by N L Hinkens
She exited the master bedroom in time to see Steve pull the front door shut behind him.
“I decided to wait for the tire,” he explained, before she could say anything. ”Thought I'd save you a trip.”
“Great, thanks. Did you eat yet?” Bridget asked, aiming for a light and airy tone and failing miserably.
“Yeah, I grabbed a sandwich on my way home.” He scratched the back of his neck hesitantly. “I need to go into the office for a couple of hours.”
“On a Sunday?” Bridget frowned at him, her suspicions surging to the forefront once again. “Why?”
Steve’s gaze flitted from her to a spot on the wall behind her and back. ”A client emailed me about a report he needs for a meeting on Tuesday morning. I have to get the numbers together for him beforehand. It's either go in now or on Monday, and you’ve been bugging me for days on end to take the Martin Luther holiday off with the kids.”
“But we agreed weekends were going to be family time from now on. If you want to work on building your relationship with the kids, you can't be gone all weekend. Henry’s almost grown and you barely exchange ten words with him during the week.”
“I realize that, and I’m making an effort, Bridget,” Steve replied testily. “That’s why we went on a bike ride together this morning. It was like pulling teeth to get Henry out there, but I persisted, like I promised.” He paused and rubbed a hand over his chin. “I’m not going to make working on the weekends a habit again, but this is … this is an emergency. It’s my biggest client.”
Bridget opened her mouth and then closed it again. It was obvious he was lying to her. He was a horrible liar. She’d always been able to tell when he wasn’t giving her the straight scoop. Her thoughts tumbled over one another in quick succession, her misgivings bubbling up to the surface again. Why hadn’t he gone directly to the office after he’d picked up the tire? There was only one logical reason she could think of. He’d made a special trip home first to pick up his own car. He must be planning on cleaning out the trunk and getting rid of any evidence. She glared at him, desperate for the truth, while dreading his answer. “If it's such an emergency, why didn't you go by the office on your way home?”
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “My client just texted me. I was almost home anyway.”
Bridget folded her arms in front of her, fighting to keep her composure. “Will you be back for dinner?”
“Yeah, I can pick up some pizzas on my way home if you want.”
“Sure,” she answered through clenched teeth. “That’ll keep the kids happy.” And that’s all that mattered. It wasn’t as if she was going to be able to eat anything. Her appetite had been non-existent ever since she’d found the body in the trunk. She made her way to the family room, flinching when the front door slammed shut.
She picked her way back and forth across the room wondering what she should do, if anything. How long would it take Crime Line to pass the information along to the police? She should have asked the man she’d talked to more questions, but she’d been so nervous she’d blanked out. Hopefully the police prioritized tips pertaining to more serious crimes like murder. But, if Steve was on his way to clean out his car, it might be too late by the time the police followed up. Bridget turned the theory over in her head. If that's what Steve was really up to, it would prove what she’d suspected all along—that he’d murdered the woman she’d seen in the trunk of his car. And he might just get away with it. She needed to find a way to thwart his plan.
Chewing on her lip, she weighed her options. If she followed him, she could video him in the act of vacuuming out his car at some random car wash. The sound of the Mercedes starting up in the driveway sent a shiver through her. She had to make a counter move. If her husband was a killer, someone had to bring him to justice, and right now, she was the only person who knew what he’d done.
Before she could second-guess herself, she snatched up her purse and coat, and strode down the hall to Henry's bedroom. After a quick rap on the door, she swung it open. “Henry!”
Oblivious to her presence, he continued talking and laughing into his headset, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. She marched over to him and waited until he turned his head a few degrees and acknowledged her. ”I need you to watch Harper for an hour or two.”
He rumpled his brow. ”Why? Is Grandma okay?”
“She's fine. I have to run a couple of errands.”
Henry shrugged. “Yeah, I got her.”
“I want you to check on her regularly, Henry. Don't just assume she's playing in her room. You need to keep a close eye on her.”
