The Other Woman: A psychological suspense thriller Read online

  “Get your key, Mommy!” Harper urged. “Daddy's too slow.”

  “Patience!” Bridget laughed as she turned her key in the door. She stepped aside to allow Harper to run past her and then hung her coat up on the wall rack.

  “Daddy!” Harper shrieked. “Where are you?” A moment later, she came running back out of the kitchen and bolted down the hallway toward the master bedroom, waving the picture she’d colored for him in her right hand. “Daddy! I have a present for you.”

  Bridget made her way to the kitchen. She could use another strong cup of coffee before she faced the inevitable showdown with her husband. Lack of sleep was wreaking havoc with her emotions, and the last thing she wanted to do was dissolve in tears when she finally confronted him. She had to stay strong and demand the truth from him. If there was any way their marriage was going to survive this, it had to begin with him being honest about his relationship with Jen. She would start by telling Steve that she’d seen the emails they’d exchanged and make him explain what exactly had been going on between him and the Carsons.

  “Daddy’s not in his room,” Harper wailed as she came crashing into the kitchen.

  “Maybe he's in the bathroom,” Bridget suggested, adding some water to the coffee machine.

  “No, he isn't, I already looked.” Harper slapped her drawing down on the kitchen table and slunk into a chair folding her arms dejectedly in front of her. “You said I could see Daddy.”

  Bridget waited until her coffee had finished brewing and then reached for the steaming mug. “Right. I'll track him down for you.” She exited the kitchen and stuck her head into the family room to see if Steve had fallen asleep on the couch. Next, she walked down to the master bedroom and double checked to make sure Harper hadn't missed him. “Steve, are you in here?” She was about to exit the room when she noticed a folded piece of paper wedged between the decorative pillows on the bed. Curiously, she reached for it and opened it. The breath left her lungs as she read the only two words on the page.

  I’m sorry.

  21

  Bridget’s breathing grew shallow as the room began to spin around her. She stared in disbelief at the note quivering between her fingers. I'm sorry. What did that even mean? Sorry for what, exactly? What had Steve done? Was he admitting to killing Jen Carson? And where was he? Bridget’s gaze flitted haphazardly around the room, her stomach tightening as another sickening thought wormed its way into her head. Had Steve harmed himself?

  Panic ricocheted through her nervous system like a fire alarm resonating through the corridors of a building. The note fluttered to the ground as she lurched across the room to their walk-in closet. Her heart drummed ominously at the terrifying thought that she might find her husband hanging on the back of the door with a tie or a belt knotted around his neck. She flung open the door, but to her relief, the closet was empty.

  Still trembling uncontrollably, she dug out her phone and hit the speed dial for Steve’s new number. She sank down on the bed and pressed the phone to her ear, each ring only driving dread deeper into her soul. Why wasn’t he picking up? What was he thinking leaving her a note like that? The call went to voicemail and Bridget mumbled desperately into the phone.

  “Steve, where are you? You're scaring me. I don't know what this note is all about. Please don't do anything stupid. I’m sorry I didn’t sit down and talk with you earlier. We can sort this out. Whatever you did, we’ll handle it together. Think of the kids, Steve. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”

  She hung up and frantically punched in a text. She stared at her phone for several dragged-out minutes, willing Steve’s response to snake across the screen, but it never came. With a despairing groan, she got up and began pacing the room, hunched over her screen. Her thoughts ping-ponged back and forth in her head as she weighed her options. Maybe she should start calling around. When people were at a crisis point, they often called or texted friends. Of course, she’d have to be deliberately vague in her message to avoid alarming anyone unnecessarily. After piecing together a generic query as to Steve’s whereabouts, she sent out a handful of texts to his closest friends. Most of them responded within a few minutes, but no one had heard anything from him that morning.

  Bridget flinched when Harper suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Did you find Daddy?”

  “Not yet, honey. He must have gone out for a bit. I left a message on his phone. I'm sure he'll call us back real soon.”

  Harper considered this for a moment. “Maybe he went on a bike ride.”

