The Sins Duet

by Abbi Cook

  But then when I try to recall how I met the man I'm lying next to in the bed we share, I draw a complete blank, as if my mind is a void.

  Quietly, just in case he's fallen asleep already, I whisper into the darkness, "Adam, will you tell me about when we met?"

  His breathing changes, and a sound like a disgusted huff comes from his side of the bed. "Tell you about when we met? What do you mean?"

  I don't hear much encouragement in his tone, but I need him to do what Claire did earlier today. If he can start the story, I’m sure my mind will immediately fill in the blanks and I'll know that memory isn't lost.

  Knowing what I need to do, I roll over and rest my head on his shoulder as I press my body against his side. "I want to hear you tell me what it was like for you when we first met. That's all."

  The softness in my voice verges on begging. All he has to do is start the story so I can pick up the thread and remember it for myself.

  He doesn't move for so long that I begin to accept he won't help me remember what is one of the most important parts of my life, but then after what feels like an eternity, he slides his arm around me and squeezes me to him. His body is warm and welcoming, as always.

  "What was it like for me when we first met? I'll have to think about that for a minute. It feels like a million years ago. Why do you want to hear about this tonight?" he asks in a low voice barely above a whisper.

  "I just want to hear about how we fell in love."

  Adam inhales, and I feel his warm breath drift over the top of my head as he lets it out slowly. "Well, the first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen. You smiled at me when I walked into the room, and it was like someone turned a light on for the first time. I knew from that moment that we'd be together."

  As he speaks, I wait for my mind to begin filling in the pieces in his story, but nothing happens. Each word lands without effect in my brain, and no other details rush to join in and complete the picture.

  "Do you remember what I was wearing?" I ask, desperate for some detail that will bring that moment back to me.

  A color. A smell. A sound or a single word. Anything.

  "Hmmm…let me think. Yes, I do. You were wearing a long white dress with those thin straps some dresses have. I think it might have been silk or satin. I can never remember the difference between those two. But it was smooth to the touch."

  I rack my brain to reconstruct the memory of that white dress. In my mind, I run through every dress I've ever worn. The yellow dress with large white and orange flowers I wore to the first day of kindergarten because my mother bought it especially for that day. The pale blue dress with tiny white ribbons near the collar I wore in the first picture taken with Claire at the photographers. Her light pink dress she wore that day. The black dress with lace I wore to last year’s holiday party at the country club. And every other dress I can think of that has meant anything to me.

  But nowhere in all those colors and designs exists a white satin gown with thin straps I wore the night I met the man I would marry. Could he be mistaken? Men often don't pay attention to clothes anywhere as much as women.

  "A white dress," I say in a faraway voice. "I rarely wear white because I'm so pale," I continue, hoping he will correct his first claim about the dress being white and say something that will jog my memory about anything concerning that first meeting.

  But he doesn't.

  "Well, it was white and you stood out among all those people there at your mother's party that night."

  As that tiny sliver of hope disappears, Adam runs his hand down from my shoulder over my arm. "And as for your skin, I like pale skin. Lying out in the sun makes skin look like leather. I prefer soft skin like yours."

  His compliment means nothing as I struggle to find any shred of something that will bring back the memory of that night. He mentioned other people were there. Maybe details about them will help.

  "Do you think the others knew you and I were going to be married after meeting that night?"

  Before he answers, he inhales sharply, and I wonder if I've said something wrong. I wait for him to speak, but he simply chuckles low and deep above me.

  "Unless they were mind-readers, I'm not sure how they'd know. If you're asking if I was bashful in showing how interesting I found you, the answer is no, as you well know. I made it clear from the moment I decided I wanted you that I intended on pursuing you. I'd decided. Now all I had to do was convince you. I think I did a pretty good job of that, if I do say so myself."

  Desperate for some detail that would help me since nothing he's said yet has, I ask, "Did you think I liked you from that very first meeting?"

  He hesitates for a moment and kisses the top of my head. "I think so. You smiled a lot as we talked, and you didn't say no when I asked you to take a walk with me outside."

  I seize on his comment about taking a walk. "Well, I always prefer the outside to the inside, especially at parties. If it's a summer party, that's even better."

  My words sound bizarre, I know, but I hope he doesn't think so. I just need to keep him talking about that first meeting until something in my mind is jarred loose and I can remember every detail about how we met.

  "Well, it may not have been a summer get-together, but it was a beautiful spring night and we took a walk while we talked about all sorts of things. You were sweet and charming—everything a man could ask for in a wife. I fell in love by the time we returned to the house."

  Not a single part of that description of what was one of the most important moments in my life resonates with me. Not the beautiful spring night, not the walk, nothing. It's as if I'm hearing a story about how another couple met, like they are complete strangers to me.

  As my mind reels from this, Adam rolls me onto my back and kisses me with a passion I haven't felt in months since the attack. In all that time, he's treated me like some fragile porcelain doll who might shatter if he touches me. I've wanted nothing else for so long than to be with him, but he's kept me at arm's length, denying me any closeness other than taking care of me like I'm an invalid.

