The Loyal Wife_A gripping psychological thriller with a twist

by Natalie Barelli

  I’m rifling through a pile of what looks like old mail in a drawer of her desk. Something catches my eye. It’s a notice from her university, and the way it’s folded, the date and the first paragraph is clearly visible. It’s dated two months ago.

  Dear Ms. Mitchell,

  We acknowledge receipt of your letter informing us of your withdrawal from the Masters of Business Administration program. Please note no fees will be refunded and you will be charged a $75 withdrawal fee. However you may be eligible for a partial tuition refund as per the University Credit Balances and Refunds Policy.

  We wish you well in your future endeavors.

  My jaw drops. I sit on the side of her bed holding the letter in my hand. I have to read it three times to make sure I understand correctly. Madison has withdrawn from her college degree, and she has not told anyone. So what is she doing now?

  I asked her the other day, how long she was staying with us. I thought she should have gone back already—it’s not a long break, but she shrugged me off and said she did so well on her exams she could go back late. And she wanted to stay here, look after her dad. He needed her.

  I had no reason to doubt her. There’s a part of me that insists this is none of my business, but the other part is screaming at me that something is very wrong here. Only a few days ago, Madison was cuddled up with her father on the couch singing the praises of her courses, discussing the minutiae of the curriculum. So, what’s going on?

  I hurry back downstairs, and I make the call before I have the time to change my mind. The phone number is in Mike’s office, on a Post-it note that has curled with time but is still stuck on the rim of the bookshelf.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Deborah?” I have never called the first Mrs. Mitchell. I’ve never had the occasion. And for a bizarre moment I’m pleased to hear her voice, because we are going to talk about Madison. Maybe I could call her Maddie. We’re going to talk about what we’re going to do to help this kid. She may not be a kid anymore, but she sure acts like one.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Tamra.” Should I add, Mitchell?

  “Who?”

  Yes, I should.

  “Tamra Mitchell.” I hear her intake of breath, like a small shock absorber.

  “I’m calling about Madison.” I have no intention of mentioning the university withdrawal, the lies, etcetera. I’m more concerned about her anorexia. I’ve left the pamphlet among that pile of mail, and her mother and I can team up to take care of the rest.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Oh no, nothing, well not exactly, it’s just that I’m really worried about her, Deborah. About her weight problem.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Well, I have to say, I expected something different from her. I don’t know what exactly, but definitely different. “You know that Madison is suffering from an eating disorder, don’t you? When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Are you completely crazy? How dare you call me and speak to me like that! You’re a home-wrecker, Tamra. If it were up to me, my daughter wouldn’t spend a single second in that house with you. I only let her because she insists on that relationship with her cheating, lying father and I can’t stop her. But now you call my house? Go jump in a lake, Tamra Mitchell.”

  Mike always told me that the divorce had been amicable. That was his word: Amicable. That they’d grown apart, and by the time I came along, they’d been going through the motions of separation. He spent time at the house for the sake of the children, even though only Madison was still living at home. I didn’t question it. Why would I? It wasn’t in my favor. I wasn’t there to provide reconciliation advice; I was there to take him for myself—legally, preferably—and if that could happen without rancor, who was I to argue?

  But I have to say, things don’t look amicable from where I’m standing. I take the Pandora bracelet back to my room and slip it in the bedside table. That’s when I spot the Glock. Mike keeps it for protection, even though I don’t like it in the house. He left it out on the desk the other day, and I placed it in my drawer. Now I’m thinking, it’s too exposed. Too accessible. If Madison rummaged through my stuff and took my Pandora bracelet, wait till she finds this. I shudder. I decide to move it and make a mental note to tell him later. The Glock ends up in a shoe box on the bottom shelf of the closet.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mike doesn’t want to do the press conference. He thinks it’s the wrong message. He says he should lie low. It’ll blow over, he says.

  Yeah, right. Over my dead body.

  “I think we’ve passed that moment,” I say. “You need to take control. Be strong, be decisive, now more than ever.”

  He doesn’t look strong and decisive, that’s for sure. He looks small, crumpled into a heap. He keeps running a hand through his hair. Every time Madison comes to talk to him, I’m in the doorway in a flash and in my most soothing voice, I whisper, “Not now, Madison.”

  “Mike, darling, you can’t let your fear rule your head. You’re the one who taught me that.”

  He smiles then, maybe not a smile, exactly. More like a lift of the lip. If I didn’t know any better, I might have taken it for a sneer. But the look in his eyes becomes softer, almost grateful, and I’m thinking that this is great. I rock at this sort of thing. “I will stand by you, I promise you that. I will do everything in my power to help you, and to guide you, through this difficult time,” I continue.

  I take his face in both my hands and hold him, gazing into his eyes that by now are swimming. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

  “Thank you,” he says. Then he shakes his head and he adds, “I’m so sorry, Tamra, for everything I’ve put you through. I don’t deserve you.” Which makes me think that either The Slut hasn’t returned his calls, or he suspects that now that he’s officially a murder suspect, all bets are off, no matter how much frilly lingerie he throws at her.

