The Good Widow_A Novel

by Liz Fenton

  But wouldn’t this driver’s license have been in Dylan’s purse . . . which Officer Keoloha said she’d reported stolen while she and James were at the Seven Sacred Pools?

  Did he lie to me when he said it was mailed back to him?

  There must be an explanation.

  I think about Briana. The restlessness I’ve been feeling since we talked. I pace in front of the closet, James’s sweatshirt hanging midway down my thighs. Maybe Dylan had traveled with a passport and left her license behind—and Nick had simply used it to lie about being engaged to her? Nothing more. That was possible, wasn’t it?

  Fuck.

  I’m squeezing the driver’s license so hard that it makes a red mark on my palm. A terrible feeling starts to spread through me—I try to stop it, but it’s moving at lightning speed.

  Did Nick stalk James and Dylan? Follow them to Maui?

  I think about Nick’s text just moments ago. That he misses me. A joke about a cat in a tree. That guy would never track his ex-fiancée to Maui!

  I keep tightening my hand around Dylan’s license, questioning everything. Hugging James’s sweatshirt as close to my chest as I can. A big part of me wants to cling to another explanation. One where this is all a big mistake. One where I didn’t simply move from one man with a secret life to another.

  I’m in the car, throwing it in reverse before I can talk myself out of it. I have to find my answers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  DYLAN—BEFORE

  Dylan couldn’t believe Nick had shrugged and told her he wished her only the best. “Can’t fault a man for trying,” he’d said, then flashed that smile at her as he squeezed the engagement ring between his fingers. She watched him walk—no, saunter—down the alley. Then she heard the distinct sound of his motorcycle roaring to life. The noise had cued her to leave—she was still standing on the same slick oil spill behind her restaurant. She considered going inside and asking Johnny to walk her to her car. But he’d have questions—she’d never wanted an escort to the employee parking lot before. And she didn’t want to get into it. Plus, she wasn’t sure she could explain Nick’s strange behavior if she tried. Or if he had even been acting as oddly as she’d thought. What if his behavior was in her head? If she was making it worse than it was because of her guilt over leaving him for James?

  Still, she hurried to the parking lot just in case, trying to shake off what had just happened. How Nick had gone from smiling to melancholy to almost jubilant in the span of just minutes. Once inside her car, she locked all the doors, glanced in the backseat to make sure no one was there, and backed out onto South Coast Highway. She turned on the radio; the song “Shake It Off” was playing. It must be a sign, she thought, and began to sing along with the lyrics.

  Midway through her duet with Taylor Swift, she saw him in the rearview mirror. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t Nick, just another motorcyclist with a similar bike, but she recognized the deep-red mudguard and matching helmet that reflected the streetlight. She changed lanes, and he followed—still several car lengths behind, but each direction she took her car, he paced with her. Dylan tried speeding up, slowing down, and turning quickly, but she couldn’t lose him. Her heart began to pound, and her palms were wet from perspiration. She wiped them on her black pants and kept driving; she could stop at a gas station or somewhere and ask for help. But help for what? She had no proof of anything, and she knew Nick would deny her accusations anyway. He seemed oblivious to his behavior—not understanding he was acting like a stalker.

  So when she saw the light up ahead turning yellow, she made a split-second decision—she slowed her car as if she were stopping and then gunned it, slamming her foot into the gas pedal and blowing through the intersection. Horns blared, but she made it across safely. Then she checked for Nick and was stunned as she watched him barrel through, barely missing a shiny silver Mercedes SUV—the rolled-down windows in the backseat revealing tweens in matching soccer jerseys, screaming when their driver slammed on her brakes. A shiver passed through Dylan. She had put those lives at risk.

  Nick was riding her bumper—revving his bike’s engine. Why was he following her? He’d given up so easily in the alley. Or had he? She replayed how he’d twisted the engagement ring on his finger, how he’d left with almost a spring in his step. He must have known then that it wasn’t over—that he was going to follow her—that she’d never suspect because she was gullible. He had manipulated her. Dylan tightened her grip on the steering wheel, mad at herself for being so stupid. So believing. She wondered if this was her penance for cheating on him. If she deserved this.

