The Betrayed Wife Page 7

  Steve glanced at his mom to make sure she was okay.

  With a tight smile, she handed him back his phone and then kissed him on the cheek. “G’night, honey. Thanks.”

  His father rubbed Steve’s stubbly scalp, where his hair used to be before he’d shaved it off for the cancer fundraiser. He’d raised only $140—a hundred of which was from his parents. He could have raised a lot more if he’d had some uncles or aunts, or living grandparents.

  With the baseball bat resting on his shoulder, Steve shuffled up the front stairs. But he paused when he heard his parents talking again. His mom had whispered something.

  His dad responded, “Honey, we just had the police here on that false alarm when I was out of town—what, three weeks ago? Do you really want to call them again? Have them look around and find absolutely nothing again? I know you’re upset after what happened on the bus yesterday, but I’ve checked the house inside and out. No one has tried to get in. We’re safe. Let’s just go to bed, please.”

  Steve heard his mom murmur something about not being able to sleep.

  “Well, why don’t you take half an Ambien?” his dad offered.

  “Then I’ll sleep until eleven! Besides, I can’t take Ambien now, not after I’ve been drinking.”

  “Fine, have another shot of bourbon then, if it’ll calm you down. But don’t blame me if you have a hangover tomorrow.”

  After a few moments, Sam heard a glass clink.

  “How long has Steve been sleeping with Gabe’s baseball bat?” his dad whispered.

  “I think it started when you were out of town last month. He doesn’t sleep with it. He just keeps it near his bed.”

  His dad muttered something. Steve leaned over the banister a bit, straining to hear.

  “He gets nervous sometimes, that’s all,” his mom said. “Listen, before I forget. Earlier, when I was in the garage, I—I climbed into the front seat of your car for a second—”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I was worried someone might have tried to break into it. So I wanted to make sure everything was okay inside the car. Anyway, while I was in there, I smelled perfume.”

  Steve listened to the silence.

  “I thought maybe you took a woman client to lunch—or a coworker, or something,” his mother explained.

  “No, I gave a woman a lift from the gym to her place on Capitol Hill. It was raining, and she looked stranded, so that was my good deed for the night.”

  “You picked up some strange woman—or is this someone you know?”

  “Barely. We talked for, like, two minutes on the elliptical machines. And then we happened to be leaving at the same time, so I offered her a ride.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “Well, as you might recall, you kind of had other things you wanted to talk about earlier tonight. Plus, I just didn’t think it was very important. Now, c’mon, honey, finish that up and let’s go to bed.”

  Steve saw the light go out in the kitchen. He quickly crept up the rest of the stairs and tiptoed to his room. He closed the doorway behind him, careful not to make a sound. Setting the phone down on his desk, he held onto the bat as he wandered over to the window. He glanced down at the narrow alley that bordered their yard. He didn’t see anyone lurking there.

  What if his mom was right? What if someone had been watching her from the deserted house next door three weeks ago—and again tonight from the backyard, and by the garage?

  He listened to his parents’ footsteps on the stairs.

  He didn’t want to think it, but maybe his mom wouldn’t be so “emotionally fragile” if his dad wasn’t out of town so often—and if, when he was in town, he wasn’t giving rides to women from his gym.

  Steve carefully leaned the baseball bat between his headboard and the nightstand. Then he climbed into bed and tried to sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  9/20 Thurs—4: 45 A.M.

  Too wired to sleep.

  Maybe I need two or three shots of bourbon to help me relax—just like that stupid bitch, Sheila. I’ll bet she needed a whole pint to help her nod off tonight. Hell, she’s probably still wide awake, tossing and turning in bed, driving him crazy.

  I sat in the park and watched the last light go out in the house at around 3:20. I’ve been damn careful not to be noticed, but my days of hanging out in that park are behind me—now that I’ve been seen. But I figured I could stick around tonight. I knew, no matter what she told him she saw, he wouldn’t call the cops—no, not after she had the police there three weeks ago for absolutely nothing. I still get a laugh when I think about the two nights before that one, wandering through the house next door with a flashlight, just waiting for Stupid Sheila to notice. All the while, there she was at her desk in that tacky retro kitchen of hers, too busy surfing the web and slowly getting sloshed to notice anything—not until my third visit. Third time’s the charm.

