The Sins Duet

by Abbi Cook

  Various amusing ideas dance through my mind as I think about what might be interesting in the suburban Anchoff house. I assume his wife is naïve, to say the least, so perhaps I’m expecting too much to think that while her husband is away that she does anything other than housework or lying in bed as she’s been ordered to. But who knows? He’s clearly stepping out on her. Maybe she’s doing the same.

  “Who are these people, boss?” Samson asks, my instructions piquing his curiosity more than his usual.

  “Just a job. I need to know what I’m walking into. That’s all.”

  “That address is in a pretty upscale neighborhood,” he comments with more than a little admiration tinging his voice.

  “Then be sure to keep an eye out for the Neighborhood Watch and don’t get nabbed by some nosy suburban hausfrau busybody.”

  I chuckle at the idea of Samson with his enormous hulking figure being interrogated by some woman in her robe wagging her finger at him while he sits in his car staring up at her on the sidewalk and she asks what he’s doing on her street for the second day in a row. He didn’t get that nickname for nothing.

  “No worries. Nobody will see me, so we’re all good there. You know me, Alexei. This isn’t my first time doing this, after all.”

  As I open up my laptop to look at the picture of Natalie Anchoff, I smile. “I know. That’s why you’re the one I have helping me with this. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I set my phone on my desk and return my focus to the woman I’m being paid to kill. “So he wants you dead because you can’t be his baby production factory. Beautiful, young, and obedient isn’t enough anymore, I guess. How did you get saddled with this piece of shit man, Mrs. Anchoff?”

  For more than a few moments, I get lost in her blue eyes so full of sweetness and dare I say innocence. At least fifteen years younger than her husband and no less than a few levels above him, I can’t help but be curious about this woman.

  It’s not his callousness that surprises me. I’ve spent my life around people who would kill a person sooner than hearing their side of an argument, so his wanting her dead, no matter how archaic his reasons may be, doesn’t shock me.

  What intrigues me is how someone so beautiful could be stuck in the middle of such an ugly matter. I wonder if she’s found some refuge from her dying marriage already. Nobody would blame her. Her husband’s hired someone to kill her. Something tells me he’s not spending his time trying to make her happy.

  “How long has your marriage been on the rocks, Natalie?” I whisper to the image on my laptop. “Do you even realize it’s not good?”

  Those blue eyes stare back at me, and I try to imagine why anyone like her would ever agree to be the wife of someone like Adam Anchoff. Was it all because of religion? Was she ever given a choice, or did her family decide to simply hand her over like chattel to such a shit of a man? How much was a young and beautiful woman worth to them?

  As much as it’s worth for her husband to be rid of her?

  Leaning back in my chair, I thread my fingers behind my head and take a deep breath in as I keep my focus on Natalie Anchoff. Then a thought comes to me. Is it possible she’s only been with one man in her whole life?

  My father used to love to extol the virtues of a Church of Genesis wife in his attempt to convince me to take one of them for myself. Virginal and obedient, they supposedly made the perfect kind of woman for a man like me, according to him.

  I roll my eyes at that ridiculous thought as I remember all the arguments over that very topic. The idea of having some simpleminded creature as my wife never appealed to me as much as it did to my father.

  But then again, maybe if she looked like Natalie Anchoff, I could have been persuaded to consider it. The possibility that such a beautiful woman is practically pure and untouched makes my cock harden. Sliding my palm over the front of my pants, I let a moan escape from my throat as I close my eyes and imagine her beneath me.

  Perhaps the benefits of this job won’t be all monetary.

  Chapter Seven

  Natalie

  After a week of forced convalescence from a minor bout of fainting that became ridiculous after the second day, I finally convince Adam to acknowledge that there is no good reason I should have to be confined to bed for another day. The doctor gave me permission to return my daily life by the third day, yet my husband seemed to believe he didn't see the gravity of the situation clearly. He's always been the protective kind, but this seems like overkill.

