The Other Woman: A psychological suspense thriller

by N L Hinkens

  “Is Steve coming to the hospital?” her dad inquired.

  Bridget’s cheeks heated. “I … I haven't called him yet. He's at home with the kids. I asked a friend to drop Harper home after ballet class so Steve will have to be there for her.”

  “Surely Henry's old enough to keep an eye on his sister for an hour or two.”

  Bridget squirmed under her dad’s meaningful gaze. “If only. He gets so absorbed in those stupid video games, he wouldn't know if Harper was in the house or dancing on the roof.”

  Her dad let out a disapproving grunt. “Steve needs to man up and cut him off. A young lad like that should be outside riding his bike or playing ball after school.”

  Bridget nodded. “I agree. It would be great if Steve would take the time to ride bikes or play catch with him now and again. To be honest, Henry’s just doing what Steve models to the kids. He always has his face stuck in front of a computer screen.”

  Her dad drained the last of his coffee. “Let's go back upstairs and wait. I don't want to miss out on any news. The nurse should be along with an update soon.”

  A short time later, they were called back to the recovery room. Bridget pulled a plastic chair over to her mom’s bed and took her liver-spotted hand in hers. “Hey, Mom. How are you feeling?”

  She smiled weakly, her eyes fluttering open and then closed again. ”I’m such a klutz. So silly of me not to notice that hose. John always did say I’d end up tripping on it one day. I guess he was right.” She chuckled softly as she turned to look at him. “I bet you like that, don’t you dear? Being right for once in our marriage.”

  He leaned over the bed and kissed her on her crinkled forehead. “I wish I’d been wrong about it.”

  “You’re going to need physical therapy to heal from this, Mom,” Bridget said. “I can come over and help out at the house until you're feeling better again.”

  Her mom lifted a hand and flapped it feebly. “Nonsense! You have your own life to lead. You're so busy with the kids and all their activities. You and Steve never stop those wheels spinning. Don't worry about me. John's quite able to drive me to any appointments.”

  “You can’t expect Dad to do all the shopping, cooking, and cleaning, while he’s looking after you too—not with his arthritis as bad as it is. I’ll take a few days off work and help,” Bridget insisted. “Monday’s a holiday anyway, and I’ve got plenty of personal time saved up.”

  A young nurse bounced into the room and beamed at Bridget and John, before turning her attention to her patient. ”How are you doing, Elise? What’s your pain level like on a scale of one to ten?”

  Elise tinkled a laugh. “I’m so doped up I can't even feel my usual aches and pains. I only wish I felt this good every day.”

  The nurse grinned as she adjusted a drip line. “That's what I like to hear. We’re going to get you transferred to your room now. The doctor will stop by to check on you again once you’re all settled in.” She nodded to Bridget and John before breezing off to her next patient.

  “Why don't you head on home?” Bridget's dad suggested, patting her on the arm as he got to his feet. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do. You can come back later on this evening and check on Mom. Bring Steve and the kids. She'd like that.”

  “I’m not going anywhere yet. I want to hear what the doctor has to say first.”

  “He’s such a nice, young man,” Elise piped up. “Of course they all seem terribly young these days.”

  Elise had scarcely been in her room for five minutes, when Doctor Harris walked in and introduced himself. He lifted the clipboard from the bottom of the bed and glanced at it for a moment. “How are you feeling, Elise?”

  “Never better. It's a treat to have a young, good-looking doctor asking about me,” she answered with a chuckle.

  Doctor Harris smiled politely. “Well I’m happy to report that the surgery itself went well. There was a little intraoperative bleeding, and you are running a bit of a fever. So that’s something we’ll be keeping an eye on. You take blood thinners on a regular basis, so some bleeding was to be expected. As this was an emergency surgery, we didn't have time to wean you off the medication beforehand.” He turned to John. “I understand you’re her primary caregiver. Do you have any other questions for me?”

  “Is the fever anything to be concerned about?” he asked.

  Doctor Harris rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We’ll keep her under observation overnight, just to make sure it’s not a sign of a blood clot or anything serious, but it’s nothing to be unduly worried about, unless anything changes.”

  Bridget frowned. “What changes should we be watching out for?”

  Doctor Harris replaced the clipboard. “Lethargy, for one, although that's hard to detect when you're still recovering from anesthesia. Any redness or swelling, shortness of breath, chest pain. Let the nurse know right away if she mentions anything along those lines. Other than that, your mother should expect to be getting out of here in a couple of days.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Elise said. “You did a great job.”

  “You’re very welcome. I’m glad we could put you back together again.” He patted her hand and took his leave.

  Bridget exchanged a concerned look with her dad. “That settles it, I’m not going anywhere. This place is hopping busy. It's not like they're going to be able to keep a close eye on her.”

  John rubbed his jaw. “All things considered, it would be good if we stayed put, at least for the next few hours until your mother’s out of the danger zone. There's a pull-out bed in the couch by the window so I can sleep here tonight. You should plan on going home in time for dinner, your family needs you.”

