Breaking the Story

by Ashley Farley

  He shifted back around to face Scottie. “Okay. What gives? Did you wake up on Brad’s side of the bed this morning?”

  “Ha-ha. As a matter of fact, I woke up at the Jefferson this morning.” She removed her iPad from her bag, clicked on the pictures she’d downloaded from the night before, and slid it across the table to her brother.

  Will’s chocolate eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Nice rack.”

  Scottie glanced down at the woman sitting astride her husband. “Are you kidding me? Those are fake.”

  “Fake or not, I’d like to get my paws on those giant melons.” He held his hands out in front of him as though massaging the woman’s breasts.

  Scottie smacked his hands away. She knew he was making light of the situation for her benefit, but she wasn’t in the mood.

  Propping his elbows on the table, he leaned in to get a closer look at Scottie’s face. “Don’t tell me you still have feelings for him?”

  Her Ray-Ban sunglasses hid the tears, but her quivering chin gave her away.

  “Come on, Scottie. After all he’s done to you and now this?” He pointed at the iPad.

  “I haven’t been in love with him for some time, but I still care about him. I can’t wave a wand and make those feelings magically disappear. Brad and I went through a lot together. I married him, Will. I made a commitment to him, and I’m sad we couldn’t make that Happily Ever After work.”

  “I get your point.” Will sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. “Why don’t you try to think about it like this? You are finally free from the ball and chain you’ve been dragging around for years. You can do all those things you’ve been talking about doing. You can move to New York or DC and start a new life, focus on your career.”

  She’d been too blinded by the agony of Brad’s betrayal to think much about the freedom a divorce would offer her. She’d grown tired of the limitations of freelance photojournalism, namely, the meager compensation for the hours she’d camped out in suspect places waiting for an opportunity that would make her career. She enjoyed the leisure side of her job, the side that paid the bills, shooting special events like weddings and selling her photographs to stock image websites such as Shutterstock. But that aspect of photography would never be anything more than a hobby. As a photojournalist, she’d developed not only her own personal style, edgy and fresh, but also a solid reputation with the big players, including the Associated Press. But lately, the drama in her personal life had kept her anchored to Richmond, shackled to her husband. With Brad out of her life, she could pursue her dream job with Reuters. She longed to travel overseas, to cover a different kind of story. She’d grown tired of mass shootings, police brutality, and bickering politicians. She wanted to report on worldwide affairs and issues that mattered to her, like disease and hunger and war.

  She unfolded her napkin and dabbed at her tears. “It’s not that easy,” she said, sniffling.

  “Like hell it’s not. Look,”—he reached for her hand—”I get that you’re afraid to move on. You were married to the guy for seven years. But it’s okay to let go. Think about it. If you stay with Brad, he will continue to bring you down. And that is not who you are. Pick yourself up. Brush yourself off. And set yourself free.”

  Liza appeared at the table, interrupting Will’s impassioned speech. She slid a glass of iced tea across the table to Scottie and dropped menus in front of each of them before heading on to another table. This time Will refrained from checking out her bottom.

  Scottie stirred sweetener in her tea. “Do you really think I can do it, Will? Make it big as a photojournalist?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind,” he said without hesitation. “Not only do you have the talent, you have the work ethic and drive to succeed.”

  Hope danced across Scottie’s chest. She relished the idea of reclaiming her life.

  While Will scanned the brunch specials on the menu, Scottie removed her phone from her bag and texted her husband: Pack your bags and get out of my house.

  His response was instant: I’m so sorry. I made a huge mistake. Please come home so we can talk about it.

  What home? You destroyed that. But the house belongs to me and I want you out of there today.

  Her father, deeming the real estate a solid investment, had given Scottie the money for the down payment on their row house with the stipulation that the title be drawn up in her name alone. Brad had not contributed one penny toward the mortgage in the two years they’d lived there.

  Her husband was a financial deadweight. Not having to make the minimum payment on his maxed-out credit cards alone would free up some much-needed cash.