  His lips press against mine eagerly, his tongue thrusting into my mouth to flick playfully against my tongue, as his hand roams up my leg and over my stomach until he cups my breast. Thrusting his hips forward, he moans against my cheek and I feel his erection. For so long, I've wanted this—the reassurance that he still feels for me what I feel for him—but now as he slides out of his pajama bottoms and tugs my panties down my legs, I can't think of making love to him.

  All I can think of is how foreign the story he told of that first night we met sounded to me. As if it never happened.

  But it had to and it had to happen just as he said, because if it didn't, what does that mean? Why would he tell me a story that wasn't true?

  When he finishes, my husband kisses me sweetly on the lips and whispers, "That was nice."

  It sounds real, and I believe him. What I don't know is why I can't remember meeting him and falling in love with him.

  How is it I can't remember the most important event of my life?

  Chapter Eight

  Alexei

  For days, Samson’s reports have been filled with nothingness. Natalie Anchoff never leaves the house. She doesn’t even open the front door to check for the mail. Nobody visits the house. Her husband leaves around eight in the morning and returns just after five each day, never coming home between those hours. More than once, Samson’s complained about the utter boredom of their lives, but I don’t care about how much he wishes Natalie and Adam Anchoff were more exciting people.

  He may not think his reports provide me with anything valuable, but he’s wrong. In nothingness, I see much useful.

  My phone rings as I finish knotting my tie a little too tightly for my comfort. I loosen it and stretch my neck to get some freedom before looking down to see my spy calling me. With one last glance at myself in my bathroom mirror, I grab the phone and head into my bedroom to fin
ish dressing for the day ahead.

  “I’m assuming if you’re calling that something’s changed,” I say before grabbing my suit coat off the back of the brown wingback chair near the bed.

  “She’s leaving the house right now. The garage door just closed and she’s backing out of the driveway. You want me to follow her?”

  “Yes. If she stops, let me know where and then let the air out of one of her tires. I’m leaving now and following your signal, so I shouldn’t be too far behind,” I say as I head out into the hallway.

  Samson chuckles at my low-tech plan to get to her. “She doesn’t look like the type of person who would even know she has a flat tire, boss. You know women. They’ll drive a hundred miles on a rim and not know there’s a problem.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “What if she doesn’t stop?”

  I take a moment to think about that and grab my keys off the dining room table. “Then we may have to force her to stop somewhere. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, follow her. I’m guessing she’ll stop someplace along the way.”

  Since I have no knowledge about Natalie Anchoff’s behaviors, other than what her husband has said about her and what my man has observed, I can’t be sure she’ll stop to get a coffee or something to eat on the way to her destination. I’d rather that happen than forcing her to pull over, but either will work for my plans.

  “Okay. She’s heading west. I’m thinking she’s going to jump on Route 144. Her mother lives that way, if I’m remembering correctly,” Samson says, reminding me of his very thorough research about Natalie and Adam Anchoff.

  “Show off,” I joke as I get into the driver’s seat of my BMW and start the engine. “You know damn well you’re remembering correctly. Stop fishing for compliments on your work.”

  He doesn’t respond but laughs out loud at my chiding that’s meant to be more teasing than serious. His ability to get the job done and still take the kind of ball busting that others can’t are two of the main reasons I keep him around. That he’s the size of a giant and would lay down his life for me are the other reasons.

  “Or maybe she’ll head to the highway and take Seventy. She’s barely hit over thirty miles an hour so far, so I’m keeping my bet on 144.”

  As I back out onto my circular driveway and watch my garage door slowly close, I hope he’s right. Not that it’s impossible to get someone to stop on an interstate, but a two-lane road like 144 will be a hell of a lot easier.

  “Call me if she stops. I’m following behind you a few miles.”

  I end the call and lean back in the leather driver’s seat to enjoy this morning’s drive. Assuming Natalie is going to see her mother, perhaps she has good news to tell her, like she’s pregnant? My mind wanders while I accelerate to catch up with her and Samson, and the idea that her husband would call off our job bounces around my head for a few moments before I dismiss it.

  Nope. Whether she’s able to give him that coveted child or not, he’s done with her. No man willing to pay for his wife’s murder is coming off that decision.

  Glancing up at the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of my eyes. Not that I don’t know what they look like, but for a second they startle me with their hardness. My mother used to warn me about becoming too much like my father. She used to say he had soft eyes when she first met him, but by the time he tried to get rid of her the first time, everything inside him had hardened over and it showed in his eyes.

  The first time. He didn’t succeed that time or the two times after that. I’ve always felt a sense of pride that I came from such a strong woman. She never let herself get sucked into that religious cult nonsense either. Like me, she thought the Church of Genesis was nothing but a scam to separate suckers from their money and belongings. More than once, even after he tried to kill her, she attempted to make my father see the truth about that group of people.

  And like when I tried, it didn’t work.

  Turning onto Route 144, I make a mental note that I should call my mother. Much younger than my father, similar to Natalie and her husband, she’s outlived that bastard to have a very good life, courtesy of his money.

  Now that’s karma.