  Bridget gave a distracted nod, the horror of what she’d pushed to the back of her mind resurfacing with a vengeance. Could she go home after this? It wasn’t as if she could sit through dinner with her family and pretend there wasn't a corpse in the trunk of her husband’s car. She needed to go to the police and tell them what she’d found. But, part of her still wanted to confront Steve first, on the off chance there was some rational explanation for the body in the trunk that she was missing, as unlikely as that seemed. With the dire image stuck in her mind, she pulled out her phone and texted her husband to let him know what had happened to her mom.

  As fate would have it, she didn’t make it home for dinner. Her mom’s fever went up during the course of the afternoon and Doctor Harris was called back in to assess her condition.

  “It appears she’s fighting an infection,” he said. “We can't be sure if she was coming down with something before she went in for surgery, or if this is related to the surgery. Nonetheless, I'm going to prescribe a fast-acting antibiotic and instruct the nurse to check on her at thirty-minute intervals to make sure her fever is subsiding satisfactorily.”

  In the end, it was close to midnight before Bridget finally felt comfortable leaving the hospital. Her mom's fever had relented, and her dad was worn out and ready for sleep. “Go on home, dear,” he said, stifling a yawn. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Love you, Dad.” She kissed him on the cheek and padded quietly out of the room, relieved to see that her mom was sleeping soundly at last.

  Back outside in the parking lot, Bridget’s breathing quickened as she approached the Mercedes bathed in a haunting yellow hue from the overhead light fixture, an unwelcoming shape that housed a horror she had yet to fully grasp. She unlocked the door and slid in behind the steering wheel, gripping it with the raw intensity of someone bracing themselves for a particularly arduous task ahead. Her nose twitched, registering a faint, unpleasant odor. She glanced across at her bag of groceries on the passenger seat. Perhaps the milk had begun to sour, or was it the body?

  She swallowed the hard knot constricting her throat. She needed to pull herself together and think this through. It was too late now to go to the police station. It would look suspicious. They wouldn't believe she'd only just discovered the body this late at night after drivi
ng around in the car all day. Maybe she should head on home and pretend to discover the body tomorrow morning when it really started to smell. Her brain balked at the thought. Would it smell by tomorrow? She didn’t know anything about human decomposition—not being much of a crime show buff. Truth be told, she was completely out of her depth.

  She lingered a little longer, torn over her decision, before starting up the engine. If she waited until tomorrow to go to the police, it would give her an opportunity to confront Steve first. On the other hand, it might make her a party to the crime. She rubbed her forehead wearily. She couldn't make a logical decision this late at night. Whatever course of action she took, she would take it in the morning and face the consequences that came with it.

  4

  Bridget woke the next morning with a vague sense of foreboding. She lay motionless beneath the duvet for a moment or two as her brain kicked into gear, sifting through her muddled thoughts. Her heart jolted against her ribs when she recalled the body in the trunk of her husband’s Mercedes. She glanced hesitantly across at the other side of the bed. Evidently Steve was already up and about. She’d taken a sleeping pill when she’d climbed into bed after arriving back from the hospital, terrified she’d end up tossing and turning until the early hours, unable to sleep. Instead, she’d been plagued by nightmares of corpses turning up everywhere she went, from the freezers in the grocery store to the vats in the chocolate factory where she worked as a shift supervisor.

  Reluctantly, she slid her feet out from under the duvet and stood, steeling herself to face her family. She needed to get Steve alone for a few minutes and have it out with him. This wasn’t something that could wait any longer, not when a body was literally rotting in their driveway. She couldn't hear any chatter coming from the kitchen, or even the low murmur of the television. Maybe the kids were still asleep. Or perhaps Steve had warned them to be quiet and let her sleep in after her late night.

  She made her way to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water, staring at her hollowed-out reflection in the mirror for a long moment. She appeared to have aged in the past twenty-four hours. Hardly surprising, considering everything that had happened in such a short space of time. After stepping into her quilted slippers and belting her robe around her waist, she headed up to the empty kitchen. A note propped up against the still warm coffee maker was the only indication that anyone had beat her to an early morning caffeine fix. She unfolded it and scanned the message.

  Taking the kids on a bike ride so you can sleep in. I put the spare tire on your car. We can go to brunch when we get back, and swing by the hospital afterward if you like. S xoxo

  Bridget set the note down on the counter and pressed a French Roast coffee pod into the Breville espresso maker. Her heart fluttered in her chest. How on earth could Steve write such a blithe note, and take his kids on a Sunday morning bike ride, when the woman he’d murdered was stashed in the trunk of his car? Only a psychopath could operate in such a detached manner. Bridget dragged a hand through her matted hair. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that she’d taken his car yesterday either. Was that significant? Surely, he wouldn’t have been okay with her borrowing his Mercedes if he’d known there was a corpse in the trunk. It didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

  Bridget reached for her coffee mug and took a sip of the bitter, black liquid, willing it to flood her senses and miraculously present her with some kind of insight—some concrete plan on how to move forward. She couldn’t put off making a decision indefinitely. It was long past time to notify the police. There was nothing else for it but to forego confronting Steve and call it in. The cops would have to come to her. There was no way she could get back in the Mercedes and drive the body to the police station.