  Brad texted: I don’t have anywhere to go.

  Scottie: What about the slut with the fake boobs you slept with in my bed? Go stay with her.

  Brad: Don’t be like this, Scottie. We can work through our problems.

  Scottie: Get out, Brad!!!!!

  Brad: Get a court order.

  “Ugh.” She slammed the phone down on the table.

  Will looked up from the menu. “What?”

  She launched the phone across the table to him. Will read the texts and handed her back the phone. “Call Dad, Scottie. You’re gonna need his team of attorneys.”

  “I can’t drag Dad into my life again. I’ve already put him through so much.”

  Her father was the Westport in Westport and Johnson, Attorneys at Law, a full-service family practice offering legal counsel for anything from estate planning to capital murder. Back in December, when Scottie found herself in need of a criminal attorney, Len Bingham, one of her father’s trusted partners, had offered a sympathetic ear and sound legal advice.

  “Come on, sis. We’re talking about Dad, here. He’d do anything for you. That’s what dads are for.”

  Scottie set down her tea glass and moved to the edge of her seat, preparing to leave. “Nope. I’m going to have to figure this out myself.”

  At some point in time, she needed to grow up. And Scottie thought that time had come, with one failed marriage, three miscarriages, and a near brush with the law over a child abduction—no matter how innocent it was—under her belt.

  Her brother’s faced filled with concern. “What’re you planning, Scott? The last thing you need is more trouble.”

  She picked up her bag and stood to leave. “Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing.”

  She had no intention of approaching the situation unprepared. Ever since opening her eyes that morning, she’d been formulating her plan. She understood the stakes. One of her first priorities was to get her husband out of her house before he had a chance to pilfer her belongings. She owed Brad nothing, except maybe fifty percent of the wedding gifts. He could have the fine china, but the furniture was mostly hers, many of the pieces antiques she’d purchased with her own money and lovingly restored herself.

  Will tugged at Scottie’s arm, pulling her back down to her chair. “Why don’t we order some food and talk this thing through?”

  “I can’t, Will.” She popped back up. “If I’m going to be on my own, I need to learn how to fight my own battles. You can’t always be my hero.” She cupped his cheek in her hand. “But I love you for trying.”

  “But I’ve always been your hero,” he said, looking up at her.

  “I know that, and I truly appreciate it, and all your love and concern. But this time is different.”

  He stood to face her. “Will you promise to call me if you need me?”

  “I’ll always need you, little brother. I need you to make me laugh, and to run interference in my arguments with Mom. What you don’t need is me constantly dragging you into my shitstorms. I can be strong when I need to be. And I need to be strong now. I need to face Brad alone.”

  “You’re stronger than a herd of elephants, Scott. You’ve just been hiding from yourself for the past few years, afraid to come out for fear of getting hurt. And with good reason. You’ve been through a lot. But that’s all behind you now.” He
spun her around and gave her a gentle shove as he whispered, “Be free, little birdie. Spread your wings and fly.”

  6

  The attendant at Grove Avenue Exxon located the nail, plugged the hole, and remounted Scottie’s tire in less than thirty minutes. She stopped at Elwood Thompson for a Mean Green smoothie before heading back to the Fan.

  She parked a block away from her house. While waiting for Brad to leave for work, she worked her way down the list of locksmiths that Siri provided until she found one with a reasonable quote who could get the job done that day. At ten minutes before three, as she’d predicted, the front door opened and Brad hustled down the steps to his Tahoe. She waited a few more minutes, in case he returned for something he’d forgotten, and then moved the Mini to the front of her house.

  Built in 1910, her row house offered stunning architectural details—ten-foot ceilings, intricately carved woodworking, and interior French doors separating the formal rooms. An eclectic mix of antique furniture and contemporary art accented the subtle tones on the walls. Scottie had chosen each piece with careful consideration, her flawless taste apparent throughout. Nothing in the house represented Brad’s personality with the exception of the empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays scattered about. In recent years, he had regressed to his teenage days, throwing wild parties as soon as the adult left town. Sadly, the adult in this case was his wife, and his punishment for bad behavior was divorce.

