Dean's List

by Stacy Claflin

  "Of course."

  Dean wiped his mouth and then dropped the napkin on the plate. He rose and headed for his office.

  Normally if Lydia had gone to the trouble of making them dinner, she would have been upset about him stonewalling her again. She was glad that he didn't suspect anything was wrong. She just had to get through until the next morning, and that shouldn't be too difficult so long as he didn't notice the perfume or a piece of glass she might have missed.

  She heard the sound of his computer turning on, and her body relaxed. He would likely be in there for hours—he was much happier looking at the screen than at her. Her appetite returned and she was able to enjoy the food she prepared.

  When she had everything cleaned up, Dean was still in his office glued to the computer. When would he leave so she could check out his calendar?

  Lydia grabbed an organic ice cream bar and went out onto the deck. She leaned against the railing, enjoying the warm evening air. She had always enjoyed summers in the Pacific Northwest.

  Lydia looked across her neighbor's yard, and over to the park across the street. Children squealed and chased each other. Her heart ached. Not only for the days when she didn't have a care in the world, but also for the kids she and Dean would never have. It wasn't for a lack of trying, but not even modern medicine could help them.

  All of that had put an enormous strain on their marriage, and that's when things started going downhill. Dean had offered to travel for work to bring in more money for the expensive procedures. Then after those failed, he traveled even more but spent the money on sports cars and additions to the home.

  She had begged him to look into adoption, but he had been adamant that he didn't want to raise someone else's kid. Lydia had thought she could change his mind, but all she had done was push him away further. He traveled even more and answered his phone less.

  That was when their marriage went from strained to a farce. They had started out adoring each other, but they weren't strong enough to handle the infertility.

  Lydia ate the last bite of her bar and then leaned against the railing, still watching the kids. She imagined for a moment what it would be like to be one of the moms chasing after little ones. Some of them looked like they hadn't slept in days, while others looked pristine.

  Which kind would she have been? Lydia looked down at herself, unable to imagine being one of the ragged ones. Though her love life was in shambles, she had everything else under control.

  Loud laughter came from the other side of the yard. She looked over across the other side of her yard and saw a group of teenagers running down the street, spraying something all over each other.

  Oh, to be that carefree. Could she ever get to that point again? Especially now, after learning Dean's secret? Lydia shook her head. She didn't know for sure that he had killed those women. She needed to do some digging, and stop assuming until she had more to go on.

  The first thing she would do was go over the calendar in his office to check his destinations against the dates on the clippings. Lydia was pretty sure of what she would find, though. Why else would he hide them like that?

  Maybe she did need a drink. More than anything, she wanted to believe the answer was something simpler. What if he was working as a private eye and just hadn't told her? He could have lost his job and been embarrassed about that.

  That would make sense, because Dean had worked so hard to get where he was in the company. He would also make a good detective. The man could pick anything apart, and he wasn't afraid of anyone. He would ask questions no one else dared to speak.

  Lydia looked down at their perfectly manicured lawn. She knew he hadn't switched jobs. They left messages on the voice mail every so often, and Lydia had seen their deposits into the bank account.

  She had to be missing something.

  Years ago, he had talked about writing a novel. He could have kept those articles for story ideas, but why would he go to all the trouble to hide them?

  What if their whole life was a lie? Even though so many things sucked, there was a lot that was good too. Especially the money he made and let her spend. The more she spent, the better he looked. He loved bragging about all the nice things they had.

  Despite everything they'd gone through, and his complete lack of interest in her, there was a part of her that still cared about him. She missed the fun guy he had been early on. The one who had showered her with flowers and handwritten poetry.

  But if he really was murdering people, she would have to leave him. But could that really be what was going on? What if there was another reason for those clippings?

  Her main objective needed to be finding out what was really going on with Dean. Then she would decide what to do from there. Whether she ran or went to the police, she would need solid evidence. Especially if she went to the authorities.

  Once she had a chance, she would search for clues and when she found enough, she would take it to the police.

  Lydia's stomach twisted in knots. How had her life come to this?

  Snooping

  Lydia sat up, gasping for air. She looked around the room. It had only been a dream, but it felt so real. In the dream, Dean chased her through the house with a knife because she had accused him of killing those women.

  Dean lay sprawled across his side of the bed, snoring.

  "Are you awake?" she whispered.

  He didn't answer, except to keep snoring. Maybe sleeping in the same bed hadn't been such a good idea. She hadn't wanted to throw off the routine and make him suspect anything.

  Lydia pulled out the novel she had put the notes in and then slid out of bed. She carried the book downstairs to Dean's office and turned the light on. Setting the novel down, she took his calendar off the wall and flipped it back to January. There had been five killings this year, and if the dates matched, Lydia would search for last year's calendar to see if those lined up too.

  She pulled the paper out and looked at the first date. January twenty-third in Detroit. Lydia scanned the calendar for the twenty-third, and sure enough, it was his last day in Detroit for that particular trip.

  The next one was in Boston on the first of March. That was three days into his trip there.

