by Abbi Cook
"Did you talk to him? Did he call you to find out if I was here?"
She shakes her head and answers just as I figure she would. "No. That doesn't mean anything, though. I can tell you I'm sure he misses you and now that you've shown him you will leave, even if it's for only one night, I have a feeling he'll be a very different man today."
Panic races through me at the mere thought of having to be back in that house with him. "I’m not going back to Adam, Mom. Our marriage is over. We’re finished."
"You're going to go home, Natalie. You belong there, not here. You have a responsibility as a wife to be with your husband."
“There’s someone else,” I say in a shaky voice. “I’ll go to him then, but I’m not going home.”
All the blood drains out of my mother’s face. “What are you saying?”
I hadn’t planned on telling my mother about Alexei this way, but her unwillingness to understand my marriage is finished is forcing my hand. So be it. She was going to find out sometime soon anyway.
“There’s another man. I’m not going to go into the details of how he and I met, but I’m not going back to Adam. I deserve to be with someone who cares about me. That’s no longer my husband. If you can’t see that by the bruises on my face, then you’re never going to understand.”
My mother says nothing, but I’m not finished. Furious she's so willing to simply send me back to a husband who even she can see has abused me, I can't stop myself from broaching the conversation about my sister now. "I want to talk about Lauren, Mom. I think I know why she ran away."
Without saying a word, she lifts the newspaper so I can't see her face. From behind it, she says in a flat voice, "I'm not going to talk about that."
"But I think I might know what was going on with her around that time. Did you know she was pregnant? I found the at-home test she took hidden in her room. Did she tell you?"
"Go home, Natalie. Attend to your marriage."
I want to lean across the table and tear that newspaper right out of her hands. How can she sit there so stoically when I just said I knew Lauren had been pregnant? I know she must hurt from her leaving, but to merely act like none of this matters is something I just don't understand.
"Mom, I want to talk about this. Don't you want to know why she left?" I ask, not even trying to hide how desperately I need her to say something about Lauren.
She lowers the newspaper again and shakes her head. "I don't want to talk about this. I don't need to know anything about why she ran away. She did it. End of story. She's in God's hands now. Go home and take care of your marriage, Natalie."
And with that, I know I'll get nothing more from her about Lauren.
The knot in my stomach tightens into a painful ball of pure fear with every mile. As I reach each intersection, the thought that I can turn off this road and drive to Alexei’s fills my mind. I want to do it, but I need to go to that house one last time.
My phone rings, and I grab it out of my purse to see him calling for a seventh time. I quickly answer the call, sure he’s worried sick.
“Little bird, where are you?” he hurriedly asks in a tone that tells me I underestimated how concerned he is about me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get your calls last night, Alexei. I guess I was so tired after all that happened yesterday, so I laid down to take a nap and the next thing I knew it was morning. I just left my mother’s house. I’m driving to my house right now.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he makes a growling noise, like he’s angry. What’s happened?
“Are you upset with me?”
“No. I’m just aggravated with myself that I didn’t think of something. When you’re finished at the house, I want you to come to me. If you run into any problems, you need to call me. Okay?”
“Okay. You’re frightening me. What’s going on, Alexei?”
“Nothing, my little bird,” he says in a different tone that sounds like he’s smiling now. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“Me too. I love you.”
“I love you, Natalie. Remember, come to my house as soon as you’re done.”
He ends the call and sounds happy, so maybe I’m just on edge after all that’s happened with Adam and my mother and after what I found out about Lauren. I only need to grab some things and leave that house. The sooner I’m gone from there, the better.
When I pull into the driveway, I don't see Adam’s car in the garage and a sense of utter relief washes over me. I feel like I can exhale, but I know it's only for the moment. Chances are, he’ll come back from wherever he is while I’m here, and I'll have to face him.
I don't know what I'll say to the man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with just a few months ago. How much has changed since the beginning of the year. We rang in New Year's with high hopes that in a few months we might finally have the news we wanted that a baby was in our near future. Then everything changed when I was attacked. Hard on the heels of that shock came my sister's disappearance, and since then, nothing about my life has felt right.
It all had seemed so perfect before everything happened, but now I wonder if it ever was as wonderful as I'd thought. As I walk past the garbage, I glance over at where I found the box for Adam's secret spying toys.
Did I ever truly know him?
I walk into the kitchen as my stomach tenses up like I think it always will in this room after the other night. He cleaned up so the room is spotless. Oddly enough, though, he left his phone on the table where he usually sits. A closer look tells me it isn't his new phone but his old one.
Curiosity fills me. Who’s the woman he’s been cheating on me with? I quickly grab the phone and begin to search it for any evidence. My heart beats wildly, but I can't say why. Maybe she’s more beautiful than I am. Maybe she’s someone from the country club I’ve spoken to before. Maybe it’s someone from the Preservation Society.
I don't recognize most of the numbers because he doesn't have them listed in his contacts, but I see he's been calling my mother in the past few weeks. She's been calling him a lot too—sometimes up to four times a week. I keep scrolling and see a long lull when they didn't call one another at all, and then I reach three months ago and see they were talking nearly every day all the way back until right around the holidays.