  Scottie started upstairs in the master bedroom and worked her way down. She stripped the bed of the tangled linens, balled them up, and tossed them down the stairs. She remade the bed with clean sheets and pillowcases—the lavender 500-count set that matched the walls, the ones Brad said made him have homosexual dreams. She emptied the dresser drawers and closet of her husband’s clothes, and placed them in boxes she brought down from the attic. She packed his toiletries in his dopp kit and stuffed it, along with the contents of his bedside table, in a duffel bag. Once the boxes were neatly stacked in the foyer beside the front door, she collected all the trash from downstairs in a large Hefty bag. She tossed out the leftover cartons of Chinese food and Styrofoam takeout containers, vowing to allow only healthy food in her refrigerator from now on.

  She Windexed and Pledged the tops of the counters and furniture, wiping away the sticky remnants of Brad’s three-day bender. She was vacuuming the sisal rugs when the locksmith arrived. She’d been so anxious to get her locks changed, she hadn’t taken the time to read the online reviews or consider why J. W. Locksmith was the cheapest. The leathery skin on Johnny White’s face spoke of too much time on the beach smoking cigarettes.

  “You moving out?” Johnny asked when he saw the boxes stacked beside the front door. Licking his lips, his eyes traveled her body before landing on her chest.

  “Actually, I’m moving in.” She didn’t want to give the creep the impression that she lived alone. “I want you to change the locks on the knobs and the dead bolts on this door. If you will just follow me, I have another one to show you.” She felt his beady eyes on her butt when he walked behind her to the family room. “The one back here,” she said as she unlocked the French door that led to her courtyard.

  When he was still working at dinnertime, she berated herself for not asking for a job estimate instead of agreeing to the hourly rate. What should have taken less than an hour took Johnny almost three. When he finally left a few minutes before seven, she was famished and more than a little irritated by his bad jokes and suggestive innuendo.

  She was finishing the last bite of her BLT when Will called. “Have you talked to Brad yet?”

  “No. He’s still at work.”

  “Did you call Dad like I suggested?”

  “I’m not going to drag Dad into this,” Scottie said. “I told you that earlier. I can handle Brad myself.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this, Scot. I don’t think you should confront Brad by yourself.”

  “I’m not planning to confront him. I had the locks changed.”

  “I’m coming over,” Will said without hesitation.

  “No, you’re not. I appreciate your concern, little brother, but I got this.”

  “Seriously, Scottie. Think about what you’re doing here. When Brad realizes you’ve locked him out, he’ll go postal.”

  “He can’t hurt me if he can’t get in.” She walked her empty plate to the sink. “I’ll be fine. Truly. Don’t you have big party plans for your Friday night? Go out and have fun and stop worrying about me.” She ended the call before he could respond.

  She leaned back against the counter and finished her glass of sweet tea. Since she’d opened her eyes that morning, she’d been a woman on a mission, a scorned wife out for blood. Will was right—she hadn’t stopped long enough to think about what her husband might do when he realized she’d kicked him out of the house. Story of her life—instead of making a level-headed plan, she’d reacted to her emotions. She was an easy target, alone in her house with nothing to protect her except a brand-new set of Schlage locks. Not that Brad had ever been abusive toward her. But he’d shown his nasty temper a time or two in situations not nearly as confrontational as her locking him out of the house and leaving all his earthly goods on the sidewalk out front.

  To make matters worse, after her near brush with the law at Christmas, she couldn’t call the police if she needed them.