  "I want you to call me if you feel anything might be wrong," he says in that concerned voice of his as he hovers over me at the breakfast table.

  "You worry too much. I'll be fine."

  Adam's frown deepens as his eyebrows draw inward toward his nose like two stressed out dark slashes punctuating the worry on his face. "I worry like a good husband should, Natalie. Now promise me you'll call me if you feel sick at any point."

  I smile up at him, hoping to ease his fear so he won't look so unhappy. Cradling his face, I pull him to me and kiss him sweetly. "I promise. I'll see you when you come home from work. Don't worry."

  After a few moments of hesitation, he nods his head and sighs. "Have a good day. Love you."

  "Love you too."

  He walks away out of the kitchen, and I hear him grab his briefcase as his shoes tap across the slate tile near the front door. Seconds later, it closes and I turn to watch his car move down the driveway and out to the road before it disappears from sight.

  As much as I know I should appreciate my husband's concern for my well-being, I can't help but feel liberated after a week of being practically held prisoner in my bedroom. Even though he only stayed home for the first day after my fainting episode at the country club, he insisted I stay in bed for the rest of the week. Never sure if he’d suddenly come home without calling, I lay in bed reading my book each day but never enjoying it because I felt nothing but trapped in my own home.

  It became oppressive by the second day. By the fifth day, I felt like I was being punished for something I'd done. And by last night, the thought of another day confined to my room made me despondent enough to beg him to see how unnecessary it was.

  All of this for a woman who likely wouldn't leave the house for the next eight hours.

  What lies in front of me in those hours is cleaning up after breakfast and calling Claire to check on her, so once I wash the dishes in the sink, I settle in on the couch in the living room for a long talk with my sister. I've only spoken with her briefly over the past week because I didn't want to compound her sadness with needless worry about me.

  She's always been that way. A worrier, just like Adam. The difference between them is in how they show their worry. My husband turns outward, making decisions for whomever he worries about because he cares about them. Claire, on the other hand, turns inward, taking worry to places that frighten me sometimes.

  Closing my eyes, I think about that one time when she…when she stayed up…

  I struggle to conjure the memory of her I know I'd just been thinking about right after Adam left for work. Claire was maybe five years old at the time and she…oh my God! What is wrong with me? That memory is one of hundreds, possibly thousands, I have about Claire that I know as well as I know myself, and now as I sit alone in my living room with not a single distraction or reason to make me forget it, I can't remember what happened.

  Maybe Adam is right. Maybe it's a good thing I rested for a week after my fainting episode, as he calls it.

  I look at my cell phone's screen and press number two for Claire. It begins ringing, so quickly I bring the phone to my ear and hear her voice.

  "Hello?"

  "Claire, it's Natalie. How are you?" I ask at the same time I wonder about that for myself.

  "I'm okay," she answers with no attempt to hide how that's a lie.

  "You know what I was just thinking about this morning at breakfast? Do you remember that time when you were around five and got so worried about me?"r />
  I silently pray she knows what I'm referring to because if she asks any questions I won't know how to answer.

  "You mean the night when you snuck out of the house to go watch something with the moon and one of the planets and Mom was beside herself? That time?" Claire says, making the memory rush back into my brain like a river breaking through a dam.

  "Yes! That's the one!" I exclaim with the purest happiness I've felt in a long time as relief washes over me. How could I have forgotten that?

  "You sound just like you did that night Mom and I found you perched on that hill at the back of the property doing your stargazing. Do you remember how angry she was? I'd never seen her so furious with you. She didn't believe in hitting us, but I thought she might break that cardinal rule, as she called it, and smack your little behind until it was red raw that night. Why are you asking me about that?"

  "Oh, I don't know. It just popped into my head this morning as I was having my coffee. I probably saw something on TV that reminded me of it last night before I drifted off to sleep."