  Bridget stared at her daughter, her brain whirring. Of course, that was it. He didn’t have his car, so he’d probably taken his bike out to clear his head. After all, she’d told him she was going over to her parents to help them out. He wasn’t expecting her home for hours. I’m sorry meant nothing cryptic; it was simply his attempt to make up with her. She hadn’t given him the chance to say it. She’d shut him down every time he’d tried to talk. Relief flooded through her. She got up and hugged Harper, who was beaming at her.

  ”Yes, I expect you're right. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly. Why don’t we bake some cookies for him in the meantime?“

  Harper's face lit up at the prospect. “Yeah!” she squealed, clapping her hands excitedly.

  “Go wash up and I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” Bridget instructed her. She took a quick calming breath and then hurried out to the garage. Her heart sank at the sight of Steve’s bicycle hanging upside down in its usual spot on the rack on the back wall.

  “Mommy, can we make chocolate chip, please?” Harper pleaded, trotting up behind her. She grabbed Bridget by the hand and tugged her away from the garage door.

  “Chocolate chip it is,” Bridget said, her cheery air at odds with the hollow feeling inside her.

  For the next half hour or so, Harper remained happily preoccupied baking the store-bought cookie dough that Bridget pulled out of the freezer. But it was only a temporary distraction. The questions would soon start up again. Where’s Daddy? Why isn’t he home yet? When can I see him?

  A lawnmower sputtered to life next door, and Bridget glanced out through the kitchen window. She briefly considered going over there and asking her neighbors if they’d seen Steve leaving the house earlier, but that would require explaining the situation, and the very thought was enough to make her cringe. She was sure the neighbors were already gossiping to one another about Steve’s arrest in connection with Jen Carson’s murder. The last thing she wanted to do was start another unwarranted rumor that Steve had disappeared.

  When he still hadn’t returned by the time Henry arrived home from school, Bridget began to despair.

  “How was your test?” she asked, trying to quash her burgeoning fear.

  “Fine.” Henry jerked his backpack from his shoulder and tossed it on the kitchen floor. “Where's Dad?”

  “He's on a really, really, long bike ride,” Harper said, with a dramatic sigh as she studied the picture she was coloring at the kitchen table.

  Henry frowned, tossing an uncertain glance Bridget’s way. “How long’s he been gone?”

  Bridget hesitated. “I’m not sure. He wasn't home when we got back from Grandma’s and Grandpa’s.”

  “Have you tried calling him?”

  Bridget nodded, swallowing the tight knot in her throat. “It keeps going to voicemail.”

  The look of alarm on Henry's face intensified. “Mom, don't you think we should call the police?”

  Harper stopped coloring, eyes swerving between Henry and Bridget, her mouth hanging open.

  Bridget shot Henry a warning look. “Why don't you take your bike and see if he’s at the park sitting on a bench or something. He didn't know we were going to be home today, so he might have gone for a walk. He probably didn't want to stay here all day by himself.”

  Henry bit back a retort, then winked reassuringly at Harper before striding out of the kitchen. Moments later, Bridget spotted him pushing his bike around the side of the house.<
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  In her heart, she’d long since given up hope that Steve had simply gone for a leisurely walk. She hadn’t ruled out the possibility that he’d harmed himself. But a new fear to gnaw on had been growing in her gut over the past hour or so. Was it possible Steve had jumped bail? She couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud, as if that would somehow lend them credence. But, at some point, she would have to pick up the phone and inform Detective Wright, not to mention her dad. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought that he might be about to lose his savings. It was becoming increasingly clear what Steve had meant by his cryptic note. He was sorry for running away, for not facing up to what he had done, for abandoning his family, for not being man enough to face the music, his neighbors, the press, or Jen's husband and son. He was sorry for being a coward.