“I said I got it,” he huffed.
Only halfway appeased, Bridget bit her tongue and headed to Harper's room next. Her daughter was happily occupied with her Barbie dolls in her Disney tent, engrossed in some scenario or other that involved an inordinate amount of costume changes judging by the mountain of doll clothes and shoes strewn about on the carpet. ”Harper, Mommy has to go out for a bit. If you need anything, Henry's in his room.”
“Okay.” She smiled angelically up at Bridget.
Bridget blew her a kiss. “And no cookies while I’m gone.”
She headed out to her car and reversed down the driveway, wheeling out into the street. Steve had a minute or two head start on her, but if she hurried, she might be able to catch up with him before he reached the main road. If all else failed, she would drive to his office. At least she would know if he’d been lying to her about where he was going. Stomach churning, she drove as fast as she dared out of the twenty-five-mile-an-hour neighborhood and merged onto the main road.
There was no sign of Steve’s Mercedes up ahead. She wished now that she’d downloaded the Find My Friends app on her phone so she could see where he was going. All her friends seemed to keep track of their families that way nowadays. But she’d never felt the need to keep tabs on her husband before. It had always seemed so intrusive to be able to know where your spouse was at all times—so unnecessary, until now.
As she motored along, she kept a close eye on the road up ahead, overtaking as many cars as she dared when the opportunity presented itself. Her heart jolted in her chest when, at last, she spotted Steve’s Mercedes a few hundred feet up ahead in the line of traffic. She slipped back into the slow lane, taking care to keep several cars between her and the Mercedes. Minutes later, Steve turned left at a traffic light. Bridget’s heart sank. It was all the confirmation she needed that he wasn't going to Bartlett and Hartman as he’d claimed. She gritted her teeth in frustration when the light turned red as she approached it. For several agonizing minutes, she clutched the steering wheel, palms sweating, until the light changed again.
She turned down the street, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she scanned both sides of the road. Confusion flooded her when she spotted the Mercedes parked outside a coffee shop. She slowed to a crawl, peering warily at the empty vehicle. She’d expected to find Steve at some sleazy, off-the-beaten path car wash, methodically getting rid of any evidence of his crime, not lounging in a fleabag coffee shop called The Muddy Cup. What was that about? He could have made coffee at home on their high end Breville espresso maker.
Unless he needed some time to think on his own—maybe he was considering turning himself in. Or was he meeting someone? Her heart began to race. For all she knew, Jen mightn’t have been the only woman he’d been having an affair with. She drove slowly past the coffee shop and pulled into a nearby strip mall parking lot. Determined to get to the bottom of what Steve was up to, now that she’d come this far, she climbed out, pulled up the hood of her coat, and began walking back to the coffee shop. To buy herself some time, she pretended to study the array of goodies in the window of the chocolatier next door, all the while peering furtively into the coffee shop. Steve was standing in line at the counter talking to the man next to him who was gesturing back in a perturbed manner. The man said something to him and then turned around to look for an empty table. Bridget gasped. Keith
Carson!
She stood with her nose pressed to the chocolatier window for several minutes trying to wrap her head around it. Had Keith asked to meet with Steve? Maybe he’d known all along that Steve was having an affair with his wife—which meant he suspected Steve had something to do with her murder. Cautiously, Bridget raised her head and threw another stealthy glance into the coffee shop. Keith and Steve were seated opposite each other at a small corner table now, their untouched paper cups of coffee on the table in front of them. They were talking animatedly, arguing perhaps?
And then another terrifying thought hit. What if Keith, enraged over the affair, had killed Jen and forced Steve to help him dispose of the body? Keith could have blackmailed him into disposing of his wife’s body in return for keeping his mouth shut about the affair. Bridget let the idea sit in her mind for a moment. It cast Steve in a whole other light—an adulterer, yes, but also a victim trapped by his own misdeeds in a duplicitous web.