  God knows I keep looking, keep an eye out. I check his texts whenever I can snatch the phone in time. I check his pockets. If he’s still in touch with her, all power to him. She can have him. I just want to make him miserable. And I want his money. She can have whatever’s left of him. She can visit him in prison. She and Madison can go together.

  We’re standing outside our house, Mike and I. It is imperative that I be by his side, although really, I am just one small step behind. But I’m the one who organized the press conference, and I made sure to include Fiona Martin, although I haven’t told Mike that.

  “You’re sure I look okay?” he asks, for the umpteenth time.

  “You look fine.” I did his makeup. I covered up the dark rings under his eyes and managed to give him a bit of color. The better he looks, the worse it will be, I think.

  There are maybe half a dozen journalists, both print and TV. We don’t rate that highly in the news cycle. Mike taps the microphone and thanks them for being here.

  “First, I want to say how very distressed my family and I were to hear of Ms. Charlene Donovan’s violent death. It’s a terrible day when a young person’s life is snuffed out so soon.” He clears his throat, just like he did before, when we rehearsed.

  “Earlier today, I spoke to Charlene Donovan’s family and offered our sincere condolences for their loss. But this isn’t about me,” he says, and all the faces that were looking down at their frantic scribblings look up, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from bursting out laughing.

  “It’s about Charlene Donovan, a young woman whose entire future has been robbed from us all, especially from her family. As you know, Charlene Donovan—” He keeps calling her by her full name, as we agreed, because we want to avoid any suggestion of intimacy, even a first name basis. “—worked in my office for the summer, and I remember her as a very bright, ambitious, and capable young woman.”

  He lifts his eyes from his notes and stands just a little taller.

  “Two days ago, a newspaper published a vile and spurious ac
cusation leveled at me. I’m not going to hide or shy away from defending myself, and I intend to do so in a court of law, but I can categorically say, right here and right now, that I have never had a sexual relationship with Ms. Charlene Donovan, and anyone who knows me, knows that I would never do such a thing. The additional accusation that I somehow encouraged Ms. Charlene Donovan to have an abortion is abhorrent to me and to my family. It never happened, and I have instructed my lawyers to pursue charges of libel.

  “Let me repeat, this isn’t about me; it’s about Charlene Donovan.” I told him to say that a lot. I said it made him look strong and compassionate. But I think the more he says it, the more it sounds like a lie.

  “Her passing affects us all, and it is vitally important that we catch her killer. If you have any information at all, no matter how small or trivial, please, I implore you, please contact your local police station as soon as you can.”

  He turns to me, puts out his hand, and calls my name. I smile and step forward, taking his hand in mine in a little flurry of flashes and camera clicks.

  “I want to publicly thank my wife, Tamra Mitchell, for her support and her unwavering belief in me.” He squeezes my hand and leans in to kiss me on the lips. “I love you. Thank you,” he says softly.

  Then he stares back toward the cameras, his chin forward, and he points a finger. “If the person who killed this young woman is watching this, then be aware that we will find you. We will track you down, and we will not rest until you have to face justice for this terrible crime.”

  That was my idea, too. Mike wasn’t completely sold on it, but I convinced him that it would make him look strong and determined, and most definitely innocent.

  The best part is when Fiona Martin asks, “How do you explain that her body was found near your house?”

  I wait for him to answer. After all, we have prepared for that one since it was bound to come up. He’s supposed to say that it was not our house when she died. That we had already sold it by then. That it’s a minor point, since it’s not like she’d been found right there in the front yard; she was at least two miles away from it. But the silence goes on longer than it should, and all eyes are on him now, and he turns on his heel and goes back inside the house, closing the front door after him.

  I feel myself blush with embarrassment, left out in the cold like this. I mumble a weak ‘sorry’ and put my head down. The journalists chat among themselves without so much as a glance in my direction. It seems I am not so newsworthy. Oh wait, that’s right, I don’t count.

  “Are you going to talk to me now?”

  I turn around quickly, and it’s Fiona Martin, of course. Everyone has meandered away, stepped into their cars or they’re walking down the driveway, but there are a couple of stragglers nearby and they glance in our direction. I look her up and down, the way you do when you want to show your contempt.

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  The stragglers move away and then it’s just her and me.

  “Why are you protecting him?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. That little performance just now.” She juts her chin in the direction of the lectern that is still there in front of our porch.

  I lean forward a little, even though there’s no one around to hear us anymore. “You know why I did that. I have to stand by him. He’ll suspect me otherwise.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “No. He has no idea.”

  “Be careful, Tamra.”

  I do a double take, pretend that the realization of what her words imply has just dawned on me. I lean forward, and almost put a hand on her forearm but I stop myself just in time.

  “Do you think that I’m in danger?” I let the question trail.

  “In your shoes? I would.”

  I like it. She doesn’t know who killed Charlene. I sure haven’t told her the rest of my story, yet. But here she is, joining the dots.

  I put a hand on my chest, shake my head. She cocks her head and frowns, like she’s surprised at how dense I am.

  “Have you heard from his lawyers yet?” I ask.

  “Interestingly enough, I have not.”

  “Huh. So he’s not feeling quite as confident as he made out. That’s good, right?”

