The Other Woman: A psychological suspense thriller Page 2

  “I need to get going or Harper will be late for ballet,” Bridget said, prodding Steve in the back. “I’ll pick up groceries for breakfast on my way back.” She hesitated in the bathroom door before adding, “Try and spend some time with Henry while I’m gone. He craves your attention, although he won’t admit it.”

  Steve grunted and rolled over on his side. “All he wants to do is play video games. The kid barely speaks to me anymore. He acts like he can’t stand me.”

  Bridget flashed him a silent glare. Like father, like son. Granted, Henry was a teenager and subject to the occasional hormonal tornado, but she had to admit he’d been particularly biting in his interactions with Steve over the past couple of weeks. It saddened her to think that Henry had come to resent his father for neglecting him, shutting him out in return.

  Fifteen minutes later, she pulled the front door closed behind her while Harper skipped over to the car dressed in her pink leotard and matching tights, her ballet bag swinging from her glittering fingers.

  “Mom! You have a flat tire!” Harper yelled.

  Bridget groaned as she surveyed her Honda Accord in the driveway. The right rear tire was completely deflated. They wouldn’t be going anywhere on it in its current condition.

  “Miss Martinez said we can’t have a part in the play if we’re late to practice,” Harper wailed.

  “We won’t be late, honey. We’ll take Dad’s car instead,” Bridget soothed. “Wait there while I grab the keys.”

  She dashed back inside the house and snatched up Steve's key fob from the kitchen counter where he’d left it lying next to his briefcase. He didn’t typically like her driving his Mercedes S-class with sticky-fingered kids and smelly sports gear in tow, but this was an emergency. Besides, he wasn’t going into the office this morning, so he wouldn’t need it. With a bit of luck, he mightn’t even notice she’d taken it if he cracked open his laptop and got engrossed in his work as soon as he got up.

  They pulled up at the ballet studio with a scant three minutes to spare. Bridget ushered Harper inside and helped her put on her ballet slippers.

  “Good morning, Harper.” Miss Martinez beamed at her. “Oh my! Let me see those nails!”

  Harper proudly splayed her fingers for Miss Martinez to admire. “Well, that’s a very creative look indeed. Come on inside, we're just about to start class.”

  Bridget gave her daughter a quick peck on the cheek and then headed back out to the car. She had the best part of an hour at her disposal to run to the grocery store and pick up a few essentials. If she was quick about it, she might even have time to go through the Starbucks drive-through on her way back to the studio. She could certainly use a venti latte with an extra shot after that panicked start to the morning.

  As she drove, her thoughts drifted back to the raven-haired woman she’d seen exiting Steve's office. She didn’t think she knew her, but it had been too dark to say for sure, and her face had been partially hidden by her scarf. It certainly wasn’t anyone who worked at Bartlett and Hartman—that much Bridget was certain of. She knew all Steve’s employees and made a point of familiarizing herself with their spouses at the annual Christmas party. She wasn't sure how she would go about finding out who the woman was—short of spying on Steve, which would be complicated to say the least. It wasn't like she could leave Harper unsupervised at home every evening and camp out in her car like a private eye in a TV show.

  When she reached the grocery store, Bridget took the precaution of parking Steve's Mercedes as far away as possible from any other vehicles. He wouldn't take kindly to a stray shopping cart denting his pride and joy. Inside the store, Bridget pushed all thoughts of Steve from her head and concentrated on working her way systematically down her grocery list, crossing off eggs, bacon, bread, milk, bananas, muffins, and blueberries as she added each item to her cart. After an efficient sweep of the store, steering around the oversized carts that looked like bumper cars and were filled with snotty-nosed toddlers in meltdown mode, she maneuvered her cart toward the checkout, gratified to see that she’d banked enough time to make a Starbucks run. She briefly considered the self-checkout but decided against it. Nine times out of ten, something or other went wrong and she ended up needing assistance anyway. After handing her recyclable bags to the young teenager bagging her groceries, she fished around in her purse for her debit card.

  “Hello, Bridget!” a voice boomed out.

  She swiveled her head to see Jack Carson, Quinn's grandfather, nodding to her as he walked by with a bag of groceries in each arm.

  “Oh hi! Good to see you, Jack.” She didn't know the man all that well, but he seemed pleasant enough from the couple of times she’d met him when he’d picked Quinn up from her house. According to Henry, Quinn spent more time at his grandfather’s place than at home, as his parents were often either working or out of town. Bridget blew out a frustrated breath as she punched in her debit card four-digit pin. Apparently, Steve wasn’t the only parent who barely had time for his kids. She took the receipt from the checker and reached for the grocery cart the teenage bagger pushed toward her.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling at him while making a mental note to have a talk with Henry about getting himself a part-time job—anything to curb the amount of time he spent playing video games.

