Page 47 of Such a Good Wife

Under the sink in the master bath, I reach back to the tampon box and pull out the phone. This time, there is one unread message. My heart drops to my stomach. I lose my breath. I’m afraid to open it—afraid to find out who’s behind these messages. When I click open the text, there is no further clue as to who is sending it, but there is definitely a clear message.

What would you do to stay out of news headlines...and out of jail?

Jail? This person thinks I’ve done something I didn’t do. I wish now that I’d called the police the day I found him. I wish I’d stayed and told them the truth, that I found him like this. I could have maintained the story that Luke was giving me private writing lessons. Collin is so trusting; I’m sure I could have spun it in a way where it would seem plausible that I hadn’t told him. Maybe that I was really excited about a piece I was working on and Luke was helping me polish it, maybe get it into a small publication, and I wanted to surprise Collin with the end result. Far-fetched perhaps, but it would be better than this—than being suspected of having something to do with a murder.

What do you want? I type, and push Send. I wait as long as I can for a response before I hear Collin coming upstairs to get ready for bed. I triple-check that the phone is on silent and push it to the back of the cabinet, closing the door. It keeps me up at night, wondering who this person could possibly be. Is it some stranger who might have seen me parking and then sneaking through the trees behind Luke’s house at night? Have they been following me this whole time, looking for an opportunity to blackmail me, and the crowded party was the perfect time?

Before Collin reaches the room, I strip down to my underwear, throw on a T-shirt and slip under the covers, pretending to be asleep so we don’t have to mutually pretend not to hear the newscast, so I don’t have to see him hide the look of worry and perhaps doubt that I’ve been noticing in his eyes.

In the morning, with the kids at school and Collin at work, I wheel Claire out to the front porch to sit with me. It’s a crisp morning, overcast and hazy, and everyone wants to take advantage of the short few months one can escape the Louisiana heat. I spread a thin quilt over her lap and sit with my coffee and laptop on the porch swing across from her. The weathered slats display peeling yellow paint; they’re cool against the backs of my legs. I think about the day we painted it, not long after we moved in. When everything was perfect. I close my eyes against the memory, trying to ward it off, and I open my laptop.

I search for any updates on the case, finding no real details beyond what I heard on the news last night. I stir hot milk into my coffee and curl my knees up to my chest. Tonight I’ll cook something special. I need to focus on my family, and make Collin feel like everything is just fine. I go through recipes in my head. There’s a Greek chicken thing he likes, maybe shrimp with risotto. As I make a mental grocery list, I’m distracted by the sound of a car approaching. It’s just a dot against the horizon at first, but as it gets closer and takes shape, I see that it’s a police car.

I sit upright, spilling scalding coffee onto my thighs. I swallow the cussword I want to scream out and wipe my legs with my hand. My heart flutters and I watch, hoping it’s just a patrol car passing by. It doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Maybe that’s all it is...but then it slows and turns into our drive. I hear the scrape of the underbelly of the vehicle against our steep driveway. I suck in a shallow breath and hold it.

Joe Brooks steps out of the driver’s side. He tips his hat to me as he walks toward the porch, with a careless smile as if it’s a social call.

“Morning, Mel.”

I don’t greet him. I concentrate on controlling the look on my face. It can’t read shock or guilt. I must unfurrow my brow and turn the corners of my mouth up into something resembling a welcoming smile. At the very least.

“Joe, hi. You’re here again.”

“Can I take a minute of your time?”

“Of course. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I ask, hoping my painted expression reads as genuine.

“Sure, thanks.”

“Have a seat, I’ll grab an extra mug inside.” I go inside, rushing, fumbling to get the mug as quickly as I can, wanting him to leave. I want to know what else he could possibly be here for, and at the same time I don’t want to know.

I return to the porch and place a colorful “Best Dad” mug in front of him and pick up the French press off the small table. I can see the top of his head from where I hover behind him, pouring him a cup. I see the pale part in his dark shock of hair. I think about finishing the pour, and then slowly dumping the scalding contents of the French press over his head, tiny rivers of boiling coffee running down his face. This dark thought surprises me and I flush a little, momentarily afraid he can read my thoughts, sitting out there on the porch. I have never been the type to wish others harm, and I’ve raised kind children. But now, after knowing what Joe has done—his abuse of power, his propensity for violence, his almost arrogant remorselessness—and now, his capacity to destroy the life I’ve built, I wish the coffee was boiling oil. I take pleasure imagining him without any flesh on his face—his eyeballs round and bulging like a photo in an anatomy book, his skeleton jaw like a Halloween decoration.

But of course, I only offer cream and sugar and then sit opposite him, careful not to give away my trembling hands. I glance sideways at Claire a moment, wondering how much of what is said, if any, she is capable of absorbing. She just stares out into the front yard’s trees. I envy her for a moment because she’s somewhere far away and safe.

“What can I do for you, Detective Brooks?”

“Mel, you can still call me Joe.”

I don’t say anything back to this, only nod in acknowledgment. I’m not sure what he’s playing at, acting overly friendly, but I’m not falling for whatever show he’s putting on.

“How’s Collin?” he asks, breezily.

“Please, just...what’s this about?” I ask, and his smile fades.

“All right, then. Do you recall what you were doing Thursday, September 20?” he asks.

“Uhh, I don’t—I can barely remember what I was doing yesterday at this time,” I stall, scanning my mind for that date, for what he’s getting at. “I usually have a writing group that night, Thursdays, I mean.” At least I’m being honest because that was weeks ago and I really don’t remember the exact dates.

“So you were at Classics Bookstore that night?” he asks, and I have to think back. Which weeks did I skip? Was I there that day? How will it be significant?

“Probably. I don’t go every week, but...”

“We have a witness that says you weren’t there.”

I shift in my seat.

“Then I guess I wasn’t. Like I say, I usually am, but I don’t...”

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