  Tonight, I got another chuckle, watching him stomp around outside the house in his underwear. I couldn’t hear, but I could clearly see him muttering to himself, so tired and disgruntled, so fed up with his frumpy, stupid wife and her neuroses.

  “Study of a Family Ready to Fall Apart.” That’s what I kept thinking as I sat and watched the show from the park across the street.

  The son could be a problem. Him and his baseball bat. I can tell he’ll get in my way. He’s awfully close to the mother, and he’s on his guard all the time—jumpy as hell, in fact. He’s not as self-involved as the other two. Anyway, Mama’s Boy may need to go. I’ll think of something creative. Maybe he and Mama can go together—two birds, one stone.

  He’s always jumping into the car to accompany her to the store or on errands. I can’t figure out if she’s dragging him along by the umbilical cord or if he’s her surrogate husband, or whatever. It’s just too bad that business with the brake fluid in her car couldn’t have taken them both out of the equation. I knew it was a long shot. But it was worth a try.

  That would have been quick and easy.

  Then again, it wouldn’t have been very satisfying. All my plotting and planning would have been in vain. Yes, the result would have been the same, but where’s the fun in that? I loved listening to Antonia scream as she fell. It was such a rush—like an orgasm. But really, thinking about how I’d make it happen, the foreplay, all the little rushes—that was the real thrill.

  It’s how I felt tonight—and how I’m going to feel until I hear Stupid Sheila let out that final scream.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Friday, September 21—6:37 P.M.

  Seattle

  “Dante, you don’t need to bring your hand up so high,” Sheila called out. “If you raise your arm just a little—enough to clear Pattie’s head—that’ll make it easier for her to do the spin. Otherwise, you guys are great. Okay, everyone. Rock-step, side, side . . . Let’s all try the pull around. Leads, get ready.”

  Several of Sheila’s regular couples had shown up early for a practice session before the Century Ballroom’s monthly East Coast Swing Dance. The dance was from seven until nine. From advance ticket sales, Sheila expected about a hundred people, with probably the usual mix of straight and gay/lesbian couples. She used to address the leads as “gentlemen” or “guys,” but then one time she’d called it out while standing right next to a couple of women and realized how foolish that was.

  For now, there were only eight couples on the floor, some of them dressed in their best retro swing attire. Sheila wore a vintage red-and-black cocktail dress she’d found in an upscale consignment shop. The disco ball above them spun, refracting light around the huge room. But the effect was slightly lacking because the overheads hadn’t been dimmed yet and everyone was practicing without music.

  The ballroom was in the turn-of-the-century Oddfellows Building on the second floor, just down the hall from a popular restaurant and a second, smaller ballroom/dance studio. Once the dance started, the doorway usually would become choked with peop
le—including several spectators. The ballroom had a bar and a seating area with small tables, but most everyone came for the dancing.

  For some of Sheila’s students, this event would be sort of a test run. Dante and Pattie were learning East Coast Swing so they could dazzle the guests at their wedding reception in two weeks. This event would be their first time trying out in public what Sheila had taught them in a series of private lessons. They were a cute young couple, and Sheila could tell they were a bit nervous.

  She was nervous, too, but for totally different reasons.

  She hadn’t received any more anonymous texts. And though she continued to search online, she hadn’t found a follow-up story about the Portland woman’s death. Nor had she had another encounter with that creep from the bus. Still, Sheila had been on her guard for the last two days. Yesterday around dusk, from her living room window, she’d spotted a sketchy-looking guy wearing an army jacket and a knit cap. His back to her, he’d been shuffling down the path in the park across the street—too far away for her to see if he was the blond guy from the bus. She’d waited until long after he wandered to the opposite side of the park and disappeared behind some shrubs. Only when she’d been pretty certain he wasn’t coming back did she finally move away from the window.

