told me he loved me, the beast inside me growled and gnashed its teeth, waiting to become strong enough to free itself from the cage. On the surface, I forced sad smiles, peeped out thank yous, and pretended that I believed him. When the time came to expose his lies, he’d be completely blindsided.
“I need to get out of the house,” I said in the airiest voice possible. “The cruise will be a nice change of pace.”
Besides, Caroline and I had drawn up a plan for revenge, and it was going to happen this weekend on the cruise in front of all of Jason’s colleagues. I bit back my smirk.
“Okay. Be sure to rest up today. There’s soup in the fridge.” He bent down and kissed my head. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. I hated him.
He hustled out the back door. A minute later his SUV backed out of the driveway. An insurance commercial came on TV so I raised myself off the couch and made my way into the bathroom.
Jason’s iPhone lay on the bathroom counter next to the sink. He must have forgotten it. That phone was his lifeline, never out of his reach. He’d freak out and return as soon as he realized, but I’d seen him drive away, so I knew I had at least a few minutes to search. This was my opportunity to discover more dirt on his girlfriend, Sarah.
My fingers shook, pressing in the security code—his birthday—but it didn’t work. He’d changed it. I tried the four digits of our street address, but that didn’t work either. My heart raced. He’d be back soon. I remembered him using the last four digits of his social security number for another pin several months earlier. I pressed in the numbers and the screen glowed, unlocked.
My breath escaped, heavy and labored. I tapped on the text message icon and scrolled through. Messages to Robert and other work colleagues appeared. Disregarding the male names, I focused only on the texts he’d sent to females. Steadying myself against the counter, I realized no one named Sarah existed on his phone. There was an Ellen and a Margaret, but their messages related to investment questions.
There was another name that stood out, though. It was one I’d never heard him mention, about seven deep in the messages. Amanda Jenkins. I clicked on her name.
The words from a recent exchange ripped through me, tearing open wounds that hadn’t yet healed. I still love you, Jason wrote. I miss you already.
Then Amanda wrote, Then choose me.
My stomach curled in on itself. Of course he wouldn’t have told me her real name. How stupid had I been? I should have known that Sarah was a lie, too. My fingers scrolled their messages back further. They went on for weeks, even months.
When are you leaving her? Amanda wrote. I want to live with you.
Soon. Need to wait until the baby arrives. Then I’m gone.
He told her he was leaving me? Why had he gone to all the trouble of working on our relationship? Was it just to save face? To protect his perfect image among his conservative investors? Or, was he lying to her, too?
I scrolled back further and found partially nude photos they’d sent to each other. Bile rose in my throat as I wondered where I’d been when they were sexting each other. Off on assignment? Or had I been in the same room as they secretly joked about how dense I was? Another photo showed them lying on the beach together. She was wearing a black string bikini and holding up a margarita. My stomach flipped. They’d gone on vacation together. The date on the photos was over six months ago. I recognized her as the woman in my bed the night I’d arrived home early. The same woman who’d been in the car with Jason when my car crashed, killing my baby.
My eyes swam forward through the messages as fast as they could, finally reaching the ones from the past few days.
I’m leaving town. I can’t stand to be around this place anymore, Amanda wrote. Come and find me when you finally have the balls to leave.
I’m sorry babe. I love you, Jason had replied. I
know I disappointed you. I’ll send money… diamonds to follow. We’ll be together soon.
A few days later, another message from Amanda:
I was a jerk about your baby. I really am sorry for your loss. I found a new job in Petoskey. Moved into an apartment above an old lady’s garage. My new address is 4027 Waters Rd. Bed’s big enough for two:) Miss you.
The handle of the back door rattled. Jason was back. There were more messages following that one, but I didn’t have time to read them. I held my shaking fingers still long enough to click off the phone, setting it back on the counter exactly where it had been. My hand shielded my healing abdomen as I leaped across the living room. I laid back on the couch, my breath trapped in my lungs. Jason barged into the kitchen.
“Hey, what are you doing back already?” I asked in my most casual tone. A cold sweat covered my skin.
