I swat the leaves off the rest of her body and sit behind her head at the foot of a tree. I pull her upper half up onto my lap. It's hard moving dead weight. I stroke her hair and tell her I'm sorry. I'm sorry for the way it had to end, and I tell her that I hope she didn't feel much pain. A tear falls from me and lands on her cheek.
I think about what we could have been if things didn't go so wrong. If we had done things the right way, if there even was a right way. I think about trying to find him again and asking him if there's a way I can have her back, but I already know what his answer would be. I can't. I can't, unless I go with her, and I can't go with her because I'm needed here. I need to be a dad myself.
I don't know what to do with her. Leaving her here for her body to rot would be wrong, but I have to be careful. I've never taken someone's life before until now. There are so many ways it could all go wrong, and then this would all be for nothing. I won't let her death be meaningless. I will figure it out, I just have to learn to trust myself. I'm not going to let her down again.
I carefully lay her back down on her bed of soft ground, close her eyes, and camouflage her body with the leaves. My mouth is watering as I race back to my car, and I know it's coming. I wait until I get inside to vomit directly into the passenger's seat. I know I can't leave that much of me behind.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Abbey
When James shows up on our doorstep at seven in the morning, I know something has happened.
I can tell he hasn’t slept. His usually perfectly styled hair is wild and he’s wearing a stained shirt. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, like he’s been crying.
“James, come in, come in. What’s going on?” I quickly motion him in and out of the morning’s chilly air. He sits down, then stands back up, running a hand through his hair, ultimately sitting back down again, not sure what to do with himself.
“Where is Simon?” James asks, just as Simon shuffles into the living room, questioning James about what is going on. The look I see flash across James’s eyes for mere seconds is seemingly sinister, as he looks over to Simon. I don’t have time to think where it stems from or if I am making it up in my own mind. Things are happening too fast.
“Listen. What I’m about to say doesn’t make sense. I don't believe it myself. The detective said I’m in shock.” He puts his head in his hands and I move over to sit next to him, rubbing his back in soft, small, circular motions.
“James. What is it? What happened?” I bend my neck and gaze into his eyes that peek from beneath the gaps in his long fingers.
“She’s dead, Abbey. Simon, she’s dead. My wife is dead.” He breaks. Sobs fill the room, his head stays resting in his hands, refusing to look either of us in the eye.
I have no words. I have thoughts, millions of tiny thoughts racing through my mind, but I can’t find the right words to comfort James or to make myself feel less awful.
Simon stands up and runs into the bathroom. We can’t hear what happens next but from the way he ran off, I know he’s just lost the contents of his stomach leftover from dinner the night before.
“James. I am so sorry. James.” It’s all I can muster as I hug him tight and allow him to collapse into me.
“What can I do, what happened, what do you know, have they told you anything?” All of my captive thoughts escape at the same time, overwhelming both of us.
“I don’t know. We can’t do anything, she’s gone. Mara is dead and they don’t know who did it.”
“How do they know she’s dead? Did they find her, did it happen at home?” I grow fearful quickly, thinking something so dark could happen so close to us.
“They found her this morning. I have only the bare bones of the details but she was stabbed and left for dead. I have to go and identify her after I leave here. I can’t keep talking about it, but just know I loved her so much.” He looks into my eyes now, and talking about his love for her, the tears flow endlessly.
My heart is aching hard inside of my chest. I have tremors shaking my entire body and I can’t gather my thoughts and feelings properly.
“James, honey. I know. I know.” I hold him tight, as if I let go, everything that makes him who he is will slip through my hands like sand. We sit together in silence not believing that Mara has been murdered. Not knowing where to go from here.
Simon never comes back out into the living room.
~
3 months later…
The days pass in slow motion as Simon and I continue our routine of work, eat, and sleep in a world devoid of Mara Taylor. My growing stomach is a festering reminder of all that has happened and the irony of the world we live in. I find it strange that no detectives or police officers come to question us. I thought that sort of thing was a formality in a homicide case. I’m grateful to not be tangled up in this mess but also wish I could help in some way. James distances himself from us. I notice that he doesn’t take time off of work but that he’s gone on the weekends. I find it odd but assume he’s trying to acclimate in the same way we are. He puts the house up for sale and seldom looks our way anymore; the tie that bound the four of us was Mara, and she’s no longer around.
James chose not to have a formal funeral service; I assume her wounds made it difficult to show her once beautiful face. He also requested a private mourning and funeral service for only their family. He did allow Simon and I to come to his house afterwards, so we could pay our last respects to Mara. All that remained was a vessel of ashes.
My thoughts dart back to Simon. He has fallen down a rabbit hole of despair. I don’t like thinking it’s strictly to do with Mara; I want to think it’s an accumulation of everything in his past plus the shock of someone so close to us dying in such a tragic, horrifying way. He tells me she didn’t mean anything to him, which I know is complete bullshit. I don’t know if it pisses me off more because he fucked someone he says didn’t mean anything to him or that he lies about her meaning nothing.