  She frowned as she squinted down at the steaming, chocolate-colored liquid in her mug. Who you were supposed to call if you found a body? This wasn’t the type of information the average person had at their fingertips. Should she dial her local police station, or 911? Her mind cast about for an answer. Technically, it wasn’t an emergency—the woman was already dead. But then again it wasn't exactly a routine situation either. She should probably call for an ambulance too. The police were hardly going to transport a body to the morgue in the back seat of a squad car.

  Bridget groaned in confusion as she sank down on her padded dining chair. She could always ask the goddess, Alexa, perpetually on standby next to the phone, bathed in her mystic blue aura. But Bridget had never liked the idea of Amazon documenting her search history in their data base, especially not one that could be interpreted as fishing for information on how to dispose of a body. No, she would do this old school and make a call to her local police station just as soon as she’d mustered her courage. First, she would take care of her other important, if somewhat less urgent, problem.

  She pulled her phone out of the pocket in her robe and sent a quick text to her boss explaining the situation with her mom and requesting the following week off work. After sipping on her coffee for a few minutes, she placed a slice of bread in the toaster. It would be best to force down a few morsels of something before she passed out. She hadn't eaten anything at all yesterday—a latte scarcely counted as sufficient nutrition. But when the toast popped up a moment or two later, her stomach roiled at the thought of eating it while a woman's body lay decomposing in the car in her driveway.

  Trying not to gag, Bridget tossed the toast in the trash and went upstairs to shower. After letting the hot water pound her tense shoulders for a bit, she toweled off, somewhat refreshed physically, but as emotionally distraught as before. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, determined to make the dreaded call. First, she needed to take one more look in the trunk to make certain of what exactly she'd seen. The police would ask lots of questions—how old the woman was, her ethnicity, if Bridget had noticed any wounds on the body, and so on. Of course they’d want to know how the woman had died, and Bridget hadn’t had the presence of mind to check. It had also occurred to her in the shower that she hadn’t taken the time to make sure there was only one body under the blanket. As disturbing a thought as it was, a baby or even a small child could easily have been curled up next to the woman.

  Hair still damp from her shower, she headed outside, proffering a feeble wave to the neighbor across the street who happened to be pulling out of his driveway. Once he’d disappeared, she walked around to the back of the Mercedes. She took a shallow breath, her legs like noodles beneath her. Her heart was thudding so fast in her chest she was half afraid it would burst. Then Steve would have two bodies to dispose of. How terribly inconvenient for her murdering husband!

  She clapped a hand over her mouth to trap the hysterical laugh that hurtled up her throat. It wasn't in the least bit funny; it was a terrifying proposition. The ill-timed humor was proof positive she was close to breaking point.

  Darting a glance up and down the street to make sure there were no dog walkers or joggers bound in her direction, she took a quick calming breath, and then popped the trunk and forced herself to look down at the body. A gurgling sound escaped her lips. She blinked in disbelief.

  The trunk was empty! No blanket, no sign of a body, no blood. How could that be? Could she possibly have imagined it? No—not likely in broad daylight.

  She covered her mouth with trembling fingers, scrunching her eyes shut as she desperately tried to recall what she’d seen. It had been only the briefest of glimpses, but the image was clearly imprinted on her mind. A woman's pale face, shrouded by long dark hair, swathed in a fuchsia scarf. A charcoal and red tartan blanket, pure wool—that much her fingers had detected in the fleeting contact she’d made with it.

  Bridget opened her eyes again and stared blankly into the empty trunk of the Mercedes. Was it possible the woman hadn’t been dead after all? Maybe she’d hidden in the car to surprise Steve—only pretending to be dead when Bridget opened the trunk—and climbed out later. A ripple of relief ran through her at the welcome thought. But, almost immediately
, a shiver skittered across her shoulders as a more ominous possibility presented itself. Steve could have moved the body. He might have gotten up during the night and driven it to some remote location—hidden it in a shallow grave someplace.

  The sound of an approaching car startled her. With a gasp, she pressed the clicker to close the trunk and hurried back inside her house. Shaking uncontrollably, she went into the family room and lay down on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. She stared morosely up at the ceiling. Now what? There wasn't much point in going to the police without a body. Would they even believe her story? The more pressing question was whether or not she should confront Steve. Without the body, he might not admit to anything. She’d watched a documentary one time about a woman who was oblivious for years on end that her husband was actually a serial killer. All the while, he’d been carrying out his gruesome killings in a padlocked shed on their property.

  Bridget pulled herself up into a sitting position. What if she confronted Steve and he did admit to killing the woman? She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, whimpering small sobs at the thought of Harper and Henry finding out their dad was a murderer. She couldn't make her children suffer like that—branded for life as the offspring of a killer. She would have to move out of the area, change their names, begin again in some other state far from friends and family.

  Her phone rang, startling her out of her despondent reverie. She glanced at the screen before answering the call. “Hey, Dad, how’s everything?”

  “Great, your mother's doing much better this morning. She wants you to bring the kids by to see her.”

  Bridget swallowed hard, tracing a fingertip through the film of dust on the glass coffee table in front of her. “They … went on a bike ride with Steve. We'll try and swing by later on this morning once they get back. Did you get any sleep at all?”