  The teen grinned back, displaying a mouthful of neon green braces. “No problem, have a nice day.”

  Bridget pushed her cart past all the parked cars to the far end of the lot where Steve's Mercedes waited, thankfully, undisturbed by runaway carts, neighboring car doors, or riotous kids, although, for some inexplicable reason, someone had parked a red Dodge pickup truck right next to it. She pressed the key fob to open the trunk and reached for her bag of groceries. For a moment, she stared uncomprehendingly at the unfamiliar tartan blanket in the trunk of Steve’s Mercedes. Her eyes widened in shock as she traced the shape that lurked beneath the blanket. With a strangled gasp, she let the grocery bag slide from her arms back into the cart. A cold sweat prickled across the nape of her neck. Was she imagining it, or did it look uncannily like a body? She darted a nervous glance around. No one was paying her any attention, too busy unloading their groceries into their own cars, and too far removed to see what she was looking at.

  She took a quick calming breath, willing herself to muster her courage and peek beneath the blanket. Obviously, it couldn’t be a body. Steve must have stashed some tools or supplies in the back of his car.

  And then another hideous thought struck. What if it was a duffel bag with a change of clothes like the article had mentioned? This might be the evidence she’d hoped she wouldn’t find—proof of Steve’s infidelity. Tentatively, she extended a hand and lifted one corner of the blanket. Holding her breath, she peeled it back a few inches. Instantly, her brain filled with static, her legs almost buckling beneath her. She dropped the blanket, and stumbled back a step, hurriedly pressing the key fob to close the trunk. She reached for the grocery cart to steady herself, heaving a few agonizing breaths. It was her—the dark-haired woman she’d seen exiting Steve’s office the other night! There was no mistaking it. The fuchsia scarf was still wrapped around her neck.

  Nauseous, Bridget stumbled her way around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She locked the door and shrank down in the seat, shaking all over like she was dying of hypothermia. What had her husband done? Her thoughts clambered over one another like a seething mass of cockroaches. She couldn't think straight. She pressed her fists to her mouth to trap the scream that threatened to explode. There was a body in the trunk of the car she was sitting in—Steve’s car. And not just any body; it was the body of the woman who’d visited Steve last night, the woman he’d lied about meeting.

  Bridget moaned softly. Had Steve killed her before he’d come home to his wife and kids? Before he’d sat down at the kitchen table and eaten the meal she’d prepared for him? How could he do such a thing? And why in the world had he killed the woman? Her mind worked furiously, trying
to string together some plausible explanation. If they were having an affair, she might have given him some kind of ultimatum or threatened to expose him. Bridget shook her head free of the ludicrous thought. Steve couldn’t kill a woman. It was one thing to suspect her husband of having an affair, but he wasn’t capable of killing someone—not the man she knew.

  Bridget almost jumped out of her skin at a knock on the passenger window. She stared bug-eyed through the glass, unmoving, as though she’d just been caught with the dead body. But it wasn’t a cop or even a security officer staring back at her. It was the young teenager with the neon green braces, rounding up stray shopping carts. Grinning, he held up her bag of groceries. She gaped at him, frozen like a solid block of ice, unable to react.

  A confused look flitted across his face. He pointed awkwardly at the bag of groceries in his arms and then at her.

  Willing herself into action, Bridget pressed the button to roll down the window. The teenager set the groceries on the passenger seat. “Didn't want you to forget these.”

  “Thank … thank you,” Bridget stuttered. She turned the key in the ignition, wondering how she was ever going to be able to drive without wrecking the car. Trancelike, she plugged in her seatbelt and pulled out of the grocery store parking lot into the flow of traffic. She had no idea which direction she was driving in, and no particular destination in mind. Where were you supposed to go with a corpse in the trunk of your car? She didn’t dare stop now that she was on the road. The only safe thing to do was to keep driving.

  And then another thought struck her. What was she going to do about Harper? There was no way she could go back to the ballet school and pick her up now. She wasn’t going to drive around with her seven-year-old knowing there was a dead body in the trunk of the car. What if the police pulled them over? Her stomach heaved at the thought of Harper witnessing what she’d seen. How could this be happening to her? This kind of thing only happened in movies.

  She slowed to a stop at a traffic light, racking her brains over what to do next. She would have to call one of the other moms and ask her to drop Harper home. Her throat bobbed as a new fear surfaced. Was it even safe for Harper to go home? She quickly dismissed the thought. Whatever had happened to the woman in the trunk, Steve would never harm his children. He loved them, despite the distance his workaholic tendencies had created between them.

  The car behind her beeped and she quickly jammed the shifter into drive. She hadn’t noticed the light turning green. A cold bead of sweat trickled down from her brow. She needed to come up with a plan. She had to get rid of the body.

