Chapter Ten

JUDE

I woke up with a concussion, a head wound, and wife who isn’t herself. Par for the course, these days it seems, and just a few things that kept me from getting the dead girl in the back of my trunk situation handled before dawn the way I’d planned. Also, we’re fighting again, and I’m pretty sure you’re losing your mind.

Plus, I know you aren’t being completely honest about what that cop did to you. I know by the way you flinched as I ran my hand up your thigh, and I swear to God, Kate, just as soon as I dispose of the dead girl in my trunk, I will deal with that motherfucker in a way that will make him wish he’d never seen the likes of me—or laid a finger on you.

I guess it makes sense that after what happened last night, you would be off your game a little. But that doesn’t explain the fact that you’re telling me and anyone who will listen that you heard screams last night. By noon you’d already called no fewer than a handful of our neighbors. I know because I checked your phone remotely, and although they won’t say it— I’m pretty sure they think you’re crazy, too.

This paranoid version of you is new, and we have a rotting corpse in our trunk and screams in the night should be the least of your worries right now. I don’t get it—usually, you let me do the worrying, and I’ll tell you one thing, I’m not the least bit concerned with these screams you heard, real or not. What I am concerned about is the note I had to pry from a dead guy’s mouth, the impending burial I need to attend to, and the motherfucking cop I am going to have to kill. You tell me to get over it, you promise me that you’re fine. But I have eyes, and I see you. You want me to let it all go—but I can’t—and I won’t. Cop or not, he’s the one who has to go. Protect and serve—it’s a motto he’s bound by, and he did neither. I know because there’s a dead girl in my trunk who is decomposing by the minute, and he didn’t protect or serve her. He only served himself and his sick fantasies. It’s not the first time he’s pulled this, I can assure you of that. And you know what happens when people think they have that much power? Men who think they can force women to do what they want? They die. Maybe not right away. But eventually. There’s a little saying you might know: What goes around comes around. And in this pig’s case, the what in that sentiment is going to be me.

I’ve always been of the opinion that if you haven’t got something important to say, you might as well not say anything at all. After all, it’s better to keep your mouth shut and appear stupid, than open it and remove all doubt.

Well, speaking of mouths and keeping them shut, I can’t stop thinking about that note. ‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ who writes shit like that? It sounds like some kind of third grade fucking Valentine, if you ask me.

You say you didn’t write it, that it wasn’t there when you went back in, and if you’re telling the truth, well—we both know what that means. Someone else was. What I want to know was who and why, and how close did we come to getting set up? Do you have any idea what would have happened, had I not gone back in and discovered that note? We’d be wanted for murder—that’s what. But that’s not what gets me. It’s the fact that if it isn’t you who wrote it, then there’s someone else messing with me, and tell me Kate, if a man can’t even trust his wife, then who can he trust?

I’ll give you a hint. The answer is no one.

It’s a cloudy day and muggy, the kind of day that has a hint of irritation in the air that you just can’t shake. You say it’s a full moon, and that’s why all of this is happening. You actually believe in that crap, and I don’t pretend that I know all the secrets of the universe, but what I do know is this: No one gets off that easy. None of this shit just happens to us, Kate. We make it happen.

Speaking of making things happen, I take the girl back to the water. There’s a part of me who hopes that bastard cop shows up, but he doesn’t, which is probably a good thing because I have to rush as it is. You demanded that I take her out to the barn. But I’m short on time, and digging a grave wasn’t exactly a calendar item this week, and well, we have other more pressing issues going on than what constitutes a proper burial. Two new jobs came in over the course of my handling your dirty work, and you see, I can make things happen. I can make them happen, and I can make them go away. Business is booming and I live for this. In fact, I’m going to have to leave town tomorrow, and well, I know how much you hate that. I could have said no, but duty calls. Bad guys don’t give up just because you’re having an off day. Criminals don’t stop, they don’t wait for you to be ready. Also, there’s a full moon, and I think some distance will do us good.

I come home sweaty and dirty, but actually happy to see you, despite the sense of ever looming dread I feel over having to tell you I have to hop on a plane. Despite what you’re going to say—I’m not completely oblivious. It’s not that I don’t realize what an inopportune time this is—given everything that’s happened— is just that work is work, and you need to get ahold of yourself, and I’m coming to realize you can’t very well do that if I keep handling everything for you. You know the saying: Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.

Burying the nanny was giving you a fish. When really, what you need is to learn to fend for yourself. And I guess you could say that both my patience and my generosity has run out of line.

I’m at the end of my rope, and I don’t know what I expect to find when I walk in the door, I never do, and today is no different. Except that you’re laid out on the couch, and you and the kids are glued to those goddamned devices, that you insist they need. Once upon a time, they used to rush to the door the second they heard my key hit the lock. They’d tackle my knees and scream Daddy, and next to coming home to you, it was always the best part of my day. These days, though, I’m lucky if they even glance up from those screens, and now you’re in on it too, and something has to change.

“Look, Daddy!” Olivia shrieks as I lean down to kiss you. “Mommy is letting us look at Jake and Izzy on Facebook.”

I pull back and really look at you, and you smile because you know how much I hate Facebook. You’re still wearing the workout clothes you had on this morning when I left, only I know for a fact you haven’t worked out. Your hair’s a mess, your eyes are wild—this isn’t you, and what the fuck have I just come home to?

“I spoke with Josie…” you say, and you glare up at me. “And she heard the scream, too.”

“Of course she did. Josie will tell you what you want to hear because that’s Josie.”

You don’t reply, and Brady demands my attention.

“Look! Miss Anne is fairy…” he tells me, pointing at the screen, and I’ll be damned if he’s not lying. You read my expression, and you understand the question, and what the hell are you showing my children Kate? If you tell me not to worry, it’s make believe, I’ll tell you, you’re not kidding. Because if you would've told me ten years ago that grown people would be posting pictures of themselves on the internet using filters to look like fairies and strange animals, I would've told you, you were fucking insane. Which you are. But then—it appears that this whole world is losing its goddamned mind. In fact, there’s so much I want to say to you in this moment, but we have kids, and when you have kids you can’t go around starting fights the way you used to. But if I could start World War III, here and now, I’d begin by letting you know that I’ve searched your phone and I can’t believe half of the crap you look at. You say you have no time—but that’s just a cover for how much you waste. Because if you want to know where all of your precious time goes, I’ll tell you. About two to three hours of it goes toward scrolling through this bullshit. And that’s just what I’ve accounted for.

You swear we need a nanny because you’re overwhelmed, and yet it seems you have plenty of time to look at people taking selfies, people pretending to be fairies— or whatever — when basically they just want someone to tell them how cute they are, and what has this world come to?

You tell me I’m overreacting even though I haven’t said anything. You tell me I’m being ridiculous, that there’s nothing to be concerned about, and a part of you is right. It’s a waste of time to be concerned about the rest of the world when your own wife is hearing voices and calling all the neighbors to tell them about it—when she’s got your children wrapped up in such blatant narcissism.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t how it’s been. But you’re falling down the rabbit hole, Kate, and we promised, we’d never be like the rest of them. This person I came home to, the one on the couch in sweats, wrapped up in other people and the garbage they spew out, this person isn’t who you are. She isn’t the girl I fell in love with. And the problem is, I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. I only know that we can’t go on like this.

I’ve always found that distraction is the best way to solve a problem, and it’s how I plan to solve at least a few of ours.

“I ordered takeout for dinner,” you say, watching on as I rummage through the refrigerator. It’s a good thing, I note, surveying the bare shelves. Monique did the grocery shopping, and clearly all it takes is a few days for things to start slipping around here.

“Delivery?” I ask over the noise, the kids running circles around me. If you reply, I can’t tell, because it’s hard to hear over the noise level, and someone has taken someone’s something, and suddenly all hell has broken loose.

“Yes,” you yell, and clearly your hearing is better than mine. “The usual.”

“Oh,” I say and I close the refrigerator. “Actually, I have plans,” I tell you, and we’re yelling back and forth when yelling was something we said we’d never do. Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder. Rumi said that.

But you aren’t thinking about Rumi or rain or flowers. You’re a snake poised to strike. I can tell by the look you’re giving me. It could kill, and apparently I was wrong before. You can fight in front of kids.

“Go play—” I tell them making sure my voice has a hard edge to it. Like their mother, they don’t budge “Out of the kitchen—” I order. “Or I’m taking your iPads to work with me tomorrow.” That’s all it takes. All eyes are on me.

“Fine,” they huff in unison, and I watch as they file out of the kitchen, taking their fight with them.

“Jude—” you say, and your voice is low, you’re ready to attack. I cut you off.

“I know—” I start and I turn in your direction. “It’s not ideal having to go out tonight… but I was thinking you could join me.”

You cock your head and your expression changes. You weren’t expecting that. “And what about the kids?”

“Ask Josie to watch them.”

“I can’t ask her again…” you say twisting your mouth, weighing your options.

“All right. We’ll take them to Rudy’s.”

You scoff, and I’m not surprised. “Your father doesn’t even like kids.”

I lean against the kitchen counter, and then I take an apple from the bowl that’s sitting on the island. “He’ll be fine with them for a few hours,” I counter, biting into it.

“That was for decoration,” you chide, eyeing the apple in my mouth and it’s clear you’ve softened.

“For who?’”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, and you don’t respond. You’re trying to be civil, but it takes a lot out of you. You hop up on the kitchen counter, eyeing me suspiciously, but I can see that you’re at least halfway sold on the whole Rudy thing. You let out a long sigh, and then you shake your head. “I’m going to have to hire a new nanny… I’m going stir crazy here, Jude.”

I knew this was coming, and so I answer accordingly. “I can see that.”

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for this full-time parenting gig…”

“You probably should have thought of that two kids ago,” I reply, because if you think I’m afraid to play hardball you’re wrong. I’m not okay with a part-time parent for my kids—so you’re going to have to deal with it. “Suck it up buttercup, that’s what my father always said.”

You don’t respond immediately. You stare off beyond my shoulder, and I don’t know where you’ve gone, but I can feel it’s somewhere very far away. “Give Rudy a call,” you tell me as you hop off the counter. “I’ll get dressed.”

“Kate?” I say, just as you reach the door.

You turn back, brow furrowed.

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“Of course,” you say, and then you grin. You clap your hands just slightly, and I swear it’s like you’ve just morphed into an entirely different person. You meet my gaze and the light in your eyes is back. “We’re going to work.”

My father is none too pleased about the idea of babysitting, which I’d predicted. But what could he say when we show up unannounced? He couldn’t exactly say no—not in front of them, and so here we are. Just the two of us skirting around issues, doing our best to play nice.

You stare out the window, and I wonder if it’s a good time to tell you about the trip. It’s been raining on and off for the last few hours, but now it’s as though the sky has opened up, and it is unleashing everything it has on us, every last drop. The darkness of night and the sound of the rain seem to have a calming effect on you, and I decide it’s probably best to drive on in silence. I decide to let it be. You don’t ask where we’re going, in fact you don’t speak at all, and I wonder what you’re thinking. But I won’t ask. You and I, we’ve never been the kind of couple who share our every thought, and I don’t intend to start now.

By the time I pull over and park, a few blocks down from the bar, you’ve fallen asleep. I like you like this, peaceful and content, all mine, and I think I could stare forever.

Instead, I place my hand on your thigh. It startles you awake, and I swear you just about jump out of your skin.

“Easy there,” I say, eyeing you up and down.

Your breath is ragged, and it takes you a few seconds to get ahold of yourself but eventually you do.

“I was dreaming,” you say, using the back of your hand to wipe the drool from your cheek, and it’s knowing the way a person looks when they first wake, knowing someone this intimately, that gets me every time. There’s nothing quite like being this vulnerable. No one tells you there are levels to intimacy, so many levels, in fact, and just when you think you’ve gone as far as there is to go, you’re always surprised to find there’s more.

“Where are we?” you ask, and you glance from side to side, but rain drops smatter the windows, making it nearly impossible to see out.

“4 th Street,” I tell you.

You rub your eyes, and you know what that means. I don’t have to explain it, and I realize how much I’d miss that if we can’t find a way to make this work. Not that I want to think this way—it’s just…well, you know me, and ‘Plan B’ is not something I like to go without. I study the curve of your tits as you sit up a little straighter in your seat, and I hope we give each other reasons to want to stay. The way your tits look in that shirt just might be enough.

You yawn and you stretch and your shirt lifts with your arms revealing just a hint of belly and maybe coming here was exactly what we needed. “Fourth Street,” you say. “Hmmm. Well… it’s a good thing I had a nap…”

“Let’s run through the plan—” I say and I start to explain and it helps to see that I have your attention instantly. “But, first— I need you to promise me, Kate, and by that I mean swear to me, that you are going to follow directions this time. We don’t need another situation on our hands.”

You shift in your seat and you eyeball me. “Why did you ask me to come?”

“Because I want you here.”

“Is that so?

I shrug. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Do you trust me Jude?” you ask, and it’s amazing. You always know something’s up, you always know when I’m holding something back. Nonetheless, it turns me on that you’re so smart—that you know me this well. You’re a mind-fuck, darling, and that’s a beautiful thing to be.

“What kind of question is that?”

You close your eyes just briefly and then you shake your head. “Just answer it,” you demand, and I love how I exasperate you. It’s good to know the feeling is mutual.

“Of course, I trust you. You’re my wife…”

You roll your neck. “Well, I’m not so sure…”

“I don’t see how it’s my job to convince you of anything.”

I watch as you clench your teeth. It’s your tell. You don’t respond, at least not verbally. Instead, you cross your arms and you pout.

“All right,” I finally relent. I tread carefully. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make ‘em drink.

“All right, what?”

“All right, I’ll prove it. I trust you enough to leave town tomorrow.”

You do a double-take. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“In fact, I’m not.”

You ball your fists and take a deep breath, and you’re so transparent in your anger. “But tomorrow morning is kinder orientation. I’ve told you that a million times…”

I fold my lips, and then I smile, but just a little. Happy people add fuel to the fire of those who are not. Right now you’re not the least bit happy, and that means I need to tread carefully. “My flight is in the afternoon.”

“Yeah, well—it doesn’t matter. You’ll still be distracted…”

“I will not. I’ll be the most non-distracted, most present father there.” You roll your eyes at my response and you’re still pouting. It isn’t cute, so I take it a little further. “It’s a promise.”

You stare out the window, and we don’t have time for this but what can I do? It is what it is. Plus, I understand the importance of telling you I have another trip before we make the kill—while I still have a carrot to dangle in front of you.

I make a show of checking my watch.

“Fine. Whatever,” you relent. “Do what you need to do,” you say, glancing over at me, even though you don’t mean it at all.

I playfully breathe a sigh of relief, but you’re not in the mood to play. Not yet.

“Now—what’s the plan?” you ask, and your voice is hard. You’re not giving in easily, and you want me to know it.

“I’m going to drop you here,” I say, thumbing through my phone. When what I’m looking for pops up on the screen, I hand it to you. You glance at the photo, and you begin to flip through others. You know the drill; you know it’s important to familiarize yourself with a place.

You lay the phone on your thigh as realization hits you. “You’re not coming with me?”

No, I’m teaching you to fish, I think to myself. I don’t say it though. “It’s a small place.”

You nod, and you want to be trusted. I’m good at giving you what you want.

“He usually sits at the end of the bar. To the right,” I say, showing you his picture once again, just to be sure.

“What’s this about?” you ask, biting your lip, and for some reason lately you always want to know. Before, you rarely asked my reason for anything. Before, a kill was a kill was a kill. Now, for some reason it matters.

“DUI—And I bet you a million to one he’s driven himself here even though his license has been revoked…”

“DUI. Huh.”

“Multiple,” I tell you. “He did a stint in prison, got out, killed a woman and her unborn child and now he’s awaiting trial…”

You check your appearance in the mirror. “It makes sense, he’s drowning his sorrows,” you say, and I’ve always loved your dark sarcasm. You glance at me then and your eyes cut holes in me. I want to believe that you’ve got this. I want to believe that we’ve got this. Not just the kill. But this marriage. This life. “You want me to pick him up…?” you ask, and you smile because you already know the answer. You just want to hear me say it.

“Yes. But on one condition. You have to convince him you’re doing the driving. Make it non-negotiable. Whatever you have to do, I don’t care, but he has to leave his truck where it is.”

You jut out your bottom lip. “Okay.”

“Tell him you’re driving the two of you back to your place, and then drive out to the barn. I’ll wait in the back seat. He’ll likely be too drunk to notice anyway.”

“Why don’t you just come in with me? Hang back,” you suggest. “You know how much I like it when you watch me work…”

I shake my head slowly. You’re a tease, and you make me smile. “This way no one sees the both of us.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “But what if someone sees me?”

“So?”

“So they’ll think I’m trying to pick up other men. You know how people in this town talk…”

“This bar is a dump, Kate,” I say and I laugh because I’ve forgotten how funny you can be when we’re getting along. “I doubt you have to worry about anyone who knows us stepping foot inside a place like that.”

“You’d better hope you’re right,” you reply, grabbing your purse. You open the door and you smile. Then you turn and you saunter away and your ass looks so good in those jeans that it takes everything in me not to follow.

You’re in there for what feels like forever, and I see it for what it is, Kate, you’re testing me. You want me to come to you, to see what you’re up to, just like old times.

And I almost do. I’m getting antsy, just sitting here waiting. This isn’t how I roll, and maybe I don’t like this whole fishing thing after all. In fact, I’m just about to give up and go in after you—to take a risk we can’t afford to take— when I see you walking back toward the car.

Alone.

You open the door, get in the drivers seat, and start the ignition. It takes you a second, but eventually you meet my eye in the rearview mirror.

You aren’t saying anything, and I cock my head. “What the fuck?”

I study your expression, and I don’t know what happened in there or why you’ve come out empty handed, but one thing is clear: you’re pissed.

You swallow, and then you give me the death stare. “He’s not into women, genius.”