by Mia Ford
Michael hadn’t spoken to me that morning before he’d left. When I’d called at lunch, his receptionist, Jeanne, told me that he had a bunch of evening meetings off-site. Normally, the news would have upset me. But today it just made me nervous – I wanted things to be perfect by the time he got home, and this gave me just the right amount of time that I needed to impress my fiancé once again.
I went to the salon and got my hair done – new highlights – as well as a pink manicure and matching pedi. Before Michael and I had gotten together, I’d had kind of a wild side: I’d liked dyed hair and wild colors on my hands and feet. But Michael liked traditional, quiet girls and I wanted more than anything to show him that I was ready for that kind of life. I knew that to Michael, marriage wasn’t just a piece of paper. We’d already talked and agreed that no matter what, we wouldn’t get a divorce or separate, even for a trial period. Michael wanted a traditional life – he wanted me to stay home all day with our kids, cooking and cleaning and making myself look perfect and presentable.
I wanted him to know that I was serious about committing to our life together. When I got home from the salon, I called Heather. We had our differences when it came to pleasing men, but there was no one like Heather who knew how to make a man happy…if only temporarily.
“I’ll be right over,” Heather promised on the phone. “This is gonna be fun!”
“I know,” I said. “We haven’t had a girls’ night in forever.”
“When is Michael getting home?”
I sighed. “Late,” I said. “I mean, later than usual. Maybe eight or nine. I want to have dinner warm in the oven by the time he gets here.”
When Heather and I hung up, I went into the living room and vacuumed again until the lines in the carpet were as clean as razor cuts. I was satisfied with my work. Growing up, I’d always been kind of a messy person. But I knew that as an adult, I’d have to be neat as a pin in order to make my future husband happy.
Heather knocked on the door and I let her in with a squeal. We hugged and danced around until I pulled her in the kitchen and shoved my arsenal of cookbooks under her nose.
“What should I make?” I flipped through an elaborate dessert cookbook that featured tiny little custard dishes and petit fours. “Michael doesn’t like any of this fussy stuff – at least, that’s what he says. But he always eats the dessert I make.”
Heather frowned. “What’s his favorite?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said. “Like I said, he won’t tell me.”
“What about cheesecake? Men love cheesecake,” Heather opined. “I made one for Jay and he ate like, half of the thing in one sitting.”
“Holy shit,” I said. “That’s a great idea.”
“It’s easy, too,” Heather said. She walked across the kitchen floor and pulled open the fridge. “You’ve got everything,” she added. “Even the lemon zest!”
Twenty minutes later, I carefully slid the warm cheesecake into the oven. I beamed, proud of my work.
“This was a great idea,” I gushed to Heather. “Thanks again.”
Heather smirked, obviously smug. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I hope that’s not what you’re planning on wearing when he comes home?”
I glanced down and then burst into laughter. I was still wearing the stained jeans and sweatshirt that I’d thrown on in the morning as soon as I’d woken up.
“God, no,” I said. “Come upstairs and help me pick an outfit?”
Heather nodded. She looked relieved – I could tell that picking out clothes was much more fun for her than helping me with cooking. I already had Michael’s other favorite dishes (cabernet pot roast and garlic mashed potatoes) cooking in slow cookers, and the kitchen smelled heavenly. I figured that the cheesecake would be a perfect way to top off the little “I’m sorry” meal when he got home.
“I feel so bad about our fight last night,” I complained as I shrugged off my old clothes and slipped into the dress Heather was holding up. “Wow, this is tight,” I added, sucking in my breath and turning around. “Zip me up?”
Heather laughed. “God, I haven’t seen you wear this dress in years,” she said. She glanced at me with wide eyes. “You look great, Beth.”
I blushed. “Thanks,” I told her. I knew Heather would always be honest with me about things like clothes.
“And don’t worry about your fight,” Heather said. “You guys are engaged – I read somewhere that being engaged is the most stressful part of a relationship. Well, besides the first year of marriage. And besides the first year you have your second kid.”
I rolled my eyes. “God, way to make me look forward to the future,” I said sarcastically. “I can’t wait for that.”
Heather flopped on the bed, her hair spreading out like a fan. “I’m kind of jealous,” Heather admitted. “I mean, not because I want to get married. But you just have things figured out,” she added. “I mean, you know everything you want in life. You know that you want three kids, and a house in the suburbs. And you know Michael will be able to give you all of that – hell, he probably has the money now, you know?”
I sighed. “I do know,” I said softly. “But sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really going to make me happy.”
“Of course it will,” Heather said. “You and Michael are on the same page!” I rolled my eyes and Heather laughed. “Don’t do that,” she said. “I know you think your relationship doesn’t have any passion, but trust me – things are better this way. It’s better for you if everything is so even and calm all the time.”
I frowned. “Things weren’t exactly calm last night,” I said.
“Well, he came home drunk,” Heather replied. “You told me that’s really unusual.”
I nodded. “Michael barely drinks.” Just as I was about to start talking about how hurt I’d felt, the doorbell rang.