His eyes scanned the kitchen. “Forgot my phone.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
Jason bounded upstairs and stomped around, cursing. Then he headed into the first-floor bathroom. “Got it. Bye again.” He jogged out the back door.
“Bye.” My heart pounded as I grabbed my phone to record the information. Amanda Jenkins, 4027 Waters Rd., Petoskey.
Twenty-Seven
Gloria
Now
Rascal darted in front of me, my feet tripping over him as I entered the living room and locked the door behind me. I pulled the curtains closed and hurried through the kitchen to my office nook. Thanks to my recent decluttering, the area lay before me, clean and organized. I opened the cabinet below the computer and retrieved the manila envelope containing Amanda’s forgotten mail. My hands pinched the edge of the envelope, my jittery body rushing toward the sofa. A prickling dread traveled through my limbs as I sat down and emptied the papers onto my lap.
I pushed my reading glasses onto the bridge of my nose and held up the pieces of mail one by one. The first two items were credit card statements from clothing stores—Athleta and Loft. The statements were dated eleven months ago. That was last July. That was the month Amanda had moved into the apartment. Beneath the bills was a bank statement from Chase. The balance in Amanda’s checking account had been $485. No savings account was listed. Behind the bank statement lay a couple of receipts from the post office.
My fingers leafed through the papers, landing on an envelope with my address handwritten across the front, but addressed to Amanda Jenkins in Apt 1. I did a double take, the wind leaving my body. It wasn’t Amanda’s name on the envelope that caused my blood to reverse course, but the name stamped on the return address label—Jason McCormack, McCormack Investments, 29488 Woodward Ave., Royal Oak, MI 48073. The envelope shook in my hand. Jason McCormack was the name of Beth’s dead husband. How had Beth’s husband known Amanda? What in heaven’s name was going on?
My trembling fingers fished into the envelope but found nothing inside. Amanda must have taken the letter with her when she moved. I inspected the front of the envelope again. Amanda’s address was handwritten in chicken scratch, the way a teenage boy would write.
My back pressed into the cushion as I absorbed the shocking connection. Had Jason overseen Amanda’s finances? That hardly made sense, seeing as Amanda hadn’t had any extra money to invest. She wouldn’t have been living in my garage apartment and working as a concierge if she had. My stomach plummeted with my next guess. Had the envelope contained a love letter? What if Amanda and Jason McCormack had been lovers? The realization pinned me down and squeezed my throat.
I closed my eyes, the muscles in my face twitching. As much as I didn’t want to believe it, that scenario made the most sense. It explained Beth’s sudden arrival on my land with her altered name and appearance, her eagerness to meet Amanda. I gulped, steadying myself against the cushions. It could even explain Amanda’s death. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…
The version of Beth I thought I knew was transforming, slipping through my fingers like sand. What if her husband’s death hadn’t been an accident at all? If my suspicion was correct, Beth had a motive for killing both her husband and Amanda. A strong motive. Honestly, I couldn’t say I blamed her. On the other hand, I couldn’t believe it was true. Plenty of wives caught their husbands cheating, but very few chose murder as the solution. Divorce, maybe. Or marriage counseling, but not murder.
Up until my ride in her truck yesterday, Beth had been so insightful and compassionate. A true friend. She’d been so upset at the police station. Her distress hadn’t seemed like an act. Then there’d been her odd statements in the car: You need to stop talking, Gloria… I’m not a bad person. It’s just that my life didn’t turn out the way I thought it would. What had she meant? And what about her earlier insistence that Amanda’s story didn’t have a happy ending? How had she known the outcome before Amanda’s body had been found?
I felt raw and exposed as if someone had peeled off my skin. I wrapped my arms around myself thinking back to Beth’s strange behavior in the coffee shop. I hadn’t realized it at the time but Amanda was already dead when Beth had darted out of the café like she’d seen a ghost. And she’d all but told me she hadn’t slept the night before. Why hadn’t she slept? And why hadn’t she arrived home until two hours after she and Ethan had left The Castaways? Was it possible she was disposing of a body she’d hidden somewhere before returning here and almost running over Joe in the driveway?