  Yesterday, Dylan had insisted she take an Uber to the ballroom to teach her classes. He didn’t want her riding the bus for a while. He’d been particularly attentive and sweet since Wednesday night’s “false alarm.” That was what he had called it, a false alarm—like she’d been seeing things. All his special attention sort of made her feel like a recently released mental patient. Dylan claimed to believe her about the man lurking outside their house. But Sheila could tell he was trying to placate her. He seemed to think she’d have the whole situation nipped in the bud if she just avoided public transportation for a while.

  On the subject of who believed whom about what, Sheila had snuck out to the garage last night and checked inside Dylan’s car. The perfume smell had dissipated to nothing. She’d felt awful doing it, but couldn’t help double-checking.

  One good sign: Dylan hadn’t suddenly bought one of those pine tree–shaped cardboard air fresheners for the car or tried to cover up the smell with something else. There was no covering up, nothing to hide.

  This morning, she’d gotten her Toyota Highlander back from the repair shop—to the tune of $600. So Sheila had driven to the Oddfellows Building tonight. The building was across from a huge park and playfield that became a bit dicey late in the evening. Though busy and trendy, the area attracted a lot of panhandlers and street people and often reeked of marijuana. Dylan had been worried about how far she’d have to walk to her car after the dance finished at nine. This was nothing new. He always fretted about her walking around that area by herself late at night.

  She’d parked about three blocks away on a shadowy, tree-lined street on the other side of the playfield. It was hardly ideal, but she couldn’t find a space that was closer or more in the open. She’d made a mental note to ask Dante and Pattie to walk her to her car after the dance. Dante was a big guy. No one would mess with him.

  Sheila told herself she’d be okay. Mostly, she was worried about her kids. Hannah was spending the night at a friend’s—and yes, the parents were home; Sheila had double-checked. The boys were staying in and planned to order pizza once Dylan came back from the gym. After what had happened the other night, she hated the idea of them being at home alone tonight—even for just an hour or two. She knew Steve was nervous about it, too, the poor kid. She’d texted him a few minutes ago, and he’d texted back that he was fine.

  The other dance instructor—a thin, attractive, thirtysomething blonde named Hallie—showed up along with the bartender and the two guys who would bus tables and work the door. Someone dimmed the lights. Hallie had the song list on her laptop. She gave Sheila a hard copy and her wireless headset. Sheila and Hallie would take turns announcing the songs and the dances, pushing drinks at the bar, and promoting upcoming events. Sheila donned her headset. As the ballroom started to fill up, she stashed her purse behind the bar and helped herself to a bottle of water.

  Hallie got things started early with The Manhattan Transfer’s “The Boy from New York City.” People started dancing—including a “show-off ” couple. Each dance had at least three or four couples who demanded attention and way too much space on the dance floor. Half the time, they were nowhere near as good as they thought they were. This couple, two thirtysomething lesbians in zoot suits, were pretty decent dancers though. They were regulars: Linda and Camille.

  “Can I get a sound check on your mic, Sheila?” Hallie’s amplified voice rang out over the music from her makeshift DJ booth—an already-cluttered table she’d set up on the small stage across the room.

  “You certainly can, Hallie,” Sheila chimed back, emerging from behind the bar. She heard just enough feedback to confirm the mic was working. “It looks like the joint is already jumping—and the bar isn’t even open yet. But it will be in just a few minutes!”

  She noticed, over by the door, that the hallway had become congested with ticket-holders waiting to get their hands stamped and others, craning their necks to gape at the dancers.

  As The Manhattan Transfer wound down, Sheila checked the playlist. “Now things are about to get a little crazy with Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and ‘Go Daddy-O!’” she announced over the music and din.