  "All I remember about that night is that I was worried sick about you," Claire says, instantly making me feel bad for bringing up that memory.

  "I know, and I'm sorry. I never meant to make you worry. I just wanted to see Venus and the moon sitting so close in the sky."

  As the words flow out of my mouth, I'm amazed at how easily I remember that night now. It was a warm and muggy May evening, clear for as far as the eye could see. In school the day before, I'd heard about where Venus would be positioned in the sky and how near to the moon it would be, so I secretly made plans to see it for myself that Saturday night. I knew my mother would never let me outside at night alone and she'd never agree to sit on a hill with me staring up into the night sky, so I decided to sneak out of the house on my own.

  Claire heard me walking past her room, even though I was barefoot and sure I wouldn't make a noise, and opened her door just as I reached the stairs. I told her the truth of where I was going and made her promise to not tell on me. She crossed her heart and hoped to die instead of tattling, and I promised her I'd tell her all about what I saw when I got back.

  As silently as possible, I crept down the stairs, tiptoeing in my bare feet all the way to the back door in the kitchen. My mother sat in the living room oblivious to my plans, and once I made it out into the yard, I ran as fast as I could to the hill at the back of the property where I knew I could see Venus and the moon up in the sky.

  Barely ten minutes later, my mother with Claire in tow stormed up that tiny hill and barked at me so loudly I sat there stunned and unable to focus on anything but her face as she yelled at me for sneaking out and how I could have gotten hurt out there all alone. As my sister hid her face in my mother's side, my mother held my hand tightly and dragged me back to the house, all the while screaming at me until she grew too hoarse to say another word.

  I sit listening to Claire quietly apologize for tattling on me that night and can't imagine how I could have forgotten even a second of that memory. Now as I think about it, it's as vivid as if it happened just a few moments before.

  The heavy night air making my skin moist from the humidity.

  The smell of honeysuckle bushes nearby that filled the area around that hill with the sweetest scent.

  Crickets chirping in unison all around me, soft at first but louder as each minute passed that I invaded their home.

  The clear, cloudless black sky filled with a million stars that made me want to crane my neck and stare upward as I wondered what lived on them and were they looking at their sky wondering about our planet.

  "Natalie, did you hear me?"

  My sister's question shakes me from my memory of that night. I quickly try to catch up, but I have no idea what she was talking about.

  "I'm sorry, Claire. What did you say?"

  "I asked you how you were feeling. Albert told me you fainted the other day at your Preservation Society tea. What happened?"

  Damn her husband! I explicitly told him not to say a word about my little fainting episode to her, and what had he done? The exact opposite. Sometimes I wonder about that man.

  "Oh, it was nothing," I say in my cheeriest voice. "I must have had too much caffeine that day and not enough food. You know how it is."

  What my sister knows is that's a lie. Anyone who's met me and spent more than five minutes around me knows that I only have a single cup of coffee every morning and the rest of the day I drink water. Claire knows this more than most people because she's the same exact way, except she drinks tea for breakfast instead of coffee. Our mother's preaching about the wonderful benefits of water has stayed with us into adulthood, just as it has with Tess and Lauren.

  So Claire has no idea how it is. In the silence before she speaks again, I wonder if she'll call me on my lie or let it go. I bet she'll let it go. Kind people like her don't call out others when they lie.

  And true to form, she doesn't question me further and changes the subject. "Did the police ever find your purse from that horrible mugging?"

  I breathe a sigh of relief that I don't have to explain my lie. "No, and Adam doesn't think they ever will. It's been three months, so he doesn't think they're even bothering to look anymore. I contacted all the credit card companies and the bank, so at least there was no problem with the financial part of it."

  Sadness fills my sister’s voice when she says, "Three months already? They say time flies when you're having fun. I guess it flies when you're not too."

  I hate hearing her sound so down. My chest feels like someone has it in a vice when she says things like that.