Without thinking, I stood up and migrated toward the window, remembering the way Beth’s truck sparkled in the parking lot. She’d gotten it washed just before Amanda’s body had been discovered. Was she hiding something? Destroying evidence?
And there was another question. What did Ella Burkholter have to do with any of this?
I paced into the kitchen, no longer able to ignore the dryness in my throat. Retrieving a glass from the cupboard, I tried to think of what to do next. Recent events had proven that my imagination could get the best of me, and I didn’t want to overreact. After all, the police had already cleared Beth of her husband’s death. I could call Ethan. He’d know what to do. I set the glass on the counter and squeezed my hands together, debating. It wouldn’t be fair of me to ruin his camping trip, though, especially over a hunch. He’d only be gone for two days. My discovery could wait.
The Thirty-Day Life Coach workbook lay in front of me. I flipped through it searching for the section entitled, What to do when you suspect your new friend is a murderer, but came up empty.
Be Bold, Take Calculated Risks, Do the Opposite. I rested my elbows on the counter as the highlighted words in the workbook sprang out at me. The old Gloria would have ignored the incriminating clues, not wanting to get involved. Or perhaps I would have taken my information directly to the police, even though Beth could be innocent.
But I wasn’t the same person anymore, and I couldn’t deny much of my transformation was thanks to Beth. I valued her friendship. She’d helped me rediscover joy, to live again, and reconnect with Ethan. I cared about doing right by her. I needed to dig a little deeper on my own.
Rascal lapped water from his bowl, splattering drops across the floor. He’d have to go outside soon. And, again, tonight. That’s when I’d hide on the porch under the cover of the darkness and watch Beth’s movements. Despite what I’d promised Ethan, I’d have to follow her if she left. I couldn’t go to the police until I knew for sure. She was my only friend and, if I was wrong, she’d never forgive me.
The porch light was off. I crouched down in the wicker rocking chair using the black night as my cover. Rascal lay curled in a ball, asleep at my feet. I slid my phone from my pocket to check the time: 10:47 p.m. It was much earlier than when she’d left the other night, but I didn’t want to risk missing anything. A light inside an upstairs room of the tiny house glowed through the gnarled branches of the trees. Beth was awake.
I tipped back in the chair and stared at the nearly full moon. A clicking noise sounded in the distance. I craned my neck to try to make out movement from t
he tiny house, but I couldn’t see anything. Moments later, Beth’s truck rumbled alive, followed by the crimson glow of her taillights. I crouched down, heart pounding, before scooping up Rascal and depositing him in his cage inside the front door. He whined.
“I’ll be back soon, boy,” I whispered as I whisked my purse off the counter. Ducking out of the house and through the shadows, I slipped into my car, only turning on the ignition once the red truck had zoomed past me. I followed with my headlights off, going by memory of the dirt drive I’d traveled down so many times.
Around the second curve, Beth’s truck turned right toward town. I paused at the end of the driveway, waiting until she was a good distance away before turning on my headlights and driving in the same direction. She was far ahead now, but on the barren country road, the lights of her truck were the only ones shining in the distance. She turned left on Mason Road, passing the nature preserve toward downtown Petoskey.
Each mile seemed to drag on for ten as I grew more paranoid she’d spotted me. I breathed in measured breaths, reassuring myself that I could be any car pulling out of any farm or vacation house. She wouldn’t have been able to identify my Buick in the dark.
As we approached town, a few more vehicles joined us on the road and I found my breath again. I thought she might be going back to The Castaways, but my hunch was wrong. She continued past it, stopping at a red light, then turned left onto Highway 31. I made it through the light a couple of cars behind her. A mile or so later she merged onto another highway, heading north. We were leaving downtown. I didn’t have a clue where she was going.
The brake lights flashed and she turned left into a private condo development. A rustic wooden sign read, Waterside Condos. No trespassers. Keeping my distance, I turned in a few seconds after her, barely catching her taillights as she angled left down a dirt road.