  Dylan heard honking and looked over her left shoulder. Nick was riding right next to her—too close to her car—motioning wildly for her to pull over. She debated what to do. But then she saw the young faces of the soccer players in her mind and knew she had to stop. She turned on the first street she could and parked. She thought about calling the police, but her phone was in her purse in the backseat. And she didn’t know what she’d say—my ex-boyfriend is following me? She knew now that he wasn’t going to give up until she gave him what he wanted.

  But what he wanted, she couldn’t give him. He wanted her back.

  She watched as he stopped his bike in back of her car. She felt a scream in the base of her throat, but when she opened her mouth, no sound would come out. Helplessly, she stared at him as he got off his motorcycle and removed his helmet, running his fingers through his hair.

  Then he gave a smile, one so sad Dylan returned it reflexively.

  “Hey, Dylan, roll your window down, okay?” He stared at her, then tapped on the glass with the engagement ring. “Knock, knock!”

  Dylan shook her head; his face changed so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined the somber smile. His lip curled; his cheeks reddened. She started to get really scared. He kept asking her to open the door, and she kept shaking her head. She watched him make fists with his hands and punch them against his sides.

  “Dylan, come on!” he yelled, then hit the window with an open palm.

  Her body jerked backward, her heart ramming against her chest; she had no idea what to do. She looked around her, but the street was empty. Her stomach dropped as she noticed the “Dead End” sign at the end of the road. Nick rattled the door handle, then turned and flailed his arms in the air in frustration, like she’d seen children do at the restaurant.

  Dylan shivered. Could he pry the door open? Was he strong enough to break the glass? Would he take it that far?

  “Dylan, you are my soul mate. Don’t you see that?” He flattened both of his palms against the glass, the diamond ring pressed between his right hand and the window. “This is yours. You belong to me.”

  He thinks I’m his possession. That he owns me.

  After that, it was as if Nick was moving in slow motion: As he put one leg in front of the other, his distressed jeans grazing the ground, the tips of his boots peeking out. As he turned his back to her, his leather jacket catching an air pocket. As he walked toward his bike, his arms out in the air like he was about to take flight. A panicked feeling coursed through her. She felt behind her seat for her purse, then reached around to grab it. She had to get to her phone. She had to try to get help.

  Suddenly there was a thud against the roof of the car. Dylan screamed and dropped her purse. She was staring into Nick’s abdomen, his belt buckle pressed up against her window. Then he stepped back and lifted his arm over his head, and she saw it. A tire iron. He yanked it over his shoulder. Dylan ducked and covered her head, bracing herself for the blow against the glass. Tears poured out of her as she lay against the seat, praying for her safety, trying to make sense of what was happening to her. Trying to understand how Nick could turn into this man.

  But the window never shattered. Instead, she heard sirens. She hadn’t called the police, but maybe he thought she had, because he ran to his bike and took off so fast she wondered if she could convince herself he’d never been there at all.
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  Then she saw the tire iron on the pavement.

  I’m finally home and in bed, and my heart still won’t settle. Each heavy beat reminding me of what a fool I am—how blind I was to who Nick really is. My skin crawls when I think of the look in his eyes as he pressed the ring against the glass. Like nothing was wrong. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Like me getting back together with him would have been the most natural thing in the world. It makes me think my relationship with James isn’t so unusual. He might be married, but at least he’s sane. And we’re leaving for Maui tomorrow—something that I need now more than ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  JACKS—AFTER

  Breathe, Jacks. Just breathe.