  An icy shiver crossed Bridget’s shoulders. The fact that he’d disappeared only served to confirm his guilt. If he was innocent, as he’d claimed, he wouldn’t have run. He would have stayed and fought tooth and nail to prove his innocence. It was that simple. Any law-abiding person would trust the justice system to do what it was designed to do and clear their name, right? Bridget’s eyes burned from the effort of holding back her tears. Now she knew why he’d insisted on swinging by Verizon to pick up a phone. She’d trusted Steve enough to bail him out, but, once again, he’d lied to her and deceived her. She gritted her teeth, vowing not to give him the chance again.

  Twenty minutes later, Henry came flying up the driveway and skidded to a halt. Bridget watched as he carried his bike around to the garage and stowed it before coming back inside the house. “He’s not at the park. And he didn't answer when I called him. Mom, this is serious. We need to call the police.”

  Harper's eyes widened. “Is Daddy in trouble again?”

  “Yes,” Henry growled, before Bridget had a chance to respond. “He's in even more trouble this time.”

  Bridget covered her face with her hands. How could Steve do this to their kids? He wasn't thinking straight. This wasn't the man she knew. Granted, he could be self-absorbed when it came to his work. But he wasn’t a selfish man when it came to his family. He would never intentionally do anything to hurt them.

  “Mom,” Henry said, more gently this time. “Do you want me to call Detective Wright?”

  Bridget shook her head. “No, I'll talk to him.” She tilted her chin toward Harper. “Stay with your sister for a few minutes while I make the call.” She slipped out of the kitchen and made her way to the family room, closing the door behind her. After sinking down on the couch, she scrolled through her contacts and pulled up Detective Wright’s number. The phone rang several times, and, for a tense moment, Bridget thought he wasn't going to pick up. She flinched when his self-assured voice came over the line. “Detective Wright speaking.”

  “It's Bridget Hartman.”

  There was a brief pause and then he asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m … not sure.” Bridget inhaled a quick breath before continuing. “The thing is, I can't find Steve, anywhere. And he's not answering his phone.”

  “How long’s he been gone?” Detective Wright’s tone was heavy with a new sense of urgency.

  “Hours, I … don’t—“ Bridget’s voice trailed off.

  “Stay there. I’ll be right over,” Detective Wright said before hanging up.

  Bridget took a couple of moments to compose herself before returning to the kitchen. She leaned in the doorway, observing her children for a moment. It warmed her heart to see Henry making an effort with his sister, for once. He was sitting next to her, crayon in hand, as they worked together on coloring her farmyard picture.

  He looked up expectantly when Bridget stepped into the room. ”What did Detective Wright say?”

  “He's on his way.”

  “Don't worry, Mommy,” Harper piped up, her attention still firmly focused on the picture in front of her. “The policemen will find Daddy.”

  Bridget smiled, her face slick with tears. She had no doubt the police would find him, sooner or later. It might only take a matter of days, or it could drag on for several months, but they would find him in the end. They were good at this kind of thing. And Steve wasn't a career criminal. He wouldn't last long on the run. It wasn’t like he’d ever make it across the border to Mexico or Canada.

  For starters, he hadn’t had sufficient time to plan out how he was going to disappear. He didn't have a fake passport or a slew of alternate IDs in a secret safe like the criminals in movies always seemed to have. No, Steve was an accountant, the father of her two children, a nerd from suburbia. He was not going to get far in this reckless bid for freedom.

  22

  True to his word, Detective Wright showed up on Bridget’s doorstep within the hour.

  “I should warn you, I’m expecting a forensic technician here shortly to collect some samples,” he said, as she ushered him inside. “We need to test the carpet fibers from your house to see if any of them match those found on Jen Carson’s body.”

  “Does it have to be now?” Bridget’s voice wavered. “My children are here.”

  Detective Wright shot her an apologetic look. “I’m afraid so. We’ll be as discreet as we can. It won’t take long.”

  “I don’t care, I don’t want it to be a memory the kids associate with their home. I’ll ask Henry if he can take Harper to the park for a bit,” Bridget said, leading Detective Wright into the kitchen. She motioned for him to sit down at the table. “Would you like some coffee, or a soda?”