After one final peek through the window, Bridget ducked her head down and sped back down the street to the strip mall where she’d parked her car. She wasn't going to find out anything more by hanging around outside the coffee shop. One thing she knew now for sure, her husband was inextricably caught up in Jen Carson’s murder to some degree or another.
9
After a restless night spent mulling over the possibility that Steve was being blackmailed and worrying that she might have completely misunderstood everything and thrown him to the wolves by calling the tip line, Bridget got up early and brewed herself a strong coffee. She downed the first cup in a few hasty gulps, made a second cup, and then resolutely donned an apron. She’d forced Steve to take the holiday off work to be with the family, so the least she could do was make them breakfast.
With a dogged resolve, she scrambled some eggs and spinach, fried a pound of bacon, made some banana pancakes, and then piled everything into the warming drawer until Steve and the kids showed up in the kitchen, rested and hungry. While she waited, Bridget pulled out her phone and sat down at the island to peruse her news Apps, but her thoughts soon drifted back to the enigmatic nightmare she was embroiled in.
Harper was the first to appear, rubbing her eyes sleepily as she climbed up on a chair at the kitchen table in fluffy kitten pajamas.
Bridget hugged her daughter, and then busied herself making her a plate.
Harper clapped her hands in delight when she saw the pancakes on her plate. “It looks yummy. Thank you for breakfast, Mommy.”
Bridget’s heart melted. Harper was such a breath of fresh air, always grateful for the smallest gesture of kindness. She reminded Bridget of how Steve had been when they were first married. Over the years, the responsibilities of his job and the long hours had taken their toll on his capacity to appreciate what he had. He seemed too distracted most of the time to notice what she did, even when she went the extra mile. She missed his tender affirmations. But, to be fair, she’d stopped making much of an effort herself.
“You're very welcome, munchkin,” Bridget said, as she spooned out a small plate of scrambled eggs and added a pancake and a slice of bacon for herself. She poured Harper a glass of orange juice and set it down on the table. “Did you sleep good?”
Harper chewed on a mouthful of egg, tilting her head to one side as she considered the question. “Well, not really, ‘cause Henry woke me up. Can I have some ketchup, please?”
Bridget reached for the bottle of ketchup and squirted a blob on Harper's plate. “Why did Henry wake you up?”
“He was being so loud on his phone.”
Bridget furrowed her brow. It sounded as though Henry had been playing online video games during the night again. He wasn't supposed to be on the computer between eleven and seven. She and Steve had a rule that the kids’ doors had to stay open at night so they could check on them on their way to bed. Obviously, Henry was getting around their computer curfew. The truth was, he could be playing all night every night if he wanted to and they’d be none the wiser. The master bedroom suite was at the other end of the house to the kids’ rooms. At one point, Steve had put some kind of parental control on the computer, but Henry had probably figured out how to get around it.
Bridget tried to keep the frustration out of her voice when she responded to her daughter. ”I’ll have a word with Henry about it. He knows he's not supposed to be playing video games at night.”
Harper slurped her orange juice and licked her upper lip. She set the glass back down carefully. ”He wasn't playing games. He was talking to Quinn, and he was so mad at him.”
Bridget interlaced her fingers around her coffee mug as she regarded her daughter. “What makes you think he was mad at Quinn?”
Harper jutted out her bottom lip. “He was yelling.”
“Do you know what he was yelling about?”
Harper picked up her bacon strip and took a bite, then wiped her fingers on her pajama top.
“Honey, don’t do that!” Bridget chided, handing her a napkin.
Harper took it and scrubbed it across her lips before setting it down next to her plate. “Henry said, you don't know it was my dad. Maybe it was your dad.” She pushed her plate aside and blinked innocently at Bridget. “Samantha in my class says her daddy is the best. But everybody's daddy is the best, isn’t that right?”
Bridget traced a fingertip across her brow and nodded distractedly. “Yes, that’s true. Everybody has the best daddy for them. Why don't you wash up and get dressed now so we can go visit Grandma at the hospital.”