  San Diego on April twelfth…check.

  Houston on May fifteenth.

  Lydia's stomach churned acid, and the paper shook in her hand. She looked down and noticed her whole body trembled.

  "I can't look at any more of this," Lydia muttered. Still shaking, she put the calendar back on the wall. Once it was straight, she grabbed her book and paper, and then went out into the living room. She grabbed a warm blanket and sat on the couch, staring at a wall.

  What was she supposed to do now? Was it enough to go to the authorities? Probably not. She had no proof. They would probably laugh at her. She had seen enough crime scene shows to know her 'evidence' was circumstantial. Sure, he'd been in all of the cities at the times of the murders, but was there proof of him talking to any of the women?

  If there was, that would take more digging, and she couldn't do that yet. It was all she could do to keep her dinner down.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to think of another explanation. Could he have been a spy, not allowed to speak of his work? That was doubtful, given how much he loved to boast.

  Her stomach twisted in knots. Should she have seen this coming? Were there signs she had ignored all this time? He traveled a lot—far more than any other husband she knew of, but she shouldn't have suspected this. Affairs, sure. Lydia wasn't stupid. He hadn't slept with her in a long time, and she knew what that usually meant.

  That was why she had fallen in love with someone else. Chad's marriage had been on the brink of divorce and they kept running into each other. Lydia had thought it was meant to be. Neither of their spouses liked them anymore, and they could talk for hours on end about everything and nothing.

  Lydia had been so sure they would both divorce and end up together. But after Chad's daughter came up mis
sing, and Lydia gave him all the space in the world, he had turned back into a family man. Her heart ached. Even after nearly a year, it hurt so much. She had let herself fall—and hard.

  She wanted to talk with him and see what he thought about this. He had a sharp mind, and he would know exactly what to do. Lydia shook her head. Though she knew he still cared about her, they weren't speaking unless they ran into each other socially. Even then, it was as though they didn't have history together.

  What about her friends? Bri probably couldn't handle this. When her next door neighbor suffered a break-in, Bri had nearly had a meltdown imagining someone coming into her house to butcher her in her sleep. No. Lydia couldn't talk with her about this.

  The other ladies wouldn't be much more help. Savannah was too focused on celebrity gossip, and wouldn't keep quiet. And Savannah was just as bad at spreading rumors. Cara was about to have a baby. Lydia couldn't tell her about this. That wouldn't be fair to her.

  Lydia's family was too far, and this wasn't a conversation she could have over the phone or through email. She was going to have to handle this one on her own, at least for the time being.

  Normal people didn't go on a killing rampage because their marriage hit some bumps in the road. There was no way she could have known that would be how he would react to their problems.

  If this was how Dean dealt with stress, he had to have other underlying issues. Had she missed anything? He had a temper, sure. What guy didn't? She shuddered, remembering all the times she had hid in her closet with her mom or brother when her dad was in a rage.

  Guys got angry when things didn't go their way. It's just the way it was. It was worse when alcohol was involved, but that didn't mean she should have known that her husband was killing people.

  Lydia looked up at the time. Two hours had passed since she sat down. She would be better off going to bed so she could think clearly—assuming Dean didn't kill her in her sleep.

  She folded the blanket back up and put it where it had sat since the weather warmed up. Then she tip-toed back into the bedroom and slid the book back into place before climbing into bed.

  Dean rolled over and looked at her.

  Lydia's heart sped up.

  "Is everything okay?" he asked.

  "Just had to go to the bathroom," Lydia lied.

  "Okay." He closed his eyes and was snoring before Lydia's head hit the pillow.

  Lydia pulled the covers up, forcing herself to breathe normally. She could see light poking through the window when she finally grew drowsy.

  When Lydia woke up, the sun lit up the entire room and she had it to herself. Dean was probably downstairs at his computer before leaving to go to work. When did he say his flight out was? She couldn't remember. It was like the discovery had pushed everything else out of her mind.

  What she really needed was to talk to someone. Nothing helped her to think straight like discussing what was on her mind. But she couldn't go to just anyone with this. What if she was wrong? She was accusing her husband of being a serial killer.

  Or what if she was right, and someone who didn't believe her told Dean what she thought? The blood drained from her head. As much as she needed to talk to someone, she couldn't. Even if she did trust someone enough, it wasn't something she could just slide into conversation.

  "Can you hand me a napkin? Oh, I think my husband is killing people. Pass the salt, please."

  Lydia shook her head. She had to decide on one thing and stick with it. No more flip-flopping. It was time to pull herself together.

  After he left for his next trip, she would have to go through everything. She would collect anything that could be proof. Receipts, notes, anything.

  Dean came into the room, and Lydia jumped.

  "What's going on with you?" he asked.

  "I've been having bad dreams."

  "You're not thinking about adopting again, are you?"

  "What? No. Where did that come from? We haven't talked about that in a long time."

  "Good. I just came up to let you know I have to go into the office before I go to the airport, so I'm leaving now."

  "All right."

