Third Party

by Brandi Reeds

  “Agreed.” Jessie takes a pull off her longneck bottle when the waiter brings it. “This girl’s life was beyond private. A lot of people knew who she was, but no one knew her well, it seems. There was a boyfriend, apparently. And if he had anything to do with this, Decker’ll get him.”

  I dawdle for a second, weighing whether asking the question will seem as if I’m too nosy and therefore raise flags, but what the hell. The worst that can happen is she won’t tell me. “What’s the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Arlon Judson.”

  “Interesting name.” Ian isn’t on their radar. At least not yet.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Jessie asks.

  “No,” I admit. “Lately, I feel like my husband is keeping secrets from me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I sigh and glance at my purse.

  Her eyes shift toward it, too. “Oh my God,” she says after a second or two. “You think your husband was sleeping with the deceased.”

  Damn, this girl is sharp.

  “He denies it,” I say.

  “Don’t they always?”

  Quinn texts: FaceTime?

  “I should go.” I signal for the check. I should catch up with Quinn.

  “I’m sorry,” Jessie says. “We can talk about something else.”

  “Oh no, it’s fine. It’s just . . . my daughter wants to talk this afternoon, and I have a few errands to run.”

  “We should do this again sometime,” Jessica says.

  “That’d be nice.”

  “And if you ever want to talk, about Margaux, or anything else . . . you know, if your husband really did cheat on you, and you have proof he’s connected to a girl who just turned up dead . . . I’m sure you’re conflicted, but it’d be due penance to turn it in.”

  I nod. “Agreed.”

  “If you need anything . . .”

  “Thanks.”

  “I texted you a link last night,” Quinn says. “There’s this studio in Door County. They have programs for all the arts: creative writing, pottery, photography, painting . . . You apply for one of twelve positions—”

  “Wait. Apply?”

  “And go up there for a week—”

  “I can’t be gone for an entire week.”

  “Mom. Why not?”

  “Because there are things that have to be done here at home.”

  “More grocery lists, honey-dos, and dry cleaning?”

  “Thanks, Quinn, for reducing my life to a cliché.”

  “What I mean, Mom, is that arguably, the toughest part of your job is over. Patrick and I are out of the house. You’ve raised us. Isn’t that why you never went to college in the first place? Because someone had to raise us? Well, it’s done. It’s time now for you to do something for you. Something to make your life better. And you love Door County. This class—”

  “It’s too late. I can’t even fathom starting something new at this point—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  I look at the phone this time. “Quinn.”

  She sighs and rakes through her hair. “Talking to you sometimes is like talking to the Colosseum. You’ve been rooted in the same place for so long, it’s like you forget you can still be useful to yourself.”

  “Useful? What I do—what I’ve done all these years—isn’t useful?”

  “Not to you, it isn’t. You help everyone else. None of us would be where we are without all the sacrifices you made.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “I want you to try to think about this, okay? Imagine you’re seventeen again. You’re not pregnant, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Do you go to school? Do you pursue your passions? Or do you stay home and fold Daddy’s socks because that’s what he wants you to do?”

  “You’re oversimplifying things.”

  “No. You’re overcomplicating things. It’s just that easy, Mom.”

  “How did you get this way? How did I raise a daughter like you if I’m such a pushover?”

  “I’m not saying you’re a pushover, but that’s sort of my point. If you raised me—and you did . . . all on your own—I’m saying there’s someone in that stubborn head of yours who knows I’m right. It’s time to seize the day.”

  I take a seat at the breakfast table, where I put a tea bag in a cup of hot water a while ago. But I’m too distracted to drink it, and it’s cold now, anyway. “Honestly, Quinn. The world you believe in . . .”

  “It exists,” she says. “And I know you believe it, too. I hear your voice in my head all the time. Making sure I know I’m good enough, teaching me how to love myself and other people. If you didn’t feel this way about the world, too, as if it’s full of possibilities, I wouldn’t think this way.”

  I’m dumbstruck, staring at her beautiful face, trying to see myself in my daughter. If what she says is true, I must be in there somewhere.

  “I know your parents didn’t really give you a choice. I know you were between a rock and a hard place, and Patrick and I are forever grateful that you chose us instead of the path of least resistance. But you can still grasp your brass ring, Mom.”

  “You’re my brass ring.”

  “Promise me. Look into this Door County thing.”

  “Okay. I promise.”

  “And Mom? Whatever’s been bothering you the past few days? If you want to talk about it . . .”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Patrick said you and Dad are having trouble.”

  “Yeah, well, it happens sometimes.”

  “You’re strong with or without him, you know.”

  “You’re incredible, Quinn.”

  “I know. I take after my mommy.”

  I smile because I know that’s the only way to get her to stop worrying about me.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “I’m fine. Go to class.”

  “Do me a favor: stop thinking about whatever’s going on with you and Dad. Do something for yourself. Right now.”

  “Fine.”

  “Kiss, kiss. Love, love.”

  “Love, love.”