My mother has never been shy about how much she likes my husband, but this seems to be excessive, even for them. I notice their calling ended the day after Lauren ran away. I guess that makes sense. My mother didn't want to talk to anyone for a few weeks after that, and Adam has never been the kind of man to deal with emotions or tragedy well.
Still, the number of calls strikes me as strange.
I tap the screen to get back to his messages and hesitate for a moment, sure if there is evidence of his cheating that I'll find it here. Do I want to know? I'm not sure.
Looking around, I listen for the sound of his car pulling into the driveway but hear nothing. I turn back to the texts and take a deep breath before I tap the orange message button. Never a big fan of messages, Adam has rarely sent me one, unless he was stuck at work and wanted to let me know. But I haven't received any in a long time.
What I see confuses me more than the phone logs. Among the messages to people he works with about real estate business are dozens to and from my mother going all the way back to the holidays. Like the phone calls, they continue right until the day after Lauren's disappearance and then start up again in the past few weeks.
Even stranger is the content. It makes no sense. Dozens of the same messages about the comforting properties of warm milk earlier in the year, and then when they began to message again, they're filled with nonsensical strings of words.
The messages stopped a few days ago, but I didn't pay attention to when the phone calls ended, so I go back to the call log and see she called him last night around seven o'clock. Is that why she's so sure he's going to be a different man today?
But she said she didn't speak to him.
; Uncertain what to think about what I found in his phone, I put it back down on the table in the exact spot where I found it. I don't want to have an argument about my touching his phone if he shows up while I’m here.
I walk upstairs to the bedroom we’ve shared for nearly seven years, and everything feels different now. My hatred for those room darkening draperies that I’ve kept hidden since the designer hung them now surges to the surface, and I rip them open to allow the sun to shine in.
“That’s how a bedroom should look in the morning,” I say with a smile. “Bright and welcoming, not like a damn morgue.”
I get to work packing clothes and toiletries, grabbing a few towels I’ve always liked but little else because so few things in this house mean much to me. They’re items that seemed so important at the time when I bought them, but now that I have to choose what to take with me as I leave this place, I realize they’re nothing.
This has always been and always will be his house filled with his things bought with his money. In many ways, I’m just one of those things.
My bag filled, I sit on the edge of my side of the bed and open the drawer to the nightstand. Nothing but a few sleeping pills and a handful of cough drops from that time I was sick last fall.
Suddenly, I feel so tired. My eyes close once and then twice, but then it’s too much to fight, so I lay down on the bed. Maybe if I just rest my eyes for a few minutes.
I hear his foot hit the third stair and freeze where I stand in front of my closet. How will he be now that I've left once? Will he be thankful to see me again like my mother thinks he will? A cold sweat breaks out at my hairline and on the back of my neck as I doubt that will be the case.
All I can hear are his footsteps slowly coming up the stairs and the pounding of my heart fighting to drown out every other noise. It's like some symphony of terror composed exclusively for me.
His footstep. My heartbeat in my ear. Footstep. Heartbeat. Footstep. Heartbeat.
With each passing moment, the sound of my heart slamming against my ribcage gets louder and louder until I can't hear anything but that pounding in my ears. I stare at the door and hold my breath as I wait for it to fly open and reveal Adam. Will he charge in and demand answers from me about why I left, pointing an accusatory finger at me as his eyes narrow to an angry squint? Or will he simply silently storm through the door and glare at me with that same terrifying look in his eyes as when he squeezed his fingers into my neck and nearly killed me?
The door opens slowly, torturing me inch-by-inch as I wait for the sight of my husband to appear in front of me. It lets out a tiny plaintive squeak like it wants to alert me to what it knows I'll face in just a moment. My heart skips a beat at that horrifying sound. Why can't I see him yet?
My eyes strain to see what I dread, but there's nothing there. No Adam. No one. Nothing.
How is that possible? What opened the door?
I open my mouth and my voice squeaks out barely above a whisper, "Adam? Are you there?"
Nothing.
A jolt of pain rips through my left hand, and I look down to see it splayed open with the palm up. The skin is red and rough-looking, so I rub my fingertips over it as I try to remember what I did to make it look like this. A second stab of pain, this time in my right hand, makes my fingers instinctively close to stop this horrible feeling.
Suddenly, my brain remembers that I should be afraid of what opened my bedroom door, and I look up. There, standing in front of me, is Adam staring at me in horror. His head is covered in mud and something else. Is that blood?
"Adam? What happened to you?"
He doesn't answer but stares at me with a look of indictment in his eyes. Why is he looking at me like that?
I repeat my question while I scan his body and see blood on his hands. No response again. Then he reaches his hand out toward me, and I recoil in horror. I won't let him choke me.
"No! Don't touch me!" I scream as he takes a step in my direction. "Get away from me!"
My words ignite something in him, and his eyes open wide. Rage quickly fills them, and then he lunges at me, his hands aiming for my throat. He wants to finish what he started in the kitchen that night!