“Expecting someone?” Heather frowned.
My heart skipped a beat. “No,” I said slowly. “Only Michael. And he won’t be home for hours.” I checked my watch. “It’s only six-thirty.”
“You guys,” Heather said with a grin. “I bet he’s doing the same thing you’re doing! I bet he feels bad about the fight, and he sent you flowers!”
“God, really?” I blushed. “Michael’s never done anything like that!”
The doorbell rang again, followed by a heavy pounding on the door.
“I bet the flower guy just really wants to get home,” I said. I couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across my face. I couldn’t believe that Michael had finally done something sweet and romantic – just like I’d been asking for.
“Go get the door!” Heather playfully swatted the air in my direction. “And don’t freak out if the flower guy’s eyes fall out of his head. The way your tits look in that dress is incredible!”
“Oh, stop,” I said as I waved my hand through the air. “It’s nothing.” As I jogged downstairs and towards the front door, the excitement blossomed in my chest like a flower.
Yanking open the door, I smiled. “Hi!” I chirped.
My smile vanished as soon as I realized there was no flower guy on the other side.
Two cops were standing there. They were clutching their patrol hats to their chests, and they both looked crestfallen.
“Are you Beth Wilson?”
I nodded slowly.
“Ms. Wilson, I’m afraid I have some bad news about your fiancé, Michael Bennett,” one of the cops said. “May I come inside?”
That was the last thing I heard before I fainted.
6
Beth
“Ms. Wilson?”
My head was spinning as I opened my eyes and blinked. Everything came rushing back all at once – the surprise at the door, the smell of dinner cooking in the oven…and Michael.
“Oh my god,” I said.
One of the cops reached down and gently put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Ma’am, we’re g
oing to need you to come down to the station with us.”
I blinked. Panic set in and that’s when the tears started welling up.
“What? Why?” My voice was scratchy and angry, like a caged animal. “What do I have to do with this?”
The cop sighed. “I understand how you must be feeling,” he said. “But we have every reason to believe your fiancé was killed in a suspicious activity.”
“What?” I shrieked. “What the hell does that even mean?”
The two cops exchanged a nervous glance. “We’re not sure yet,” the other replied. He swallowed nervously. “But we’ll need to speak with you, along with the other members of Mr. Bennett’s family.”
Hot tears spilled down my face and I buried my cheeks in my hands, not wanting them to see. In just a few seconds, my chest was heaving with sobs and I could barely breathe. It didn’t seem real – Michael, dead? How could that even be possible? Just this morning, he’d left and promised that he’d be home late.
Our fight from the night before came thundering back into my mind like a runaway freight train. The guilt was immediate and all-consuming. I wanted to die, I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear. This is my fault, I thought. If I’d just agreed to have sex with him, this never would have happened. He wouldn’t have done something stupid and gotten himself killed.
“Ma’am?” The cop leaned down. “Can you come with us, please?”
Numbly, I sat up and looked around. Heather was nowhere in sight – it took me a moment to realize that not much time had passed at all. I can’t believe this, I thought as I glanced around the living room in a blind panic. This isn’t happening.
“This isn’t happening,” I mumbled, crawling to my hands and knees and standing up. My skimpy dress was falling down but I didn’t even care. One of the cops blushed, then reached into the closet and pulled out a jacket – it was one of Michael’s workout hoodies. I cried out as he draped the soft fabric around my shoulders. Immediately, Michael’s scent flooded over me and I fought the urge to scream and push past the cops and run outside and never come back.
My fiancé, Michael, was dead. And I knew in my heart that I’d never be the same ever again.
The cops sat me down on the couch. One of them made a strong cup of coffee while the other went upstairs and told Heather what had happened. She ran down and wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close on the couch and burying my face in her neck. It was comforting, but part of me wanted to pull away and laugh. This was absurd – Michael wasn’t dead! There had to be some kind of mistake! He was too careful, too cautious – he’d never have put himself in a dangerous situation like this.
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered to Heather. “This isn’t real. Michael isn’t dead.”
Heather’s pretty face broke. “Oh, Beth,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close. “I promise, I’ll be there for you,” she said. “Do you want me to come downtown to the station?”
I shook my head. I felt numb, almost like my blood had been replaced with something sterile and chemical.
“No,” I said softly. “This…this isn’t happening. Michael can’t be dead! He can’t be!”
The two cops exchanged a glance. “Ma’am, we’re sorry, but we need to be moving on,” one of them said slowly. “Are you able to come downtown with us?”
I swallowed and nodded slowly.
Heather helped me off the couch and out of the house. She turned off the oven and I started crying again as I thought about the half-baked cheesecake that would be ruined by the time I got home. I’m so sorry, Michael, I thought as I climbed into the backseat of the cop car. I tried. I really did. I loved you as best I could.