  The dance floor became more crowded, boxing Linda and Camille in slightly. Sheila carefully wove around the frenetic, whirling bodies, paying special attention to her newer students. She was pleased to see that they seemed to fit right in. Hallie cranked up the volume, and Sheila could feel the bass beat on the hardwood floor. The temperature in the ballroom had grown hotter in a matter of minutes. Sheila glanced over toward the door again. Among the couples streaming in, she recognized the regulars who didn’t miss a dance. And in the packed corridor, amid the gawkers, she recognized the creep from the bus.

  Sheila froze.

  If the guy had hoped to be discreet about following her, he was doing a miserable job of it. He wore his baggy army jacket. Once again, his blond hair looked unwashed and unkempt. He’d come with his punk girlfriend, the pale blonde who had been shoplifting with him at the supermarket. She wore a red hoodie, along with dark, Goth eye makeup and lipstick that was practically black. He kept his arm slung over the girl’s shoulder. She seemed to be picking her nose, but then Sheila realized she was fiddling with a stud in her nostril. Neither one of the pair seemed to have spotted her yet.

  Sheila knew they were stalking her. It was no coincidence they were here. If only she could snap their picture, she’d show it to the police—and she’d show Dylan. Then he’d know she wasn’t crazy.

  She backed away, hoping they wouldn’t see her amid the kinetic crowd on the dance floor. Threading through the dancers, she hurried toward the bar. She kept glancing over at the door to make sure the punk couple was still there. As she ducked behind the bar, she knocked over a drink. The glass smashed onto the floor. Booze splashed across the front of her dress and ran down her legs.

  “I’m sorry, Jay!” Sheila whispered to the bartender. She heard a murmur of feedback over the music, a reminder that her headset mic was still on. But she was too frazzled to care about that now. She had to get to her phone.

  Crouched behind the bar, the hem of her dress dragging in the broken glass and spilt liquor, Sheila frantically dug into her purse. She finally found her phone. With a shaky hand, she switched it on and pressed the camera icon. Clutching the phone to her chest, she came out from behind the bar and ventured across the teeming dance floor. Everyone seemed charged up by the loud music and the pulsating beat. One dancer slammed into her, and Sheila almost dropped her phone. Couples kept moving and twirling between her and the door. Past all of them, Sheila could see the blond creep and his girlfriend, still in the crowded corridor.

  Making her way closer to the door, Sheila locked eyes with her
stalker.

  They both froze for an instant. He gave a tiny smirk of recognition.

  Then he pulled his girlfriend’s arm—as if about to retreat with her. Sheila had no idea why they were leaving. Maybe now that he’d seen her, he planned on coming back later, or they’d be waiting for her outside at the end of the dance.

  But she couldn’t let him get away.

  “Wait!” she screamed. “I see you!”

  The mic blasted her shrill voice over the swing music. Several couples stopped dancing.

  Sheila rushed to the door, colliding with a woman who had just entered the ballroom. “I’m sorry!” Sheila said. And again, everyone on the dance floor heard it—along with a deafening boom as her headset mic was knocked askew. But Sheila kept moving toward the corridor.

  “Stop, you two! I see you!” she yelled again at the couple. She raised the phone camera over her head and snapped several shots in a row. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The blond creep and his girlfriend stopped to stare at her.

  The music was suddenly shut off.

  “Sheila, are you okay?” Hallie asked over her mic. Her voice seemed so loud without the throbbing music. “Is there a problem?”

  Sheila realized that everyone had stopped dancing. They stared at her.

  Lowering the phone, she glanced over at her friend on the stage. She could hear the confused murmuring from the crowd—and then, one voice from the hallway, ringing out over all the others: “Crazy bitch.”

  Sheila swiveled around in time to see him ducking back into the crowd, pulling his girlfriend down the hall toward the stairs.

  Sheila almost chased after them. But at the threshold of the jam-packed corridor, she came to a stop. It was hopeless. Even if she called the police right now, the two punks could easily give them the slip in this crazy, crowded neighborhood. The streets and sidewalks were always jammed on Friday nights.

  “Sheila?” Hallie asked over the mic once more.