Mara was a friend to me for a short time, even if only to get her claws into my husband. She still brought out a side of me that I didn’t know I could show. I miss her even though I hate to admit it to myself. I also struggle with the fact that I don’t exactly hate that she’s no longer in our lives. Maybe that makes me a monster. Or perhaps it just makes me a scorned wife.
It’s our anniversary today. It crept up on me and considering how I don’t see anything worth commemorating this past year; it’s just another day to me now. Time to celebrate infidelity and depression, I think to myself. I even manage a tiny smile, thinking about what a fucked up six months it’s been. This time last year Simon and I were an average married couple with no known issues. It’s crazy what just one year and a beautiful deceitful woman can do to a marriage.
Mara being dead does damper the mood of our anniversary a bit. Although, I am quite concerned about myself being a complete psychopath now, because I’m still not that overly upset that she’s gone. I have to think hard about if I’m upset at all. I think the only reason I have any ounce of sympathy in my bones is because Mara and I could have had a friendship had it not been for her obsessive feelings for my husband.
I do feel terrible for James. He is one of the sweetest, most nonchalant, and caring men I have ever met. Part of me wonders what my life would have looked like had I somehow ended up with him. I don’t think James is capable of killing anyone. He’s too…dense. He is wonderful and great looking all the same, though. He’ll be fine eventually. I wish I could tell him how much better off he is, though it’s too soon.
Simon is different; I haven’t given him any more pills because of what happened last time. He is still obscenely manic and off. I know his mind has been on his father and his STD infested penis, from banging Mara, but still. Earlier this evening, he was standing in the bedroom and I heard him say the word “dad,” almost as if calling out to him, or thinking he saw him standing there. I didn’t bother interrupting him. This is a whole new kind of crazy. I did notice he is no
longer so invested in his phone. He sits and stares blankly, disguising it as watching the television but when I look at him, his eyes aren’t registering the picture at all. He’s lost somewhere in his mind and I don’t know that I have it in me to help him right now. Not after all of the hurt he has caused me.
We sit at the kitchen island side by side, as if nothing has changed at all, like we’re having a normal anniversary dinner on a normal night, just another day in our normal lives. He opens his anniversary gift from me. I didn’t want to get him one. It was nothing special and he made sure I knew that by his expression. Secretly I wanted to give him an anniversary card that would really twist the knife. Something about being a loyal, caring husband. I couldn’t even force myself to look at the cards. I got him a case of beer—like he needs anything to fuck further with his head—and a gift card to Men’s Warehouse.
As I sit and look over at him, I try and find it in my heart to forgive the man he has become. He isn’t my Simon anymore. Apparently he hasn’t been for quite some time. When was it, I wonder? From the moment he saw her moving her things into her new home? When she brought him wine? When he was convincing me I should try harder with her? I hate myself in this moment, for staying here with him, for not kicking his ass to the curb. I hate that I’m allowing him to go on living his life like he didn’t ruin this marriage. Why are there no repercussions for his actions? Because there’s a growing baby inside of me that needs a mother and a father. This is hell. I hate him for what he has done to our lives. I hate him for all of the things he will never be able to change or fix. Time cannot mend wounds this deep.
I make excuses for why he strayed from our marriage and how it’s both of our faults for neglecting our relationship. Then logic hits me, bringing me back to reality. It’s a conscious choice to cheat on your spouse. His father dying, me working long hours, us feeling disconnected, they may have contributed to his emotional state but none of that forced his dick into Mara. He made that choice.
Who gets their cheating husband an anniversary gift? Doesn’t this just encourage him to stick his dick in the next woman who opens her legs to a married man? Whatever. The next time I won’t care because he means nothing to me now and I don’t know if he ever will again. My heart is trying but my head is so far removed that I can barely be in this moment with him.
When Simon hands me my gift he doesn’t look me in the eyes, instead he checks his watch and bounces his leg up and down. He’s nervous, but not about this. I unwrap it, he’s a terrible gift wrapper, always has been. Add that to the list of things he sucks at. I’m surprised that he got me a necklace. It’s beautiful and I know he didn’t pick it out. When he picks me out jewelry it’s nothing like this.
Simon stands up and comes around the table to put it around my neck. As he is fingering the clasp I can’t help but think about the perfume under his sink and how it clearly wasn’t meant for me.
~
We carry on about our night separately, as if two strangers under the same roof. The perfume intrigues me. I open the cabinet door and reach inside, way to the back, until my fingers curl around the bottle. I pull it out for the second time and stare at the label, Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium. The bottle is almost half gone, as if someone has been obsessively spraying it. My mind can’t wrap itself around this. This is a woman’s perfume—the bottle is black with silver glittery specks with a coral center. Unless the packaging is just deceiving. I won’t act like I know about anything expensive or fancy but this bottle is both of those things. If it were his cologne, why not just keep it on his dresser with the rest of his endless bottles? It just doesn’t add up. I make my way out into the hallway to make sure I hear no signs of Simon. Nothing but the gentle hum of snoring from the living room. Perfect. I hurry back into the bathroom and pick the bottle back up and give it a quick spray into the air, wafting it around with my hand, urging the scent into my nostrils.