  My gaze falls on Dylan’s driver’s license resting in my cup holder as I pull into Nick’s parking garage, my breaths shallow. I let my car idle and scan the area for Nick’s bike just in case. But it’s not here. A ripple of guilt snakes through me. Sneaking into his place. Going through his things. James had been a liar. Telling me he was in one city when he was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Was my behavior now only a symptom of being deceived by my husband? I really didn’t have much proof—other than the ID. Was that enough of a justification to lie to Nick and go into his apartment without his consent? I look at Dylan’s face again—her pouty lips. Her rosy cheeks. But the thing is, I need to figure out the truth. If we have any future, I have to know.

  My phone dings. It’s Beth.

  Where are you? Thought we were meeting here.

  I glance around. There’s no time to explain to her what’s going on.

  At Nick’s, looking for something. Call you after.

  I park and push the button for the elevator, remembering my first time here when I tentatively entered through the lobby, noticing the Peet’s coffee shop, the dry cleaner’s.

  I had been a widow, still so raw from everything I’d learned about the husband I thought I knew. I never predicted I’d return here in a very different role—a girlfriend with questions about another man she thought she knew.

  When Nick showed up on my doorstep the first time, I never asked him how he knew how to find me. Had he stalked me too? Or had digging into Dylan’s double life simply led him to me? Looking back, I don’t see Nick ever acting obsessed with her. He’d just seemed like a man grieving for the woman he loved, the same way I had been dealing with losing James.

  As my finger hovers over the number for Nick’s floor, I think about getting off on the one below and trying to find Briana. Ask her more questions. I could show her Dylan’s driver’s license. Ask her what she thinks it means that Nick has it. I shake my head and punch the button for the floor that Nick lives on, worrying my own insecurities may be causing me to jump to the wrong conclusion.

  So I head to Nick’s place. I walk down the hall and stop at his door, staring at it. Fumble for my key in my purse, remembering him giving it to me on a keychain with a red heart. I’d been wide eyed at first and asked, “Are you sure?” Then he nodded and said, “Of course, you belong here.” I giggled in response, twirling the key around my finger.

  I think about how I never had any of James’s passwords, not even to his cell phone. Nick wouldn’t have given me a key if he had something to hide.

  I run my thumb over the red heart and slide the key into the lock. “Nick,” I call out, just in case he’s home. I wait to step inside. “Nick?” I say again. Slowly I make my way into the condo and let the door close behind me. I stand in the middle of the living room, waiting. For what, I don’t know. Despite my plan to give him the benefit of the doubt, to let him be innocent until proven guilty, his place looks different with Briana’s accusations swirling inside of me. The Ikea furniture now seems too sterile. The stack of magazines on the coffee table looks too perfect. The glow of the time on the microwave is eerie. The hair on my arms shoots up, and I feel a strange sensation, as if I’m being watched. As if I’m not alone. If he is a stalker, he could have cameras set up. I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous. That’s something Beth would say after watching too many episodes of Law & Order: SVU.

  I finger Dylan’s ID in my pocket, making sure it’s still there, which somehow makes me feel sane. Like I have a reason to be here. To make sure everything is okay. That I didn’t go from one liar to another. I glance around me. The espresso maker parts are rinsed out and in the dish rack where I put them, the magazine I was reading still open to the page I stopped on—an article about how to make a face mask out of avocado. I’m standing here, not sure not where to start or what I’m trying to find, when a booming sound rips through the condo, and I scream.

  I realize it’s just the air conditioner kicking on. My racing heart settles. And I roll my eyes. What’s got me so jittery?

  I almost leave, deciding to simply ask Nick about the ID and take it from there. But then I think of James. How hard it had been to make sense not only of his death, but of the whys—the affair, the deceit, the other woman. And I decide I have to search Nick’s place so I can prove to myself that he’s not James.

  I start in the kitchen, opening cupboards, pulling out drawers. I move to the linen closet in the hall, but I only find towels and a surplus of soap, deodorant, and body wash.

  Maybe his biggest flaw is that he’s too clean.

  I open the medicine cabinet in the guest bath, look under the sink. But there’s nothing suspicious.