  She blows me a kiss, and then she’s gone.

  Something for myself . . .

  How about pay the bills? Most of them are on automatic draft, but there are a few I still pay by hand.

  I sift through the stack of today’s mail and sort out the bills from the junk mail.

  I log on to our bank account online to check the status of our accounts. Managing our finances is the one household responsibility Ian prefers to maintain, and to be honest, I don’t know how well we’re doing—or not, as the case may be—now that we have two kids in college.

  The log-on circle stalls about halfway through.

  Then a window pops up: invalid password. I reenter it and concentrate this time, ensuring I don’t miss a keystroke, but I get the same result. Access denied.

  I text Ian: Did you change our bank account password?

  Ian: . . .

  The ellipsis disappears.

  His lack of an answer is all I need to know that he did.

  Me: I can’t get into the account. I didn’t change the password. Did you?

  Ian: Yes.

  Me: Why?

  Ian: A few strange transactions. I’m looking into it.

  Me: Maybe the transactions are mine.

  Me: I’ll review it.

  Ian: I’ll go over it with you later.

  Me: What is the password?

  Ian: Not over text.

  Ian: Plenty of money in there for the groceries, etc. Plenty to cover the bills.

  Me: I have a right to access our accounts.

  Ian: When you put a dime in, I’ll consider them ours.

  Me: EXCUSE ME?

  Me: I contribute.

  Me: I make your life possible.

  Me: What are you hiding?

  Me: How stupid do you think I am?

  Ian: We’ll talk when I’m home.

  Me: When will that be?

  I
an: That depends.

  Ian: When do you plan on stopping all this insanity?

  No love you, no miss you, no see you soon.

  And after all these years, in the absence of such a sweet nothing, a hollow feeling settles in my chest. How long would it take him to text a quick heart emoji, for the love of God?

  Me: Do you even still love me?

  Ian: You’re making it very difficult.

  Ian: But yes.

  Ian: Take a pill tonight

  Ian: Get some sleep

  Ian: And start making sense tomorrow.

  I’m tired of everyone assuming that I’m out of control, that I’m making more of this situation than I should, that I’m creating drama or jumping to conclusions.

  Add to that my having possession of a pair of panties that may or may not send Ian to the gallows, and it’s like a slap in the face, how secretive he’s been and how he’s forsaking me. If I’d forsaken him to this extent, the red thong would be at the police department right now.

  I storm to Ian’s study and sift through the piles of paperwork on his desk for the new password.

  I tear through the place, dig through files, and leaf through books—and find nothing but a vintage issue of Hustler. I sigh in disgust and whip the magazine against the wall.

  When it lands, however, a five-by-seven-inch manila envelope—not unlike the one Patrick found on our porch yesterday, which is still sitting on Ian’s desk—flops out of it.

  I crouch and retrieve it. It’s addressed to my husband at our old house in Evanston. The postage was canceled months ago, a few weeks before we moved, shortly before the episode.

  I open the envelope. A typewritten note, along with a flash drive, falls into my palm. I tend first to the note:

  Mr. Holloway,

  For continued discretion, I request a monthly fee. Meet at Daley Plaza to discuss the arrangements. Monday, 3:00 p.m.

  As promised, I’ve enclosed proof. Copy 1 of 3.

  If you don’t show, Copy 2 goes to the lady of the house.

  The note isn’t signed.

  The flash drive weighs heavy in my hand. I have a pretty good idea of what I might find on it. Still, it takes incredible nerve to look.

  I plug it into my laptop.

  “Oh God.”

  If the police get ahold of this content, the name Arlon Judson won’t even be a blip on their radar.

  I flip from image to image.

  My husband . . . is that my husband?

  With Margaux Claire Stritch.

  His hands around her neck.

  I’m going to be sick.

  You can prepare for it all you want.

  You can play out scenarios in your head every which way you can imagine.

  Suspecting it was happening . . . that’s one thing.

  Actually seeing it . . . that’s another.

  My stomach churns as I scroll through the images, which appear to have been taken from the outside looking in through the glass of a window and past the open sheers that usually cover it:

  Ms. Stritch in red satin, cooking in her kitchen.

  Ms. Stritch nude and bent over her kitchen countertop with a male hand—it looks like my husband’s—lost in her blonde curls and holding her in position.

  I flip faster now, searching for an image that concentrates more on the man than her, some concrete evidence that I’m looking at pictures of Ian having sex with another woman. But every image captures him in shadow, as if by design.

  And then, an image of the naked length of him, pressed up close and personal to the recently deceased—the side of a breast bulging between their bodies. His face, darkened in shadows, nestled in the hollow of her collarbone.

  But I’ve seen enough to confirm it’s my husband when I zoom in on his right shoulder and see the tattoo of his law firm’s logo.

  I flip to the next pictures:

  Ian’s nude body leaning over her.

  Her long, ivory legs locked around his waist.

  Her hands gripping his shoulders . . . a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. I zoom in on the ring. It’s not a diamond. But a girl that age . . . would she wear a ring on that finger if she weren’t engaged?