  "See you in a couple days." Dean turned around and left the room. There was a time that such a brash goodbye would have hurt Lydia, but this time she was relieved to have him gone.

  She leaned back on her pillow and closed her eyes. A couple days to figure out what to do. Would she be better off packing up and cutting her losses, or would it be better to stick around and look for clues?

  If she just left, her conscience would bother her. What if he kept killing people, and she could have stopped it from happening? If she found enough evidence, she could take it to the cops and they could lock him away.

  Lydia's phone buzzed on the nightstand. She picked it up and saw Bri's face on the screen.

  "Hey, Bri."

  "We missed you yesterday," Bri said in her best pout voice. "You're not going to stand us up today, are you? We're going to the beach, remember? You're bringing the wine."

  "I'll be there." Maybe after spending some time in the sun with friends and good wine, she would be able to think clearly. As long as she kept a tight reign over her tongue while sipping. "See you in about an hour?"

  "Perfect. Cara's saving our favorite spot."

  "Ciao." Lydia ended the call and went to the window, opening the blinds and letting the sun warm her. She would sit on the beach and forget all about Dean for a while. "Dean who?" She smiled.

  Lydia grabbed her favorite bikini, threw it on the counter, and got into the shower thinking of nothing other than a day on the warm sand. After putting on makeup and pulling her hair back, she threw on some cute shorts and tank top. Downstairs, she found a picnic basket a few of their best bottles of wine. Humming, she tucked in some wine glasses, and then looked around for anything else.

  When she was sure she had everything, she slid on her favorite pair of flip flops, grabbed her best pair of sunglasses, and made her way to her car. It was going to be a good day.

  Lydia pulled out of the garage and was about to close the door when she noticed something on the ground. Whatever it was fluttered from the draft created as she moved the car. She stopped and got out. It looked like a piece of paper.

  She bent down to pick it up. It was a page from a newspaper. Lydia started to fold it closed when she noticed one of the headlines.

  Restaurant manager found dead.

  Lydia stared at it for a moment before scanning for a date. Three days earlier.

  Forgetful

  Lydia stood in the middle of Dean's office, staring at his massive desk. She wanted to know what was in the top drawer. The one he kept locked at all times. Even when they got along, he never opened it in front of her.

  She didn't have the key, nor did she know where it was, so she left it alone and turned her attention toward the things she had access to. She needed to gather whatever additional information she could, and she didn't have a lot of time before meeting with the girls.

  Her heart pounded so hard, she feared it would burst right out of her chest.

  Lydia took a few deep breaths and then decided to start with the file cabinets. He had two of them, one on either side of the desk. She started with the top drawer of the closest one. Heavy, it resisted her efforts to open it. With a mighty tug, the drawer snapped open. She ran her fingers over the tops of the files, looking at the scribblings.

  They all appeared to be bills collected over the years. Nothing remotely interesting—unless he hid anything under the guise of something so ordinary. She pulled out the one marked as the cable bill for two years earlier.

  Going through all the papers—twice—she saw nothing other than statements with "paid," written in Dean's handwriting. She put them back in the file and carefully put it back from where she had taken it. Then she grabbed one for the cell phones from a few years back. It was the same thing. Nothing unusual.

  After looking through about a dozen more, she sat on his chai
r, tired. If he'd gone to so much trouble hiding the clippings under a floorboard beneath the heavy safe, would he really leave any evidence somewhere as obvious as his file cabinet?

  Sighing, she pulled open a random drawer from the desk on the left side. It was full of loose papers.

  Lydia picked up a stack and flipped through them. Her heart skipped a beat. They were all from the cell phone carrier, and they were printouts of her activity. She didn't find one with Dean's.

  She flipped through the stack, looking at the dates. They went back before she started seeing Chad. Her stomach dropped to the floor. Did Dean know everything? Had he been paying extra close attention to her every move, even when he acted like she didn't exist?

  Shaking, she flipped through the pages—and there were a lot of them since she loved talking with her friends so much. She saw call after to call to not only her friends, but Chad as well. Some of the first few to Chad had little tick marks next to them, but none of the rest did.

  Did that mean he'd taken notice of a new number and then looked into it? All he would have had to do was call it and pretend to have a wrong number. He knew about her affair.

  Lydia dropped the papers onto the floor, sending them scattering in all directions.

  Her stomach lurched. She ran to the nearest bathroom and threw up. As she cleaned herself up, she realized it wasn't that big of a deal. Or at least that's what she told herself.

  Dean had started his affairs long before she had her one, and she'd had better proof than just a call log. That one day when she was doing laundry and found unfamiliar women's underwear stuck inside of one of his shirts—that was all the proof she needed. Not only were they not hers, but they were two sizes bigger.

  He couldn't have tried to talk his way out of it if he'd wanted to. She never would have fit into them. He couldn't have said anything to explain his way out of that.

  She'd thought about confronting him at the time, but they weren't even on speaking terms then. So she had stuck them in a plastic bag and hid them in a hiding spot of her own in the laundry room—a place he would never accidentally find anything.