  I hesitate outside the threshold of his bedroom. Somehow looking in here feels worse, more invasive.

  Nick’s bed is still just as I left it, the comforter longer on one side than the other, the pillows thrown on top of it casually. I’ve never been a great bed maker. James used to laugh at me because I struggled with the whole process—especially the fitted sheet.

  Inside his bathroom, there’s also nothing out of the ordinary, his smell still lingering from his morning shower. I’m feeling foolish for snooping on him. What did I think I was going to find? I’m standing in front of his walk-in closet, debating what to do, and finally decide I might as well finish what I started. Then I’ll talk to him face-to-face so he can explain the ID. I check the time on my phone and see two missed calls and several texts from Nick.

  Hi, my love!

  Just got back from a call and thinking of you and missing your gorgeous face.

  The last message has a picture attached. I click on it. He’s wearing his navy-blue Long Beach Fire Department T-shirt and hanging from a pole. His lopsided grin makes me feel even guiltier. I send a quick text.

  Sorry, just got these. Miss you too!

  And I do miss him.

  Three dots instantly appear as he types his response.

  Where are you?

  At my house.

  I hate lying to him, but he can’t ever know I was here. That I questioned his integrity. Quickly I start to slide hangers to the left and right, the same four or five flannels and T-shirts he rotates hanging from them. I open drawers and gently search behind his socks and boxer briefs. I move a stack of jeans and look behind it. Nothing.

  I stand on my tiptoes and peer over the shelf with his baseball caps. I reach my hand up and feel the side of a box. I pull out a drawer and step on the edge, careful to not use all my weight so I don’t break it off its track. I slide the box toward me, and it tips over the edge and falls against my chest, knocking me off balance. It hits the hardwood floor with a thud.

  I pull it open, and it’s just bunch of old T-shirts. I grab one and almost laugh at the absurdity of what I’m doing as I stare at the logo from a 5K from a couple of years ago. I breathe for the first time in what feels like minutes. Just shirts.

  Beth will tell me I was nuts for coming over here. That I ransacked my boyfriend’s apartment for what? To prove to myself that not all men are liars? I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the wall. I do look a bit dazed. My hair is falling half out of its ponytail; my eyes have large bags under them. I wipe a smudge of mascara from my right lid. It’s time for me to stop list
ening to secondhand gossip and letting my mind take me to crazy places. I need to talk to Nick about the driver’s license. Let him give me his logical explanation. He more than deserves that.

  I push the T-shirt back into the box, and my hand hits something that feels like a rubber strap of some kind. I pull it toward the top and remove the T-shirt above it, blinking several times at what’s dangling from my fingertips.

  Dylan’s purse.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  JACKS—AFTER

  I’m holding the same purse Officer Keoloha described when he told me the story of Dylan filing the police report. It’s a straw tote with a rubber handle and a bright-pink-and-green jeweled pineapple on the side.

  I pull the purse open slowly, trying to make sense of why it’s here, in Nick’s closet. I squeeze a dried hibiscus flower between my fingers, picturing Dylan plucking it from a bush and smelling it. Or maybe James had picked it and given it to her, and she’d tucked it behind her ear? I find a banana lip balm and remove the cap and inhale it. There’s a map of the road to Hana folded neatly. Had she been following along as they drove? Guiding James to each viewpoint? And then I find her wallet. I hesitate before unsnapping the small turquoise billfold, praying there’s something inside of it that will explain everything. Because there has to be a reason her purse is here. I open it and see various cards—ATM, Vons, library. There’s also a five-dollar bill and a pay stub from the restaurant where she worked.

  But there’s no driver’s license. No passport. No identification of any kind.

  I think of her ID in my pocket. Was it once here, wedged between the grocery store card and the bank card?

  I close the wallet and notice some tissue at the bottom of the bag. I unwrap the Kleenex, and I’m staring at something I’ve had in my hands more times than I can count.

  A pregnancy test.

  The only difference is hers was positive.