Page 36 of Brutal Husband

When I open them again, it’s dark outside.

I sit up with a start. I shouldn’t have slept the day away. That probably wasn’t the right thing to do if I possibly have a concussion, but I suppose it’s too late to worry about that now. My head isn’t hurting anymore, and I feel refreshed, so I suppose I’m all right. If I call the doctor, I’ll have to explain to him aboutmy drinking and burn with shame all over again as he judges me with those piercing, chilly blue eyes of his.

There are still no calls from Nero on my phone, and he hasn’t read my message. That’s strange. He’s not an attentive husband, but he always calls me back. Could this mean I did confront him last night and tell him I want a divorce? It would explain why he’s not here and he’s ignoring me. Maybe it’s a blessing that I don’t remember how that conversation went.

I make myself a simple dinner of things I scrounge out of the fridge and pantry. Some hot salami. Cheese. Crackers. Slices of red peppers. Cucumber dip. The craving for a glass of wine brushes the edges of my mind, but instead, I drink two huge glasses of sparkling water and go to bed.

The next morning, I wake up to a silent house. Nero’s bedroom is just as it was yesterday, and there’s no sign that he’s come home. When I call his phone, this time it goes straight to voicemail. Unease trickles through my belly. Something doesn’t feel right. Nero should be here, telling me I’m an ungrateful, spiteful bitch. Or his lawyers should be serving me with divorce papers, ordering me out of the house, and reminding me coldly that because I signed a prenup, I get nothing.

Somethingshould be happening.

The last place I saw Nero was at home, but the last sign of him was his car parked outside his office. I’m pretty sure I can trust that memory as it’s the last thing I remember before blacking out.

Not knowing what else to do, I drive to his office. Nero’s car isn’t there. I go inside and speak with several people who work for him. They’re concerned as well because if Nero’s busy elsewhere or goes on a trip, he tells them. Maybe not straight away, but at least within twenty-four hours. None of them saw his car parked here yesterday, and no one was here in the small hours the night previously.

I scroll through my phone contacts until I reach Mom. I’m furious with her because of her cruelty toward Laz and Mia, but I don’t know who else to talk to, and she’s happy to get involved with other people’s crises.

After just two rings, she picks up. “Hello, Rieta. Are you still throwing yourself a pity party?”

“Mom, I can’t find Nero.”

A pause, and then in a different tone of voice, she asks, “When did you last see him?”

“The night before last night. We ate dinner together, then he went to his office, and I haven’t seen him since. Or at least, I don’t think I did.”

“Rieta, what are you talking about?” she asks impatiently. “Did you see him or didn’t you?”

“I think I told him I want a divorce. I followed him to his office, but I can’t remember if we spoke.”

“Were you drunk?”

No excuses or minimizing. No lies. “Yes, I was drunk. I had a whole bottle of wine, and I think I had more when I got home. I’ve been drinking way too much. I have a problem.”

“Oh, Rieta,” Mom says with a scornful sigh.

“I blacked out, or I was knocked out. There’s a lump on my forehead. I hit my head on something.”

“You hit your head, or someone hit you?”

That’s a good question. I try and scrounge up even a shred of a memory from when I was hurt, but I have nothing. “I don’t remember. I don’t know what to do. This isn’t like Nero.”

“What should you do?”

“I have no idea. Nero could be doing God knows what with any number of different people, and he’s too distracted or angry to tell me about it.”

“No, Rieta. Think. What does a wife do when she can’t find her husband?”

An ordinary wife, Mom means. Not the wife of a criminal. “She reports him missing to the police.”

“So do it,” Mom says crisply. “If Nero returns meantime, you can tell the police you found him. No harm done.”

I can feel that she’s about to hang up, but there are still so many worries laying heavily on my chest. “Nero said something about enemies. What if he’s been assassinated?”

“Rieta. We do not talk this way on the phone.”

If your husband is involved in crime, you always have to assume your phones are tapped. Plenty of men have been undone by their wives speaking too freely. “I know, but please just reassure me.”

There are a few beats of silence. “There’s no use in Mommy telling you everything will be all right, but if you insist, fine. Nero may have gone to ground, for his own safety and yours. He’ll come back when he’s able to come back. Now, call the police and report your husband missing. But, Rieta,” she says sharply. “You don’t know where he’s gone or why. He said or did nothing suspicious. All right?”

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