  She waited until nightfall before moving the boxes of his belongings to the sidewalk in front of her house. She poured herself a glass of milk, triple-checked the locks on the windows and doors, and then trudged up the stairs to the nursery. She went to the crib and ran her hand across the soft cotton sheet. She imagined baby Mary sleeping soundly on her tummy, her tiny hands folded beneath her cheek. This room held too many painful memories for Scottie—three miscarriages, one of them late term, and Mary. It was clear now, she was never meant to have Brad’s baby. Maybe one day she’d become a mother, but for the immediate future, for the sake of her wounded soul, she needed to focus her attention on her career. For her own peace of mind, she would donate the contents of her nursery to charity and turn the room into a study.

  She closed the nursery door, and went down the hall to the master bedroom. She removed six poster-size framed photographs from the back of her closet, and spread them out on her king-size bed. She studied the pained expressions of the homeless friends she’d met in Monroe Park, the Five as she’d come to know them. With plans for a gallery showing in New York, she’d worked on this series for nearly a year. But that was before Mary.

  She’d long since destroyed the digital files on her hard drive, but she’d kept the framed photographs in the hopes of one day returning them to their place on the wall in her family room. She understood now that rehanging them would never be a safe choice. One by one, she turned the frames face down on the bed, ripped off the paper backings, and removed the photographs. She found a pair of scissors in her bedside table drawer and shredded the photographs into tiny little pieces, destroying the last remaining physical evidence that linked her to the Missing Baby Case of Monroe Park.

  Sweeping the shredded photographs into the bathroom wastebasket, she carried the trashcan downstairs and dumped it into the fireplace in the family room. She lit a long wooden match and set fire to a year’s worth of meticulous work.

  Back upstairs, she changed into yoga pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt and crawled into bed to await her husband’s return. Unable to sleep, she downloaded the second in the Game of Thrones series and read until the pounding of the brass knocker and ringing of the bell startled her a few minutes past midnight. Removing her phone from the bedside table, she rolled off the bed and crawled to the window. Standing flush against the wall, out of the way of the window, she watched her husband throw an adult-sized temper tantrum on the lawn below. He kicked at the boxes of his belongings while screaming insults too nasty to repeat into the silent night. The Yorkie Terrors in the backyard next door sprang into action, alerting the neighbors to danger with
their excessive barking. Lights flashed on up and down the street, while the silhouette of Mrs. Lucas’s hunched-over body appeared in the upstairs window of the house across from them.

  When a yellow Volkswagen Beetle pulled alongside the curb, interrupting his tantrum, Brad stomped over to speak to the driver. Peering through the blinds, Scottie caught a glimpse of the driver’s long dark hair as she leaned across the front seat to get a better view of the chaos in the front yard. Brad bent down behind the Beetle to talk to the driver. A minute later, the Volkswagen sped away, leaving Brad in the middle of the street with a twelve-pack of beer tucked under his arm.

  He set the twelve-pack down on the sidewalk and removed his cell phone from his pocket. Scottie’s phone vibrated in her hand with a stream of texts from her husband, pleading with her to let him in so they could talk, claiming he had nowhere to go and no money to pay for a hotel room. When she didn’t respond, Brad tore open the twelve-pack and pitched a bottle of beer at the house. Scottie, watching in horror, could see the whites of his eyes and teeth as his face lit up with amusement. He bombarded the house, heaving bottle after bottle against the brick, the sound of shattering glass resonating throughout the block.

  Scottie slid down the wall to the floor, terrified, uncertain what to do. She was too concerned they might somehow connect her to the Missing Baby Case to call the police. Her parents lived too far away to be of any use. She couldn’t very well ask her brother for help, after she’d been so insistent on handling the situation herself. Which left her no choice but to wait it out.

  She was relieved to hear her next-door neighbor call across the yard, “Brad, is that you? What’s going on out there?”

  “Mind your own damn business, Chuck,” Brad shouted back.

  “I can’t very well do that with you hurling beer bottles at your house like a madman. Is Scottie inside? Did the two of you have some kind of fight?”

  Another bottle exploded against the house.

  “I’m warning you, Brad. If you do it again, I’m going to call the police.”