  My cell rings again, and I see it’s Samson up about a mile ahead of me. “Where did she stop?” I ask, mentally betting a coffee shop. Natalie Anchoff looks like a latte girl.

  “She’s on the side of the road,” he says in a tone of confusion. “Jesus, is this woman one of those people who actually pulls over to make a phone call?”

  Before I can ask for more details about what he’s seeing, he continues. “Boss, I think someone already had your idea before you. It looks like her back tire’s flat. Strange that I didn’t notice it until now.”

  “Okay, I’m coming up on you, so get lost. I’ll take it from here,” I say as I see a silver Mercedes parked on the side of the road with Samson’s car far behind it.

  “You want me to stay nearby?” he asks, sounding oddly worried this time.

  With a chuckle, I answer, “No. I can change a tire all by myself, thanks. Go back and keep an eye on the Anchoff house. I want to know if anything happens while the little missus is out.”

  “You got it. Have fun playing mechanic.”

  Grimacing up toward where his voice is coming out of the speaker, I slowly pull in behind Natalie Anchoff’s car. Just as Samson said, the back passenger side tire is nearly flat. Is her husband too impatient to wait for me to do the job he’s paid two hundred grand for? Flat tires can be dangerous, but they aren’t the most effective way to kill your wife.

  I am.

  As I turn off the car, I look down at the cuff of my white shirt poking out from under my black suit jacket. I’m not exactly dressed to play mechanic, as Samson put it, but no matter. I can buy another dress shirt and even another suit.

  All in the course of business.

  My focus on her driver’s side door, I watch for Natalie to get out so she can check what must have been making a terrible noise. A minute passes and then two, but still she merely sits in the car.

  While she may have called AAA, I plan on using whatever the problem is with her tire to my advantage. Walking up beside her car, I look in to check that she’s alone and see no one in the passenger seat.

  Good.

  My first sight of Natalie Anchoff takes me by surprise. That photo online doesn’t do her justice. In person, she’s far more beautiful, but in a delicate, almost breakable way. She reminds me of a doll with her porcelain white skin that looks too perfect for a grown woman.

  Staring straight ahead, she doesn’t turn to look at me even though I stand there for nearly ten seconds, so I gently tap my keys on the window. My attempt to not frighten her doesn’t work, and she spins her head to look out at me, her blue eyes wide in terror.

  I wait for her to lower the window, but she remains frozen staring up at me. I’ve never seen anyone so scared in my entire life.

  “Your tire’s flat,” I say with a smile, pointing toward the back of her car. “I noticed you pulled over and thought I’d try to help.”

  For a second, she doesn’t move, like the words need time to filter through the glass into her, but then her expression softens, just as I suspected it would. Natalie Anchoff is as naïve as I guessed.

  The window slowly lowers with a mechanical hum until there’s nothing separating us. If I wanted to, I could stick my hand into the car and take her by the throat with little effort. Thankfully for her, that’s not what I’m after today.

  “You have a flat tire. I pulled over thinking you could use some help,” I say in my nicest, Boy Scout voice.

  A car speeds by a little too close for my comfort, so I step forward toward her car just as she begins to speak for the first time. I watch her lovely mouth as she says, “Thank you so much. I don’t know how to change a tire, and I was just sitting here wondering what I should do. I bet that sounds pathetic, but I’ve never changed a tire
.”

  Not pathetic. Perfect for what I’m planning, Natalie.

  I smile, making sure it’s one of my gentle smiles and not the kind that resembles the savage animal that shares my family name. “Don’t worry. I can help. My name is Alexei. Alexei Wolfe,” I say as I extend my hand into her car like I imagined I could a few seconds ago.

  She willingly allows me to invade her space and eagerly shakes my hand to thank me. “I’m Natalie Anchoff. Are you sure it’s okay?” she asks as she scans what she can see of my body. “I’d feel terrible if you ruined your suit.”

  Her hand, like the rest of her, is delicate, and I let my hold on it linger for just a second too long to see her reaction. She doesn’t pull away, but I see a flash of something in her eyes that tells me she knows I kept my hand on hers for longer than I should. It’s something primal all women understand, even if they can’t place why or put it into words. Like I’ve claimed something I shouldn’t and they know it.

  And in Natalie’s eyes, I see the moment I move my hand away that she misses my touch. That flash of excitement that had made the blue so much softer is now replaced by a sudden dullness I imagine is a near constant in them since the day she married that useless husband of hers.

  “It’s my pleasure, Natalie. Just let me take my jacket off and get to work, if you’ll open the trunk for me.”

  I shrug off my suit coat and throw it over my arm before I turn to walk back to begin my helping hand act. As an observer of human nature, I bet she’ll come out and join me. From all I know of her from her husband and our very short time together, she’s too nice and far too naïve. Maybe she’s a fan of true crime shows and realizes the danger of getting out of her car to stand with a stranger, but my guess is she isn’t.

  Even more, she’s curious about me. That happens when a person is kept cloistered away from the world like her idiot husband has done. He thinks he’s kept her safely secluded for his own, but all he’s done is made her wonder about all the things she hears about on those rare occasions that he lets her out.