  “Just a water would be great.”

  Bridget handed him a bottle of water from the refrigerator and went in search of Henry.

  She knocked on his door and peeked inside. “Do you think you could take Harper to the park for a couple of hours? Detective Wright is sending over a forensic technician to test our carpet fibers. I don't want your sister here when they’re doing it. She'll ask too many questions that call for disturbing answers.”

  Henry dragged a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sure. Text me when they're done.”

  Bridget pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Take her for an ice cream to kill some time if you need to.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Henry locked eyes with her. “I know this is hard on you. I wish I could take back what I did.”

  “We all do, son,” Bridget said, tweaking a semblance of a smile. She hugged him before making her way back to the kitchen where Detective Wright was poring over his notes. She opened the refrigerator and lifted out a water bottle. Her throat felt parched, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a sip of water, let alone eaten anything. “Henry’s agreed to take Harper out of the house for an hour or two,” she said, unscrewing the cap and taking a quick swig as she took a seat.

  “Good, then let's get down to business,” Detective Wright said. “I’ve put out a BOLO alert for your husband, but I need some more information. Do you know what he was wearing?”

  Bridget shrugged. “I assume the same thing he had on this morning—jeans, tan loafers, and a gray shirt.”

  “And when did you first realize he was missing?”

  “Around eleven-thirty. I dropped him off here and then swung by my parents’ place to check on my mom. When I got back, there was no sign of him anywhere.”

  “And you haven’t been able to get a hold of him?”

  “No, his new phone goes straight to voicemail and he’s not answering my texts.” Bridget removed the folded note from her pocket and handed it to Detective Wright. “I found this on our bed.”

  He turned it over, frowning at it. “And it’s his handwriting, as far as you can tell?”

  Bridget nodded. “I think so.”

  “Any idea what it means?”

  Bridget toyed with the cap on her water bottle. “Well, at first I thought it was a confession—that he was apologizing for killing Jen Carson.” She let out a shuddering sigh. “But the more I thought about it, the more I started to thin
k it might mean something else entirely—that he’d harmed himself, you know, committed suicide or something awful like that. Of course, I panicked. After I’d looked around a bit and made sure he hadn’t slit his wrists in the bathroom or hung himself in the closet, it finally dawned on me what he must have meant all along.” Her voice trailed off into a wistful tone.

  “And what’s that?” Detective Wright raised his brows and looked at her intently.

  “That he was sorry for leaving—that he couldn't face what he’d done, that he wasn’t coming back.”

  “You seem very sure of that,” Detective Wright commented. “Is this something you'd expect of your husband? Is he the type to run?”

  Bridget picked at the label on her water bottle as she considered the question. ”Not under normal circumstances, but people do things that are out of character when they're under an inordinate amount of stress, don't they?” She gave a self-conscious shrug. “That's the only way I can explain what I did, and what Henry did.”

  Detective Wright’s eyes kindled with understanding as he scribbled something down on his notepad. “Did you check to see if any of Steve’s things are missing? Clothes, passport, anything along those lines?”

  Bridget rubbed her brow. “I didn't think about that. Should I check now?”

  Detective Wright gave a brusque nod. “Best do it before the forensic technician arrives.”

  Bridget took another quick swig of her water before making her way to the master bedroom. She steeled herself as she walked into the closet, half expecting to find Steve’s side entirely cleaned out. She'd been in such a fluster earlier, fearing that he’d harmed himself, that she wouldn't have noticed if any of his clothes were missing. Her eyes scanned the rails and shelves. Everything appeared to be untouched. All his shirts were hanging in the same immaculate order he always kept them in. One-by-one, she pulled out his drawers and confirmed that the contents were as neatly organized as ever. As far as she could tell, Steve hadn’t rummaged through them recently or removed any items. She walked over to the small safe at the back of their closet and pressed the touchpad with her index finger. The door swung open and she reached inside for the envelope where they kept their passports. All four of them were still there, rubber-banded together, labelled with their names on the front in Steve's fastidious fashion.