  And I practically feel the rhythm between them, practically experience the slow build of energy, as I flip from frame to frame.

  Every ounce of fear, dread, and anger in my system culminates into a ball in my stomach, rolling there like a hurricane about to wreak havoc upon landfall.

  My fingertips tingle, and pain pierces between my eyes.

  I’m going to be sick.

  I’m looking at photographic proof.

  If these photographs fall into the wrong hands, our family is going to be thrust into the spotlight.

  I consider destroying the thumb drive.

  But then I think of Quinn. If something happened to her, I’d be devastated. I’d feel as if I’d failed her if she killed herself. And I’d surely want to know if she really didn’t take her own life.

  Besides, these images are on a thumb drive, and the note claims there are three copies. Destroying the thumb drive couldn’t ensure no one else sees these images.

  And if it gets out that I had stumbled across potential evidence and destroyed it . . .

  I pull Ian’s leather trash bin from beneath the desk and spill the contents of my stomach into it. As if spewing out all the terrible things—the worst a woman can think about in the dead of night—can cleanse me of the memory, I keep heaving over that bin long after I’ve emptied my stomach.

  My God.

  What am I going to do?

  Suspicion of an affair is totally different from seeing it with my own eyes.

  I wish I’d never seen what I just saw.

  When I’ve calmed down enough that I’m no longer shaking, I text Ian:

  Just found your vintage Hustler.

  The ball is in my court.

  I’m calling the shots now.

  Get home, and we’ll discuss.

  For a few minutes, I stare at the screen, anticipating his reply.

  When it doesn’t come, I find myself on the verge of texting Quinn. I have to talk to someone about all this, and even though my daughter is hardly the ideal audience, who else am I going to talk to? My old neighbor, maybe. Fiona already thinks I’ve lost my mind, so it can’t hurt to lose it in front of her again.

  Or maybe . . .

  Jessica did say if I needed anything . . .

  I take deep breath and eye the second envelope, still sealed on the desk. Now or never. I tear it open.

  Chapter 14

  JESSICA

  A chick flick plays in the background while I navigate to the Aquasphere Underground website. I pop some corn, settle back on the couch with my laptop, and pay an exorbitant fee to enter the site. Fifty bucks. Just to browse for the night. Yikes.

  First, I’m prompted to select a username. I choose the default—Sexy451—and enter a chat room.

  Sexy451: Looking for Gail Force.

  KittenSlut: Everyone is these days.

  HunkOfBurningLove: No one has seen her in a month or so.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Miss the fuck out of her.

  Sexy451: Does anyone know what she did at the Underground?

  KittenSlut: Dominate.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Ruled the world.

  Sexy451: I need to get in touch with her.

  KittenSlut: Leave her a private chat.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Doubt she’ll answer.

  HunkOfBurningLove: When people leave the forum, they leave.

  Sexy451: Why did she leave?

  I wait, but the slut and the hunk seem to have disappeared.

  Sexy451: Hello?

  Sexy451: Can anyone tell me why Gail Force is no longer with the Underground?

  KittenSlut: Please review etiquette of the Underground.

  KittenSlut: Rule #1

  KittenSlut: Never ask why.

  Jesus.

  I begin typing an apology, but a
nother window pops up.

  It’s an invitation to chat privately with HunkOfBurningLove.

  I accept.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Are you into men or women?

  Oh wow. This interrogation could go in a whole new direction. I’m almost tempted to log off right now, but seeing as I already paid fifty bucks, and in the interest of gathering intel . . .

  Sexy451: Men.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Send pic?

  Sexy451: After.

  Sexy451: Do you know what happened with Gail Force?

  HunkOfBurningLove: She was performing at the Underground.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Erotic asphyxiation in a triple-play scenario.

  HunkOfBurningLove: She lost control of her bottom.

  HunkOfBurningLove: He wouldn’t stop.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Almost killed another performer.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Not sure that’s why she left.

  HunkOfBurningLove: But she wasn’t around after.

  Sexy451: Did you see it happen?

  Sexy451: Were you there that night?

  HunkOfBurningLove: I streamed it from home.

  HunkOfBurningLove: It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Never came so hard in my life.

  HunkOfBurningLove: Pic?

  Sexy451: Do you know Gail Force’s real name?

  HunkOfBurningLove: You’re more into Gail Force than me.

  HunkOfBurningLove: You sure you like men?

  HunkOfBurningLove: See ya.

  He terminates the chat.

  Oh well.

  I open another window and search for erotic asphyxiation.

  Wow.

  It’s choking for pleasure during sex.

  People actually do this?

  It doesn’t escape me that this could be how Margaux died, that it could have been a tragic accident in the middle of sex—Decker did say she’d recently had sex.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Kirsten Holloway:

  Sorry to bother you.

  I just found pictures on a thumb drive in my husband’s desk.

  My husband and that girl.

  Margaux.

  And then the pictures come in rapid succession: