The Betrayed Wife Read online

  About five years ago, on a lark, she’d signed on for dance lessons at the Century Ballroom: waltz, fox-trot, and swing. She discovered she had a knack for it—and was so enthusiastic that the teacher often asked her to assist or fill in. Eventually, Sheila began instructing—individual, couple, and group classes. She didn’t make nearly as much money as she had as an accountant, but it was a hell of a lot more fun. And dance proved to be the best therapy in the world for her problems. It was hard to stay glum when she was moving around on the dance floor.

  As she stared out the window of the bus, Sheila told herself that she’d perk up once she started teaching her East Coast Swing group this afternoon.

  She checked her watch—and then glanced over at the blond guy once more.

  He was still staring at her. He clearly mouthed the word “bitch.”

  Flustered, Sheila quickly looked away again. Maybe somebody should have explained to this jerk that if he blew smoke in people’s faces, weaseled his way onto the bus without paying, took up two seats in the disabled/elderly section, and made a mess on the bus floor, he shouldn’t be so damn sensitive when he got a dirty look or two.

  Ignore him, she told herself. You should have ignored him in the first place.

  Her face flushed, she stared at the seatback in front of her. Sheila suddenly realized where she’d seen the guy before. It had been about ten days ago—at the supermarket. He’d been with a Goth-looking, blond-haired girl. Sheila had spotted him slipping a bottle of wine inside the same baggy camouflage jacket he wore now. He’d smirked when he caught her looking. Sheila remembered scowling back at him. She’d said something to one of the checkout clerks about the two street kids who were shoplifting, but had no idea if the clerk had followed up on it.

  She wondered if he actually recognized her from over a week ago. It didn’t seem likely—unless of course, he’d been busted for shoplifting that particular day and he somehow figured she was the one who had reported him. Still, would he really remember her?

  Sheila never considered herself all that memorable in the looks department. “Cute” was the word people used to describe her, and she was content with that. Tall and thin, she had blue eyes, a pale complexion and wavy, shoulder-length, auburn hair—or more precisely, light mocha brown, according to the description on the Nice’n Easy box. It had been her color for about eight years. But it wasn’t like the street punk would have remembered the lady with the light mocha brown hair. She remembered being dressed differently the last time they’d seen each other: She hadn’t been wearing this purple coat at the supermarket ten days ago. So she couldn’t imagine how this kid could remember her. Was it possible he’d been following her around for a while now?

  He couldn’t have been stalking her—not for the last ten days, not without her noticing. Sheila dared to look at him again. Yes, it was the same guy from the supermarket.

  And yes, damn it, he was still staring at her.

  Swallowing hard, she looked away again.

  The bus ground to a stop. A few people had gotten up and moved to the door. Hers was the stop after this one—in three blocks.

  Sheila loathed the idea of him following her off the bus—if he was indeed following her.

  The young man stopped staring at her to look at his phone.

  Sheila glanced back and saw the last person heading out the bus’s middle door.

  Springing to her feet, she ran to the door and hurried off the bus. She was in such a rush that she almost tripped stepping down to the curb.

  With a whoosh, the doors closed after her. Then the bus pulled away—with the blond creep still on it.

  Catching her breath, Sheila stood there on the sidewalk, in the rain. She waited until the bus was a little farther down the street, then she ducked under the awning of a Panera Bread. She wasn’t sure what to do. It wasn’t like she could call the police. The guy really hadn’t done anything except scare her a little.

  She stepped into Panera and was overwhelmed by the smell of fresh-baked bread. If she weren’t so unnerved, the aroma might have made her hungry, but right now, her mouth was dry and she just wanted a bottle of water. Someone was in front of her, so it took a couple of minutes.

  When she stepped outside again with her water, Sheila thought she saw the creepy blond guy across the street—in front of the community college. She stopped in her tracks.

  A semi-truck rumbled by her. When it had passed, the guy was gone.

  Sheila anxiously gazed across the street to see if he was hiding behind a lamppost, a telephone pole, or a car. She knew she hadn’t imagined him. He’d been there just a minute ago, watching her. He must have gotten off the bus at the next stop and then backtracked.

  She remembered the son of a bitch telling the driver he was going downtown.

  Sheila couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there somewhere across the street. She could feel his eyes on her.

  Her phone rang, startling her. With a shaky hand, she pulled it out of her raincoat pocket. It was a text, sender UNKNOWN. Was it him?

  Standing under the awning, she bit her lip and opened the text:

  Maybe u should ask ur husband about this.

  There was a link.

  Sheila knew she shouldn’t open a link from some stranger. She checked the time. She had only a few minutes to get to the Century Ballroom to teach her dance lesson. She told herself to delete the damn thing and get on her way.

  But she wondered what Dylan had to do with this cryptic link.

  She couldn’t help thinking the blond-haired creep was behind this. It seemed like too much of a coincidence that a stranger was following her—at practically the exact same time she received this strange text. There had to be a connection.

  She clicked on the link.

  An article from The Oregonian popped up—with the headline:

  Portland Woman Falls to Her Death

  From Apartment Building Roof

  Sheila immediately checked the date. It was from almost two weeks ago.

  As the rain tapped on the awning overhead, Sheila read the article about a forty-four-year-old divorcée, Antonia Newcomb. Sheila didn’t know her. She’d never heard of her. The woman was survived by a sixteen-year-old daughter. The victim appeared to have been sunbathing on her apartment building roof before she fell. The article didn’t say if her death had been an accident or suicide, or if foul play was involved. Apparently, the police hadn’t determined that at the time the article was written.

  Sheila felt sick to her stomach.

  She had no idea who this woman was. But the way she’d died was too horrible—and too familiar. And it had happened in Portland, of all places.

  She wondered why Dylan was supposed to know about this.

  Clutching the phone in her hand, Sheila gazed across the street again—for the seedy-looking blond guy.

  But there was no sign of him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wednesday—5:11 P.M.

  Dylan O’Rourke’s phone rang as he walked down the corridor toward the men’s locker room at the Pro Club. There were signs posted in the locker room prohibiting cell phone use, and Dylan refused to be one of those d-bags who thought their particular call or text was the exception to that rule. So he stopped, stepped aside, and pulled the phone out of his pocket. It was another text from Sheila:

  When will u b home from the gym?

  Dylan sighed. She was driving him crazy. She’d left him a voicemail earlier while he’d been in a lunch meeting. She’d sounded upset, and asked him to call her. He’d called back and left a message, asking what was the matter. She’d replied with a text, saying it could wait until tonight. But then, after an hour, she’d left another voicemail—to see if they could talk before her next dance class. She wouldn’t tell him in any of her messages what the hell was wrong, not even a clue. But they were supposed to talk when he got home from the gym tonight.

  Sheila had pulled this same routine on him about two weeks ago: all these messages b
ack and forth because she needed to discuss something with him. Dylan had figured one of the kids had had an accident and she’d been afraid to tell him in a message. But Sheila had insisted it could wait until he got home. It had turned out she’d just wanted to know if he was okay with going to a neighbor’s dinner party that weekend.

  So Dylan convinced himself that whatever this current “crisis” was, it could wait until he was home tonight. He texted her back:

  B home usual time . . . 6:45 XXX

  He shoved the phone back into his pocket, and then headed into the locker room.

  Dylan had a rigid routine he followed at the gym, right down to using the same machine for each exercise—if it was available. On the second level, the club had a dozen elliptical machines lined up in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the machine he liked was at the end—near the TV that was always tuned to CNN. But his machine wasn’t working today. Someone had unplugged it. His workout was already getting off to a bumpy start.

  Dylan tried the apparatus beside it, and that put him next to someone else—a thirtysomething blonde with her hair in a ponytail. She wore gray sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and glasses. She had a book on the holder of the machine’s dashboard, and she barely looked at him when he stepped onto the neighboring apparatus.

  That kind of bothered him—which was funny because Dylan usually tried to isolate himself at the gym. It was his time to tune everything else out. His job was in public relations for Starbucks, and he spent nearly all his work day dealing with people, doing his best to be diplomatic or charming. At the gym, he really didn’t want to talk to anyone. And yet, people were always striking up conversations with him. “Well, duh,” Sheila had told him when he’d mentioned it. “That’s because you’re not exactly hard on the eyes, hon. And please, don’t act like you don’t enjoy it, because I know you lap up the attention.”

  She was right, of course—about liking the attention and connecting with people. And yeah, he knew he was good-looking. He worked hard to keep in shape. And he was lucky because he had thick, wavy, dark brown hair and green eyes—almost the color of a 7UP bottle. He was forty-four, but looked several years younger. He liked hearing that he was handsome. But at the gym, he just wanted to get in and out of there. Plus, nearly half the people who approached him there were guys who ended up asking him out. And then he was never sure if he was getting a friendly invitation or hit on. He always told them thanks anyway, but his wife was waiting for him at home.

  The blond woman ignoring him was pretty—with a turned-up nose and full lips. Something about her was familiar. As he started his warm-up, Dylan tried to figure out where he’d seen her before. It wasn’t here.

  She glanced at him for a second, but as soon as their eyes met, she went back to her book.

  But Dylan was thunderstruck. His first assessment of her was wrong. She wasn’t just pretty. She was beautiful. He didn’t want to stop looking at her.

  She kept her strides at a leisurely pace. Dylan guessed she was just getting started on the machine or she was cooling down. He didn’t want to be caught staring, so he gazed forward—out the rain-beaded window at the buildings and construction cranes around South Lake Union. But it was dark enough out that he could shift his focus to their reflections in the glass. He kept looking at her, all the while wondering where he’d seen her before. She turned and glanced at him.

  Dylan smiled at her. “Hi, I know I’ve met you before . . .”

  She politely smiled back, but shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She wiped the perspiration off her forehead and went back to her book.

  Now that he’d heard her voice, Dylan remembered how they’d met. It had been about three weeks ago. He was in one of the busiest areas of Broadway, on his way to the supermarket for Sheila and waiting for the light to change. The WALK sign went on. He was about to step off the curb when someone grabbed his arm. Before he realized what was happening, a car tore around the corner, its tires screeching. The damn thing just missed him.

  His Good Samaritan was an attractive blonde. She wasn’t wearing her glasses then. As they crossed the street together, Dylan thanked her for saving his life. Just as they reached the curb on the other side of the street, her grocery bag tore. Dylan gave her the canvas grocery bag he’d had with him. It was from work: a high-quality Starbucks tote bag with Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks on it. Dylan remembered she didn’t want to walk off with his fancy tote. He assured her that he had a ton more like it at work and at home. On the sidewalk, he helped her transfer her groceries into the bag. After they said good-bye and parted company, Dylan recalled turning to look at her—and he caught her looking back at him, too. She gave a shy wave, and then moved on. It was strange, but in their brief exchange, Dylan felt a real connection to her.

  Now here she was, at his gym.

  “We met on Broadway,” Dylan said. “You stopped me from getting mowed down at the crosswalk by some nut.”

  The blonde warily glanced up from her book, and then at him. She started to shake her head again. “I’m sorry . . .”

  “I gave you my shopping bag,” he said.

  She paused on the machine. “Of course!” she exclaimed, breaking into a smile. She was slightly out of breath. “I still have it. The Edward Hopper tote, it’s a new favorite. I use it every time I go shopping. I hate to tell you, but you’re never getting it back.”

  “It’s all yours,” Dylan said, increasing his pace on the machine. “It was a thank-you for rescuing me, remember?”

  “Well, it was my pleasure.” She started walking in place again. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier.”

  “That’s okay,” Dylan replied. The machine’s dashboard showed his heart rate was increasing. “This is the first time I’ve seen you here. Are you a new member?”

  “No, my husband and I joined about a year ago.” She smoothed back a strand of damp hair from her forehead. “I used to work out in the mornings, but I have a part-time job and the hours changed last week. So now I’m trying to adjust to coming here in the early evenings.”

  Dylan noticed she’d gotten that my husband reference into the conversation mighty early. Did she think he was trying to hit on her? He glanced over toward the free weights area, and then at her. “So—is your husband here with you tonight?”

  “No, he hasn’t been—well, no, he—he’s home tonight.” She faced forward again, and Dylan was pretty sure she was checking his reflection in the window—the same way he’d been looking at her before.

  “So you have a part-time job?” he asked.

  “I work at Children’s Hospital, patient and family services. It’s mostly customer service or public relations—sort of what I gather you do for Starbucks.”

  Dylan’s face lit up. “So you do remember me. I’m flattered.”

  “Well, actually, it’s the Starbucks bag I’ve been lugging around for the past three weeks.” She gave him a tiny, contrite smile. “I seem to recall you saying you had a bunch of them from work . . .”

  He was a little disappointed. Apparently, the Starbucks shopping bag had made more of an impression on her than he had—and usually, he was so good with people.

  She nodded at his left hand. “I see you’re married, too. Is your wife here?”

  “No, she’s not a member. She gets plenty of exercise with her job. She teaches swing dancing and the waltz.”

  “That must be a fun job. I’m envious.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “On top of everything else, I’ll bet you’re a wonderful dancer.”

  “Actually, I’m her worst student,” Dylan admitted. “I can do the twist and move around the dance floor okay, but when it comes to remembering the steps, I’m utterly hopeless.”

  She was still gazing at him. Dylan was getting such mixed signals. From her dreamy smile, he now thought maybe she liked him. Even if he hadn’t made much of an impression on her the first time they met, perhaps he was making one now.

  She seemed to realize she was stari
ng and quickly looked down at her book again. Her pace on the machine quickened.

  Dylan was going to ask about the book she was reading, but instead, he heard himself say something else. “Would you like to get together for lunch sometime this week?”

  She glanced up from her book and sighed. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Why not? It would just be lunch—that’s all. Besides, I’d like to repay you . . .”

  “You already did that—with the tote bag.”

  He chuckled. “Well, I hope my life’s worth more than a tote bag. Seriously, I’d like to thank you.”

  Slowing down her stride, she set her bookmark on the page and closed her book. Then she switched off the machine and gave him a tight smile. “That’s all right. You’ve thanked me enough.”

  She stepped off the elliptical, grabbed the spray bottle and rag from the holder on the side of the dashboard, and sprayed down the grip bars.

  “Hey, listen,” Dylan said, slowing down on the machine. “It was just a friendly offer. I think you’re very nice. I hope I didn’t offend you. It’s not like I was . . .” He trailed off.

  Without looking at him, she wiped down the dashboard. “It’s okay, I was wrapping up here anyway.”

  “Well, it was really nice to run into you again,” Dylan said.

  She returned the bottle and rag to the holder, then grabbed her book. “You, too,” she said, turning away. She hurried toward the stairs to the first level.

  Working the grip bars, Dylan started to increase his speed on the machine again. “God,” he muttered to himself. “I’m such an asshole.”

  *

  Once he’d finished his workout, showered, and dressed, Dylan headed out of the locker room and checked his phone. There hadn’t been any more messages or texts from Sheila in the past ninety minutes. That was a good sign. Or was it? For all he knew, while he’d haplessly flirted with that blonde, his wife’s problem—whatever it was—could have blown up into a major catastrophe.