  Knowing it might help her, even if it would upset Adam that I left the house, I ask, "What if we went out together today? We could go for lunch at that cute little place near me. Or I could come into D.C. and we could go anywhere you want there. What do you say?"

  The momentary silence tells me her answer before she says a word. She isn't ready yet.

  "I don't know, Natalie. Maybe next week."

  I seize on the faintest hint of hopefulness in her voice when she suggests next week. "Okay. Next week it is. I'm going to hold you to it."

  "Okay. I better go. I'm glad you're feeling better. Tell Adam we say hello."

  "I love you, Claire. I hope you know that. I'd be lost without you."

  I hadn't planned on confessing that to her now, but her sadness makes me worry that she might do something drastic. The mere thought of losing Claire makes me weak and my chest ache.

  "I'd be lost without you too, Natalie. Don't worry. I'm not going to kill myself. I'm just having a hard time dealing with the fact that Lauren’s never called or anything. But I don't want anyone to feel the way I do, so I won't go anywhere. I promise."

  Somewhere in that answer, a strength I'm not sure my sister even realizes she possesses creeps in. If only it could overcome the sadness she feels at Lauren's leaving.

  "I'll see you next week, okay? And if you need to talk or just want to spend some time with me, don't hesitate to call. I'm just a few miles up the road from you. I can be there in a heartbeat."

  "Thanks. Next week."

  The phone goes dead, and I place it on the couch cushion next to me. Next week will be better.

  I watch Adam from across the room as he gets ready for bed like he does every night. Always meticulous with his appearance, he has lately become obsessed with male pattern baldness. His hair is thinner than when I met him, but he's in no danger of balding any time soon.

  His thick, brown hair was one of the first things I noticed about him. Straight with just a hint of curl at the ends when he lets it grow too long and it touches his shirt collar, it caught my attention almost as much as his brown eyes. Actually more hazel than brown because of the green mixed in, they unnerved me that first night I met him.

  As I think back to that time, the memory begins to grow hazy. I frantically try to remember that first night, but with every passing second, it becomes harder and harder to p
iece together our first meeting.

  What is happening to me? First I couldn't remember that night in the backyard when I was a child, and now one of the most important moments of my life has faded away in a matter of seconds.

  Frightened, I wonder if the fainting spells are signs that I have some sickness. I think I read somewhere that brain tumors can cause memory lapses. What else have I forgotten that I simply don't know about?

  In my head, I begin reciting all I know about myself. My name is Natalie Tarrigan Anchoff. My birthday is October third. I'm twenty-six years old. My sisters are named Claire, Tess, and Lauren. My mother's name is Elizabeth. I lived all my life until I got married in a house at 744 Mockingbird Lane just outside Ellicott City, Maryland. My husband's name is Adam Anchoff. He's forty-one years old. He owns a real estate investment company. We live at 5498 Garrison Lane in Avalon, Maryland.

  I repeat those facts over and over in my mind as if I might forget them at any second and not know anything about who I am. I need to remember those details of my life.

  Adam slides into bed next to me and turns off the light on the nightstand on his side of the bed. "Are you going to read tonight? Because if you're not, turn off your light. I'm exhausted and want to get to sleep."

  The last thing on my mind is reading that book I so much wanted to get started on yesterday. Rolling over, I do as he asks and a second later, we’re lying in complete darkness courtesy of the burgundy room darkening draperies hanging on the windows.

  Once more, I repeat the facts I know about myself, adding a new one. I hate the pitch black darkness of this room. It has frightened me since the day the decorators hung those drapes Adam had insisted on, despite the designer's attempts to persuade him to see how lighter curtains would allow light to bathe the room (her words exactly). My husband simply shook his head and frowned before flatly telling her, "I don't want to see a hint of light in my bedroom. Understand?"

  The realization that I remember that detail of the past buoys my spirits, and for a few moments as I lie there in the blackness, I feel a little better. Maybe I'm not losing my mind.