Riding in a cop car made the whole situation seem even more surreal. The station was a whirling buzz of activity – detained people on benches, in handcuffs. Cops bustled back and forth, carrying manila folders stuffed with papers and greasy paper bags of fast food burgers and fries. They all ignored me – I was just a girl with red eyes in a party dress with a baggy, stained hoodie draped over my shoulders. I might have been in for drunk driving, or disorderly conduct. It didn’t matter that I was grieving – my fiancé was dead. Heather sat next to me the whole time, squeezing my hand and glaring at anyone who dared to glance at us for more than a few seconds at a time. She was a good friend, but I was barely able to stay focused. It felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath my life, and now I had no idea what I was supposed to do.
Nothing mattered anymore.
A man in a suit with messy, unkempt hair walked up to us. He was holding a clipboard. When he got closer, he looked at me over the rims of his vintage glasses.
“Ms. Wilson?”
I nodded numbly.
“Please come with me,” he said curtly.
I glanced at Heather, suddenly afraid to leave her. “What about my friend?”
The man glanced at Heather with disdain. “She can come and wait outside the room,” he said.
“She can’t come in with me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What the hell,” Heather demanded. “Can’t you tell that Beth is upset? Her fiancé is dead,” she said loudly. “She needs me!”
“It’s okay,” I said quietly. Heather’s words had attracted the attention of everyone around us. “I’ll be okay.”
The man nodded. “I’ll take good care of her,” he said. This time, his voice was tinged with empathy. “She’ll be okay.”
Heather gave me a final squeeze and I followed the man down a dark corridor lit with fluorescent lighting. He guided me into a small room with a table and two chairs. The sight of an iron ring welded to the top of the table struck me with fear. Oh, god, I thought. This is like, where they handcuff people.
I shivered.
“There’s no need to be frightened,” the man said, as if reading my mind. “Everything is going to be fine, trust me.”
I nodded.
“I’m Detective Aberson,” he said. He smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “You can call me Al,” he said. “If you want.”
I nodded. “I’m Beth,” I said softly. “Well, Elisabeth, actually. Elisabeth Wilson.”
“Beth is fine,” Al said. “So, Beth, can you tell me a little about your fiancé?”
I shuddered and convulsed with sobs. Tears ran down my cheeks and I cried, feeling helpless and embarrassed. After a few seconds, Al handed me a plastic disposable pack of tissues from his pocket. They were crumpled and smelled like stale tobacco, but I was grateful. I blew my nose and wiped my sticky cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I just…I can’t believe it.”
“I’m very sorry,” Al said gently. “And I’m sorry that you have to be here.”
My stomach twisted and flipped. “The…the cops said there was reason to think Michael’s death wasn’t an accident,” I said slowly. “Why?”
Al sighed. “I don’t have very much information yet,” he said. “Can you tell me about your relationship with Mr. Bennett?”
I sank down in my chair. “You mean, you don’t know who did it?”
“We have some ideas,” Al said gently. “But please – your relationship?”
I nodded. The numb feeling was spreading back through my limbs. I was already exhausted from vacillating between upset and numb…it was strangely tiring. I closed my eyes and thought of how satisfying it would feel to drop in bed and sleep for days.
“We’d been together for four years,” I said slowly. “We got together when I was twenty-two. Michael had just turned twenty-eight.”
“Can you tell me about that?”
I frowned, narrowing my eyes. “Why does it matter how we met?”
Al glanced at me with sharp eyes. “I just want to hear it from you,” he said smoothly.
A wedge of fear pierced my heart and I shivered. “Do you…do you think I have something to do with his death?” My voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “Do you think
I was involved in killing my fiancé?”
Al shook his head. “No,” he said calmly. “But we want all the information possible on Mr. Bennett.”
I shifted, feeling scared. There was no way I’d had anything to do with killing him – wasn’t that obvious?
“We met at a graduate school open house,” I said slowly. “He was there with another girl, and he gave me his card and I gave him my number. He kept calling me, but I never called him back until he told me that he’d dumped his girlfriend.” I blushed. Recalling and talking about the memory felt like walking barefoot over a pile of broken glass and fire ants.
“I see,” Al said. He scribbled an untidy column of handwriting. “And when did he ask you to marry him?”
“Well, I guess we talked about marriage from the beginning,” I said slowly. “But he asked me about a year ago, close to our three year anniversary.” I blushed. “I don’t actually know the date of our anniversary,” I confessed. “I mean, I didn’t know what to count it – the day we met, or the day we went out for the first time? Or the day he asked me to be his girlfriend?” I shrugged. A hollow feeling was spreading through my chest and limbs. “I don’t really know,” I said again. “I know that sounds bad.”
“It doesn’t sound bad,” Al said, but he didn’t look up. “What was Michael like at home?”
I sighed. “He was kind of a perfectionist,” I said. “He was very traditional – he wanted things done his way, or not at all. He didn’t really seem much like a modern guy, to be honest. I mean, he was kind of like a guy from the fifties.”
“How do you mean?” Al tapped his notebook with the tip of his pen.
I shrugged. “Like, he wanted me to quit working as soon as we got married – he said it was embarrassing because he made so much money. But we didn’t really live like he made all that money – we were still in the same condo he bought before he met me.”