I scrunch my nose. “Speeding?”
“No, the opposite.”
I don’t say anything.
“You were going fifteen. The speed limit’s thirty-five.”
“I dropped my phone. Sorry about that, sir.” I stare straight ahead.
“Do you have your license, insurance, and registration?”
“Yes.” I reach forward in the glove box, fumbling to open the lock. Rummaging around, I can’t find the papers. The flask lays next to me on the passenger seat.
Dammit, Meghan, did she move it?
I try and remain unfazed.
“Sir, have you been drinking?”
“No.” I look at him, hoping my eyes aren’t bloodshot.
As he’s telling me I need to step out of the car, I reach into the middle console, hoping to find the documents in there.
My mouth sputters as I connect with something slippery, and my eyes glance in horror at what I’m holding.
A plastic bag.
Covering a knife.
That’s bloody.
I pull my hands back as if I can push away the memories of that night.
I didn’t mean to leave the way I did. Why did she have to push me to leave?
The gruesome stickiness looks black in the night, dark splotches covering the blade. The smell subdues the police officer’s words, but all I can focus on is why I’m holding the knife to begin with. My memory goes blank for a split second, the metal and his face a blur. Closing my eyes, I focus on Tally’s face, ignoring the man until a flashlight shines on my face, temporarily blinding me.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle.”
I’m numb, my heart palpitating at a rate that’s foreign to me. It’s going to jump out of my chest.
“Immediately,” the officer barks, the light moving to the bag on my lap and the glint of metal.
I hesitate.
“Now.” He puts his hands on his waist, reaching for his gun. He steps back, unsure if I’m about to harm myself or him, or if I’d already taken a victim.
My vision blurs as I start to lose consciousness. The steering wheel connects with my forehead as I slump against it in defeat.
Chapter Twenty
Meghan
Sinking to my knees, sobs form at the back of my throat. I reach for the cracked tube of lipstick that’s nothing but dirt and beeswax. Trying hard to keep it together, I sit in the same positon for a moment.
Wiping a tear off my cheek, I dry my eyes with the back of my sleeve.
I can’t call anyone, my phone’s at home.
Incessant buzzing. Calls non-stop. Texts, some of them random. People come out of the woodwork when there’s a tragedy, especially when there’s an insatiable need for drama.
It’s human nature.
As much as I want to see Jarrett, I don’t want to draw attention to him or us. Not right now.
I’m also confused. He’s been confiding in me about his past, what he wants. He asked me something a week ago that caught me off guard.
We were grabbing a coffee after yoga, sitting in his truck as we shared a bagel.
“Would you ever have more kids?”
Choking on the bagel, I look at him. “With Reed?”
He looks appalled. “No, not with him.”
“Then what do you mean?”
We lock eyes. He burns a hole in mine. “With me. Or anyone,” he hurriedly adds.
“Do you want children?” I ask, wiping crumbs off my mouth.
“Yes, very much.” He pushes a strand of hair that’s fallen out of my ponytail behind my ear. “I’d love to have a baby with you. You’d look so sexy pregnant.”
“I’ve been pregnant…with twins.”
“But not with mine.” He rubs my cheek and stares at me. “Will you consider it?”
“I’m married.”
“I’m not.”
“But it would complicate matters.”
He holds my chin in his hand, holding my gaze. “It doesn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“You could leave.”
I’m silent. I don’t know what to say.
“I know this is premature.” He licks his lips. “I just know what I want, and it’s you.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve to have everything you want in life, including a husband that gives a damn.” He sighs. “What’s the reason for not leaving him?”
“Business. Kids. Finances.” It’s the same song and dance. He’s too involved in the company, and I worry he’ll go after my family money.
“I’ll take care of you.” He reaches forward, brushing his lips across my cheek.
I want more. Always more with him.
But it’s premature.
I feel myself slipping. I pull away, my eyes shifting to the floor.
“If this is about your family, I’ll win over your father.” He’s confident, almost cocky. Probably fit in well with my father. Rolling my eyes, I say, “I know.” The Bishop name always comes up in conversation. People work hard to impress my father or say what they think I want to hear.
I come back to the here and now when I hear giggling.
A couple twenty-something girls are leaving the bar, talking over each other and laughing.
Guilt envelopes me.
Maybe that girl would still be alive if Reed and I had split. If he’d come clean. Maybe he couldn’t handle the double life and he cracked.
I think of Talin, how she’ll never giggle with her friends, go out on a Saturday night, get one last dance.
Gulping, I feel a pang.
It would make more sense to hate her. And in some ways, I do. But it’s complicated, since I can’t talk to her, or scream at her for taking my husband.
Because he’s been checked out a lot longer than the six months they spent together.
Standing up straight, I decide my safest bet is to ask the girls for a ride. One’s stone cold sober, she’s the driver. I offer her a crumpled twenty to drive me the few miles home. She refuses my money.