It’s Mara’s scent. It hits me hard and I resist the urge to throw the bottle against the wall and shatter it the same way the two have totally broken me. I can’t wake him up though, not yet. Confrontation will happen but not until I piece this all together. Mara wasn’t using this perfume—she was dead and six feet under. This left only Simon to be using it and he clearly wasn’t spraying it on himself, I’d have noticed. It’s almost as if he is doing exactly what I did, spraying it out into the air and breathing it in. To remember her? To feel connected to her? This is disgusting.
I’m paranoid now, thinking all kinds of psychotic thoughts. I need to get my hands on his phone. I need to see what the bastard is doing. I walk so softly, like making even any slight sound would end my life, to the living room and around the corner. He is sleeping harder now, his mouth is open and drool forms at the corner of his mouth. I see his cell phone sitting next to the open bottle of Ambien next to him. I guess he has finally decided to start taking the pills. No wonder he’s been acting strange. Prescriptions and alcohol don’t mix.
I slide his phone so slowly it feels like forever before it makes it from the end table into my palm. Got it. I slide down the wall next to where he sits, just in case he wakes up, I’ll need to get the phone back on the table before he realizes it’s gone.
The password is simple. His mother’s birthday. Before he started keeping things from me, he had told me the password in case I never needed to get into his phone. Once Mara came into our lives, he kept his phone glued to him, even during sleep, under his pillow. I had no chance to spy on his activities. Now, I do. His guard is down because he’s so fucked up, just getting through his days and probably wishing he could die to be with his lover. Part of me wishes he would.
I get past his security screen and decide where to look first. The internet tabs he has open are mostly boring, nothing stands out. I go into his Facebook and Twitter accounts. He has searches on both for Mara which doesn’t surprise me. Even Google has a search for Mara. When I dig further, though, I do find some interesting searches. Decomposition of a body, preserving a body, DNA, and the investigation process. I feel like throwing up. What would he need to search these things for? The man has the weakest stomach of anyone I have ever met. We can’t even watch scary movies or investigative shows on television because he gets all out of sorts and can’t handle it. I continue reading even though I am not sure I can handle if there’s more. There are multiple searches about how to cover up a murder, ways to cope after killing someone you love, how to turn off your feelings and go through the motions as to not draw suspicion to yourself.
Simon, what have you done?
I don’t have to truly ask myself that question or wonder for long because I know the only reason for him to search those vile, awful things is because he was the one who murdered Mara. Simon killed Mara. It doesn’t feel right, doesn’t seem like real life.
Like a book you can’t stop reading even though your heart can’t take anything else bad happening to the main character, or another dog dying, or another car crash sending its passengers flying through the air in slow motion, I continue on. I scour his phone, taking pictures of the evidence with my own phone. There are videos, too. I now know why Simon was hunched over his phone twenty-four-seven. He wasn’t watching YouTube videos or an ESPN talk show as he had said. These videos are grainy, caught-on-camera type of productions. In the corner of each frame is a word in small print that I zoom in on and Google. Tiny hidden cameras from Amazon. Mara and James were unaware that they are being filmed in these videos because Simon installed hidden cameras throughout the Taylor household. Videos of Mara in the shower, peeing, washing her hands, changing out of her clothes and into her pajamas, James cooking dinner, the two fucking on their kitchen counter. I scroll to the bottom of the main video page and it tells me there are over three hundred saved video clips on his phone. No, I think. No, no, no, no, fuck no. This is not what is happening. I did not marry a murderer, I did not create a child with a psychopath. This is not happening.
I lock his phone, not caring to c
lose any of the apps I have opened. I set it back down on the table, unconcerned if it makes a sound. I move because I have to, knowing I can’t stay sitting on the floor all night. My eyes are welling up with tears. My skin is hot and I’m breaking all over again. After I found out about the two of them fucking around behind my back, I honestly did not think I could ever hurt like that again. Knowing that I’m living with not only a lying cheat but also a sociopathic murderer brings a whole other pain I could have gone my entire life without experiencing.
I get the strength to stand and go into my bedroom and lay on top of the covers in my clothes from the day. Curling into a ball on my side and allowing the tears to fall until my eyes can’t produce any more of them, I think to myself, happy anniversary to me.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Abbey
The comical thing about having a broken heart while trying to cover up a murder is that you don’t get to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You don’t play the victim because the victim is dead and in the ground, six feet under.
Things are different when you’re sixteen and the first boy you love breaks your heart when he ends things with you. You’re young enough to stay in your pajamas, convince your mom to let you call in sick from school, watch Legally Blonde, and ignore your sad little life.
However, when you’re a thirty-something-year-old and another boy breaks your heart it’s a bit different. Actually, it is significantly fucking different.
Because when your dumbass husband kills the neighborhood whore, you have to come up with an action plan.
Those We Trust Page 14