Page 54 of Offside Bride

SAWYER

Coach let us out early today after a grueling practice, so when I get home, I’m ready to collapse on the couch. Kicking off my shoes at the front door, I hear Mrs. Pruitt’s shrill voice coming from the kitchen. Normally, I’d ignore her incessant chatter, but something in her tone makes me pause. She’s on the phone, probably gossiping with her equally crotchety friend.

“You won’t believe what that gold-digging tramp did now,” she hisses. “Left her paints all over the dining room table. Who does she think she is, Picasso?”

I freeze, my jaw clenching. She’s talking about Maggie.

“I know! And don’t get me started on the way she dresses. And her attitude…I swear, she has got more sass than sense.”

I clench my fists, anger bubbling up inside me. How dare she?

“She’s got Mr. O’Malley wrapped around her little finger,” Mrs. Pruitt continues, oblivious to my presence. “Prancing around in those skimpy outfits. It’s disgusting!”

I, for one, happen to like her skimpy outfits—although I know she favors sweatpants and hoodies when she’s home. I must admit, the shortage of skimpy outfits in this house is a travesty.

“And don’t even get me started on him,” Mrs. Pruitt spits. “All brawn, no brains. Mr. Big Shot Hockey Player!”

Wait a freaking minute. Now she’s bagging on me? I’d rather not be around for that part of her rant. I quietly make my way to my office, seething but curious to see how far she’ll go. I settle into my chair, waiting.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Mrs. Pruitt bustles in with her cleaning supplies, nearly jumping out of her skin when she sees me.

“Mr. O’Malley! I didn’t expect you home so early.”

“Clearly,” I mutter under my breath.

She launches into a litany of extra chores she’s done this week, each one more unnecessary than the last. I nod along, my patience wearing thin.

“I deep cleaned the refrigerator, reorganized your closet, and even alphabetized your spice rack!”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I know her game—do a bunch of stuff I never asked for, then expect a fat bonus. Usually, I don’t mind, but after what I just overheard, I’m not feeling particularly generous.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Maggie’s artwork has gone missing. Do you know anything about it?”

Her eyes dart around the room, avoiding mine. “I…I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Let me rephrase.” I lean forward, fixing her with a hard stare. “Did you, or did you not, throw away my wife’s artwork?”

Mrs. Pruitt’s face goes through more expressions than a mime on too much caffeine. “Well, I…that is to say…”

“Yes or no, Mrs. Pruitt. It’s not a trick question.”

She deflates like a punctured balloon. “Yes, but Mr. O’Malley, you don’t understand. That woman?—”

“My wife,” I correct her, my voice sharp enough to slice through ice.

“Your…wife,” she spits the word like it’s poison. “She’s so messy! And loud!”

“What does loud have to do with anything?”

“Well…” she stutters, fumbling to find something to say that would incriminate Maggie. “Mr. O’Malley, you don’t understand. That woman is trouble! She’s always bringing strange men over when you’re not home…”

I lean back, crossing my arms. “Really? Do tell.”

Mrs. Pruitt’s eyes light up like she’s hit the gossip jackpot. “Oh yes, and that’s not all. She’s been stealing your watches, pawning your valuables. I even saw her kick that poor parrot!”

I feign a gasp. “Not the parrot!”

“She’s using you for your money,” she continues, her lies growing more outrageous by the second. “I overheard her on the phone, planning to divorce you and take everything!”

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