I flail my arms trying to push him away, but no matter what I do, he's stronger than I am. His bloody fingers press against my skin, his thumbs forcing themselves against my windpipe. I can't breathe! I clamp my fingers around his wrists in a futile attempt to pry his hands from around my neck, but it's no use.
The last thing I see as everything begins to go dark around me is the rage in his eyes.
I sit bolt upright on the bed gasping for air with my hands scratching at nothing. Taking a deep breath in, I fill my lungs like I couldn't a moment ago as my heart races in terror. Frantically, I look over at the other side of the bed for Adam, but he's not there. I see his side shows no evidence of him sleeping next to me.
A rush of air leaves my lungs. Relief washes over me as I begin to understand it all had been a nightmare. Still groggy from my nap, I look around and have no idea what time it is or how long I slept, so I pad over to the window and look out.
Still sunny.
I check my phone and see two hours have passed since I sat down on the bed. Why am I so tired?
Again, Alexei called and I didn’t hear the phone. I check the volume on the ringer. Right where it should be.
What is wrong with me?
He answers on the first ring, his tone almost frantic. “Natalie, where are you?”
“I’m still at my house. I just closed my eyes for a few seconds and the next thing I knew, two hours went by. Maybe I’m getting sick.”
“You need to come here right now. I’ll drive over to get you.”
A knocking sound like someone’s at the front door distracts me.
"Alexei, I have to go. I'll call you back."
"Why? What's going on? Are you okay?"
"Someone's at the door. I'll call you back."
I hurry downstairs to answer the door and standing on the front porch are two police officers dressed in black uniforms. One is an older man, I guess about sixty, with grey hair that's slicked back off his face so all the wrinkles he's earned over the years can be plainly seen. The other officer is younger, maybe forty, and what I notice immediately about him is how he hasn't shaved in a day or two and looks strangely casual for a police officer.
"Hello, officers. Is something wrong?"
The older man answers my question with a gentle nod, and then my gaze drifts down to his chest and the gold name tag with Officer Jenkins written on it. I don't immediately ask what could be wrong or invite them in because I'm completely unfamiliar with what to do when police come to your house, so I just stand there staring at his name.
"My name is Officer Robert Jenkins, and this is Officer Daniel Anderson. Are you Natalie Anchoff?" he asks in a gruff voice.
"Yes."
"May we come in to speak to you?"
My gaze settles on his aged face, and I absentmindedly step back to let them pass as I mumble, "Okay."
The three of us stand awkwardly in the foyer until I point toward the kitchen and give them a polite smile. "Please come into the kitchen, officers."
They follow me and stand beside the table when I take a seat. I expect them to do the same, but they don't and the older man begins speaking.
"I'm sorry to have to inform you of this, but your husband was found dead in his car this morning."
The news sounds even worse than I think it might coming from the younger officer because of the older man's gravelly voice. I hear what he says, but my brain can't seem to process the words.
"Dead? Who's dead?"
"We know how difficult this must be, ma'am. Your husband is Adam Anchoff, correct? He drives a 2017 black Mercedes, license plate 346-B6P?"
For a moment, I try to remember what Adam's license plate number is, but I draw a blank. I'm not sure I ever knew it. Who memorizes those things?
But the officer's words beg
in to make sense, and suddenly the realization of what he's telling me hits me like a brick. As tears begin to fill my eyes, I say, "Adam's dead? How?"
"He was found dead in his car in an apartment complex parking lot a few miles from here. We don't know how he died yet, but we're investigating. We'd like to ask you some questions, if that's okay? We know it's a difficult time, but the more we can find out now when the case is young, the better chance we have of finding out what happened to your husband."
I nod to answer their request to question me and watch as the two men sit down at the table. The younger man gives me a forced smile and then focuses his attention on the phone sitting on the placemat where Adam usually sits.
"When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Anchoff?" Officer Jenkins asks and then waits with his pen poised to write my answer in his little notepad.
Lowering my head, I try to remember what time I left the house yesterday. At this moment, I’m not even sure what day it is.
"Last night. I left right after dinner."
“So you weren’t here last night to know what time he left?”
Sheepishly, I look up at the older man and shake my head. "No."
"Was there a reason you spent the night away from home?" he asks, suddenly seeming to be far less worried about upsetting me.
"We had a fight. I wanted some time to think," I answer, hoping he can't see it's only a partial truth.
Officer Jenkins jots down something in his notepad and then looks up at me. "What was the fight about?"
I answer without missing a beat. “My husband and I have been having marital problems.”
The officer points his pen at my face and scowls. “Did your husband do that to you, Mrs. Anchoff?”
I nod my head again and shrug. “I went to my mother’s. I woke up this morning and came home.”
Neither officer says anything, so I ask, “Do you know how he died?”
The words come out of my mouth, and I instantly worry I sound guilty. My cheeks heat up as the thought of Alexei killing him rushes through my mind.
"We aren't sure how he died. Did your husband have any physical problems?" the older man asks.