Bridget got up from the table and went to wake Henry. He was curled up beneath his New York Giants duvet, snoring softly, his clothes fanned out on the floor at the foot of his bed. Bridget eyed his phone on the bedside table. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for it and typing in his password. Thankfully, that was another of her and Steve’s household rules. They had unlimited access to their kids’ passwords to all their electronic devices and social media accounts. She glanced at Henry’s phone record. Sure enough, he’d talked to Quinn for over seven minutes at two-forty in the morning.
She set the phone back down and shook Henry awake. “It's almost ten o'clock. Time to get up. We’re going to swing by the hospital to visit Grandma this morning.”
Henry groaned. ”Do I have to go?”
“Yes! We barely got to see her yesterday. It’s the least you can do after everything Grandma does for you. I made bacon, eggs and pancakes for breakfast. They’re in the warming drawer. Don’t go back to sleep.“
She exited his room and made her way to the master bedroom.
Steve had just got out of the shower and was digging around for some clothes in the dresser drawers. “Something smells good,” he said cheerily, as he pulled a T-shirt over his head.
“Breakfast’s in the warming drawer,” Bridget muttered, before slipping into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. She couldn't bring herself to look her husband in the face. Whatever he’d done, or not done, he’d been lying to her for the past two days. It was anyone’s guess how long he’d been lying to her before that.
When they arrived at the hospital an hour later, Elise was sitting up in bed, chatting and laughing with the nurse on duty.
“Hi, Grandma,” Harper said, laying her head down on the bed next to her.
Elise smoothed her granddaughter’s hair back from her forehead. “It’s so good to see you, my little ray of sunshine.”
The nurse turned to Bridget. “Your mother’s making excellent progress.”
“Not giving you any trouble, is she?” Bridget teased.
“Not in the least. She keeps us all entertained.” The nurse chuckled and squeaked off down the corridor in her rubber-soled shoes.
“You’re looking good, Elise,” Steve said, patting her arm as he sat down in a chair next to the bed.
“I feel good. It must be all those drugs.“ She squinted up at Henry. “I can't believe they dragged you along with them again today. Don’t you have better thing
s to do on the weekend than visit me in the hospital?“
He shuffled his feet awkwardly. ”It's okay. I'm glad you're feeling better, Grandma.”
Elise pinned a penetrating gaze on Bridget. “You look pale, dear. Are you all right?”
Bridget gave a nonchalant shrug. “I’m fine. Where’s Dad?”
“His arthritis is acting up this morning. He’ll be in later.”
The trill of Steve's phone cut through the sterile space.
“Sorry about that,” he said, fumbling to put it on silent. He stared down at the screen, frowning. “Actually, I’d better answer this.”
He stood abruptly and went outside the room to take the call. When he came back in, he had a grim expression on his face. “Jack Carson’s had a stroke. Keith’s here at the hospital with him. He wants to know if we can take Quinn for a bit.”
“Of course.” Bridget glanced across at Henry for approval, caught off guard to see a scowl flicker across his face. She frowned, wondering again what he and Quinn had been arguing about the other night.
"I'm going to head over to the surgery ICU and pick Quinn up,” Steve said, shrugging out of his jacket. “Keith’s got his hands full with everything that’s going on.” He slung his jacket over the back of the chair. “It’s about a hundred degrees in here. How can you stand it, Elise?”
“I’m not complaining,” she replied. “You know me, I’m always cold.”
Steve wiped the back of his hand over his brow in an exaggerated fashion, as he exited the room.
Bridget chatted with her mom for a few more minutes until a second nurse popped her head in. “Can I ask you folks to step out while I give Elise a shot. It won’t take long. And the doctor wants to take a quick peek at her incision. If everything looks good, she’ll be able to go home tomorrow.“
"Sure, no problem.” Bridget grabbed Steve's jacket and got to her feet.
“There’s a waiting room down the hallway to the left,” the nurse added. “I’ll let you know when the doctor's finished in here.”