I direct her the back way, knowing I’ll have to stumble around the pond in the dark. It’s better than being watched by some lurking police or news reporters, picking apart my every move.
Until they figure out our back entrance.
Pounding on the back door, Reed never answers.
Son of a bitch, I think. He left and doesn’t even have the decency to open the door for me?
The kitchen light’s on, but there’s no other glow from any of the other windows. The blinds are shut tight, and no flickering brightness appears. Our house looks like it’s sleeping, the shades acting as closed eyelids, a vacation from the world.
Feeling around in the dark, I find our hide-a-key buried in Frasier’s dog house, under his water dish. Luckily, he’s never taken an interest in eating metal objects or swallowing our extra key.
I open the door to the house, expecting to find Reed passed out on the couch.
It’s empty, the pillows sagging from earlier in the night.
Pushing open his office door, I expect to find him reclined in one of the leather chairs.
But it’s dark.
I walk through the house, the silence looming, as each room I stumble through has toys and bedroom furniture, but no husband.
Where did he go if he didn’t come home?
Starting to panic, my heart rate increases.
He’s drunk. What if he hit someone or killed himself? He’s not in a good head space.
Tucking my hand under the fridge, I reach for my phone. My hiding place from him.
Nothing. I pull out a couple of spare bits of kibble and a hair ball.
Frantic, I turn around. My heart slows when I spot my phone resting on the island, the pink metallic cover glowing in the dark.
My calls to him go straight to voicemail.
Using our house phone to dial him, it’s the same.
I’m about call 9-1-1, scared he’s in a ditch somewhere,
when my cell rings.
It’s Owen.
“Meg.” His voice is half-asleep.
“What?” I grip the counter. “What’s going on?”
“Reed was pulled over for a potential driving under the influence.” He pauses.
I swallow. “I tried to give him a ride,” I whisper.
“Meghan, listen to me.” His voice is gravelly. “They found the knife. The murder weapon used to kill Talin. They have to run tests, but it’s not looking good.”
The color drains from my face. “I thought you said…”
“I need you to keep your doors and windows locked.” He’s in lawyer mode. “Don’t answer the phone. Turn the ringer off the house one. Only answer your cell if it’s my number or your father’s. Don’t answer any blocked calls or caller ID unknown, do you understand?”
I nod, my hand on my chest as I struggle to breath.
“Meghan?”
“Yes.” I exhale into the phone.
“Your house is going to be swarmed by the media.” He’s in damage control mode. “I’m on my way to the station now.”
“Okay. Should I meet you there?” My voice shakes. I feel helpless.
“No. Stay put. You won’t be able to see him or help. As much as it’s frustrating, there’s no point in you banging your head against a wall. You need to switch up your routine with the boys. As much as it sounds counterintuitive, you’re going to be hounded by the press. If you can arrange for childcare for the boys, please do. I want them somewhere safe.” He clears his throat. “Ask Dina if she can help. I’ll help with sneaking them back in the house.”
I’m about to hang up when he adds. “And Meghan?”
“Yes.”
“I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“About?”
There’s silence.
He’s already gone.
I double check all the doors and windows, a sense of impending doom wrapping its claws around me and choking me like a noose.
Walking into our master, I search for his computer bag.
It’s missing.
His toiletries are also gone.
My stomach drops. He took everything with him.
I glance at our bed. A pillow’s missing, an empty space on his side.
The guest room. I did ask him to move. I tiptoe to the opposite end of the upstairs, as if he’ll appear at any moment and confront me.
The leather bag’s resting against the television stand. Sitting on the bright-colored bedspread, I pull the laptop out. Booting it up, I turn my attention to my cell. Using my phone, I search for articles about her, scanning them for her birthdate and her full name.
This time, I try another log-in password.
Her birthday. 050591.
It pings. Nope.
05051991.
Wrong again.
I try her first and middle name - TalinMercedes.
Holding my breath, I press enter.
Bingo.
Logging into his email, I check his accounts.
My phone keeps chiming with Facebook notifications.
Hmm… I decide to log in to his account. It’s been deactivated for a while.
I know why now.
The amount of messages she sent him.
Tally Forrester. Her name on social media is TallyMForrest. The last profile pic is now a permanent fixture on Facebook, showing a smiling blonde with hair the color of wheat - a whitish-gold hue. She has the biggest green eyes I’ve seen, they sparkle like giant stones in the close-up snapshot of her holding yellow tulips.
She has five hundred and seventeen friends on here.
How many of those are real friends that she talks to? I always wonder that when you see people with twelve-hundred friends.
What percentage knew she was having a tumultuous affair with my husband?
Clicking on the messenger icon, there are rambling paragraphs from her.
Tally:
Why can’t you answer your phone?
Why do you always make me wait for you?
It’s always games with you. I hate you.
Another one, I assume typed while intoxicated, says:
You’re just another douchey guy that thinks he’s hot shit.
You and your wife deserve each other.
These shots won’t make you fade.
But my flirting will.
Then a message filled with love:
BABE,
I hate when you can’t be around. I miss you so much.
Please come back soon. I need your arms wrapped around me.
In the last month, the messages had gotten more urgent:
You need to tell her.
What if I get pregnant?
Will you abandon the baby just like me?
I don’t think we should do this anymore.
It’s over.
Reed… answer me.
Let’s stop.
Reed. Did you pay my credit card?
Did you?
Reed…we don’t have to talk, but I need to know.
Yes or no?
You pay bill.
Reed...I love you.
Don’t leave me.
But seriously, we need to talk.
There are hundreds of messages like this.
Volatility. Neither seemed able to give the other what they needed. And when one was all in, the other was out. A push and pull dynamic.
The last message is dated a week ago. She had starting threatening to tell me about their relationship if he didn’t.
I gulp at the context, a message she apparently tried to write me, warning me about them. It sent him into a frenzy by his response.
Reed: Why would you put a message about my wife on FB and throw our business out there? How could you be so spiteful? I don’t know you at all.
Nothing shows up after that since he deactivated his account after sending the last message.
Something must’ve happened that he still went to Portland to visit her.
Unless he was planning to murder her and knew it would be the last time.
I shudder at the thought.
Did she get pregnant over the course of the six months? Did he make her get an abortion, pay her to do it?
Logging into my own FB account, I decide from the amount of pings that I better follow suit and deactivate mine as well.
My eyes scan over random messages I’ve received in the last twenty-four hours, but one Internet troll called me nasty names and a ‘haggard bitch wife.’
Clicking on his name to block, I scroll through my list of people that can’t contact me.
There’s a lengthy list of names, and I know none of these people.
Except a ‘T’ name catches my eye halfway down. TallyMForest.
I certainly didn’t block her. Or any of these people.
Leaning back, I consider why and how.
Reed must’ve. He blocked her on my account so she couldn’t contact me and took a break from his account for the same reasons.
If I were my husband, what lengths would I go to to cover my tracks?
He hasn’t been doing a good enough job, a dead girl isn’t the poster child to cover up your affair.
But what if there’s more to this than even the police know?
Yet, I’m not entirely convinced he’s guilty.
I might be naïve, a murder weapon in your possession is a pretty good indication of guilt, but something’s not right...
Reed’s been hiding this for half a year.
Carrying a knife around in your vehicle when you’re being investigated for murder? It’s not adding up in my mind.
I don’t owe him much, but he’s the father of my children.
I want to know. I have to know.
It’s hard to reconcile the fact that the man in my hospital room as I was giving birth to our twins might be the same guy who stabbed his lover over forty times with a kitchen knife.
But when you push someone far enough…
I go b
ack to her profile. Her friends list is private, but I’m able to click on a few of her pictures. If I didn’t absolutely hate her right now, I’d think she’s adorable. She reminds me of T Swift, and who can hate that girl?
One blonde pops up continually. Martha DeFornay.
She’s got curly hair. Blue eyes. A foot shorter than Tally.
I stalk her profile.
Her last post isn’t private. It says:
Wishing for answers and the strength to get through the next couple weeks without my other half. To my bestie, I love you. You’re watching above. We will find out and bring them to justice. JUSTICE FOR T!
Her email address is listed on her profile page.
Tapping my fingers on the keyboard, I start to write a message, stop, backspace, and then type out more letters.
Finally, I settle on:
Hi Martha,
I’m Meghan, the wife of Reed Bishop.
I am not writing you to cause any harm. I’m on a search to find answers that we are both seeking.
Please contact me at your earliest convenience so we can talk.
I know I should sleep but I toss and turn, filled with nervous energy. I feel claustrophobic, like the room is closing in on me. If I open one door, I’m afraid someone or something is hiding, waiting to reach out and grab me.
Climbing out of bed, I pace the bedroom, my footsteps making small indentations across the same spots, wearing the carpet thin. I wonder if Martha’s up this late. Or if she’s heard about Reed’s arrest?
Biting my nails, I sit back down and check my email, watching the clock every fifteen minutes to see if she’s responded.
Nothing.
If Jarrett were here, I’d feel better.
But he’d have to sneak in.
And someone would catch him. A news outlet would splash him across the papers. I’d draw more negative attention to this family. I can see the headlines: Bishop Woman Sneaks Lover in House Hours After Husband’s Arrest.
It would impact Jarrett’s business as well.
Will he stop talking to me because of this? Does he think I’m involved? That’s silly, I tell myself. He knew you were here.
Shutting my eyes, I allow myself to imagine his arms wrapped around me for longer than a few seconds.
All the Pretty Lies Page 14