  Suddenly Lauren’s car comes into view, crawling up the driveway.

  “I have to go,” I tell her, just before jabbing my index finger in the air in front of her face. Then in my strongest, loudest voice, I say, “You come back here and I will call the cops, you hear? You’re on my property, lady!”

  She gives me a quick, small shake of the head, and just before turning on her heel, she whispers, “Watch your back with him, Tamra, promise me.”

  With my finger still in her face, I say between clenched teeth, “As long as he doesn’t know I’m talking to you, I’ll be fine.”

  Then Lauren’s soft-top convertible roars up and almost hits Fiona.

  “What’s she doing here?” Lauren shoves her thumb toward Fiona’s receding back, then she kisses me on one cheek and then the other. “You’re okay, girlfriend?”

  “Not really,” I say, mimicking one of those grimacing face emojis.

  The front door opens and Mike stands there, tall and—wait, is that a smile?

  I take Lauren’s arm into my own. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad to see you.”

  I tell her about the press conference, and I make it sound better than it actually was. When we go inside, Mike is gentle. He winks at me, the side of his mouth lifting in the cute way that he does. He’s been watching me from the window, I can tell, just as I knew he would. I think it’s my finger wagging that did it. I wink back, and he almost laughs.

  “Well, people, I brought something to cheer us up. Champagne! And I have sustenance!” Lauren says in a loud voice.

  “You know where to go, girlfriend,” I say, pushing her playfully. She does a funny walk, with her bags dangling off her fingers that she holds up high.

  In a soft voice I say to Mike, “We need all the support we can get, okay? Don’t be rude to her. We want as many people on our side as possible.”

  He nods, then he does something he hasn’t done in a very long time. He takes me in his arms, and he pulls me close, resting his chin on top of my head. If I had a knife on me right now, would I slide it into his stomach? I’m not sure.

  “I think it went really well, don’t you?” I ask.

  “It’s like a weight has lifted, baby doll. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  I don’t reply. I inhale the scent of him, and I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia, for what we had. For how much he loved me once.

  He hugs me tighter. “I love you,” he whispers, and we stay like that for a while until he says, “Do you agree that I was right?”

  “About which bit?”

  “About not telling them what, you know, with the… the intervention.”

  “No,” I say into his neck. “I still think you should.”

  * * *

  Madison looks a bit more relaxed than she did before, and I guess that Mike has spoken to her and found the right reassuring words. Lauren has set the table for our lunch: some Venezuelan vegetarian takeout from the new place up the road that personally I think is foul. But now Madison has perked up no end, and she thinks it’s awesome, and Lauren is a genius, and soon they’re whispering at the dinner table and as usual I can’t help but feel a little hurt.

  “I’m really sorry Dwayne couldn’t be here,” Mike says. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen him. How’s he doing?”

  She shrugs and even colors a little. She breaks her bread roll into a million pieces. “Hey, you tell me. That man is away on business so often, sometimes I forget what he looks like.”

  It’s funny, but she said the same thing, more or less, the other night at church, and I don’t know why this time it sounds contrived. Like it’s rehearsed.

  “You’re okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, w
hy wouldn’t I be? It’s just a business trip. Don’t mind me. I get annoyed with him because he goes away so much, but he promised me it was only two more years.”

  “He’s away for two more years?” Madison asks, eyes wide like saucers.

  Lauren slaps her gently on the shoulder, and we laugh because we all know she’s joking. Don’t we?

  “That’s what he said. ‘Two more years, Lauren, and we won’t have to worry about money anymore.’”

  “You don’t need to worry about money now,” I point out.

  She shrugs. “Exactly, but you know what these alpha males are like.” And she winks at Mike, which makes him laugh. It’s such a strange sight, I don’t know what to think. Did I miss something? How did they get so buddy-buddy all of a sudden?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mike and I made love last night, and afterward, he held me tightly and whispered words of love in my ear and I couldn’t help it. For a few hours I made myself pretend nothing had changed, there was no Slut, and I hadn’t dug up poor Charlene. I just wanted to feel happy for a few hours.

  It didn’t work.

  But we agreed that we would go about our business from now on. That we don’t need to hide or feel ashamed of ourselves. For Madison, that doesn’t mean much since all she does is lounge around the place tethered to her phone, but for Mike, it means putting on his nicest suit and going to the office with his head held high. He even promised me that he wouldn’t let anyone make him feel like he didn’t belong there. I should hope so, it’s his business after all, literally.

  Me, I’m back at the Center today. It’s one place in my life where I feel safe, useful, and valued.

  It’s very early, and it’s just Moira right now. Moira runs the place. She’s in her fifties—a sturdy, big woman with a short, black, pixie haircut. I have in the past thought that Moira was not the most skilled person in the world for that job. She’s not terribly compassionate; she doesn’t know how to operate a computer, to the point where if she can’t find a Word document, or if she can’t figure out how to print something, she’ll get her IT guy to come in for a cool $165 an hour. Nigel is his name. Nigel will turn on the computer, open Windows Explorer, select the document, and print it. Nice work if you can get it. But hey, why should I care? I’m not there to tell them how to run the joint, I’m just there to make the world a better place.