  In a haze of confusion, her brain vaguely registered the Starbucks sign up ahead. As if on auto pilot, she pulled into the drive-through lane. Maybe a heavy dose of caffeine would clear the fog in her head so she could figure out how to proceed.

  Swallowing back the bile rising up her throat, she inched forward to the microphone and ordered a venti latte. While she sat in line, she texted her friend, Amanda, whose daughter was also in Harper's ballet class. To her relief, Amanda texted back almost immediately that she was happy to drop Harper home.

  Bridget held her iPhone aloft for the Starbucks cashier to scan her payment. Her wrist shook so hard the perplexed employee had to attempt it multiple times before it scanned. Bridget pulled forward to the next window to collect her beverage. Truth be told, it felt like she was operating in some other dimension. It was beyond surreal to think that life was going on as normal all around her while there was a corpse concealed in the trunk of her husband’s car. She took the latte from the barista’s hand, shaking so hard she spilled several drops on her jeans in the process. Foam dripped from the plastic lid and into the cup holder. Bridget ignored it as she swerved out of the drive-through lane. Keeping the Mercedes clean didn’t seem all that important anymore. Not now that it was tainted by the grisly cargo stowed in its trunk.

  She tried to think back to what exactly she’d seen. Vacant, unstaring eyes. There was no question the woman was dead. No blood that Bridget could recall, not that she’d looked too closely. How had the woman died? How had Steve killed her?

  Bridget fanned herself, suddenly feeling nauseous again. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions too soon. It could all have been a terrible accident. Perhaps the woman had returned to talk to Steve and he’d been backing out of the parking lot and knocked her over. He might have panicked afterward. People did incredibly stupid things when they panicked. You never knew how you were going to react to something like this until it happened.

  Bridget started to whimper. It was all too horrific to process. Had she really seen a woman in the trunk of the car? Could she have imagined it? No! That was wishful thinking. She’d clearly seen the fuchsia scarf around the woman’s neck.

  Her phone rang, jarring her from her bleak thoughts. She glanced at the screen, relief surging through her veins when her dad’s number came up. She couldn't talk to Steve yet, not until she’d had a chance to think things through. She’d have to go to the police at some point. There was no way around it. The only question was whether she should tell Steve what she’d discovered first—give him a chance to explain himself. Taking a deep breath, she put her phone on speaker. “Hi, Dad.” Her voice sounded distant and tinny, a far cry from the composure she was attempting to project.

  “Are you home, Bridget?”

  “No, I just left the grocery store. Do you … need anything? I can go back.“

  “Your mother fell and broke her hip. I'm at the hospital with her. She's going into surgery.”

  Bridget let out a horrified bleat. “I’m on my way.”

  She hung up, trying to rein in her panicked thoughts enough to figure out the quickest route from her current location to the hospital. She had no choice but to head straight there. Her parents needed her. For now, the corpse would have to wait.

  3

  Bridget peeled into the crowded hospital parking lot looking around frantically for an available spot. The valet tilted his chin expectantly in her direction, but she ignored him. There was no way she was going to hand over the keys to the Mercedes to a stranger, not with the macabre surprise lurking in the trunk. It was far too risky a move.

  Spotting a car backing out, she turned on her blinker and tapped her steering wheel impatiently as she waited for the shrunken, elderly woman behind the wheel to inch her way out. Bridget immediately swerved into the vacated spot, jumped out, and locked the car, checking it twice to make sure every door was secure.

  Adrenaline pounded through her as she jogged to the emergency room doors and checked in at the reception. The clerk behind the counter printed her a visitor’s badge and directed her to the third-floor surgical waiting room. Inside the elevator, she shuffled nervously from one foot to the other as it made its ascent, and then dashed out once the doors opened.

  As soon as she entered the waiting room, her dad stood and greeted her, a relieved look flooding his lined face. Bridget hurried over to him and gripped him tightly, shaking as the shock of everything that had happened began to sink in. “How's Mom?”

  “She’s okay, honey,” her dad soothed, knitting his brows together in concern at the emotional intensity of Bridget’s embrace. “She was in a lot of pain when they first brought her in, but they gave her something for it. Now, it's a waiting game. They've already taken her through to surgery.”

  “How did it happen?” Bridget asked, sinking down in a padded chair next to her dad.

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, you know your mother. She was in the garden transplanting something or other she’d been tending to in the greenhouse this past while, and she tripped over the hose.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “I’ve warned her more times than I can count about that hose laying across the path like that.”

  Bridget squeezed his shoulder gently. Despite the bravado in his voice, she could see tears glistening in his eyes. ”Mom's going to be fine,” she assured him. “She's a tough old bird; you know that better than anyone.”
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  He sniffed and nodded. “Indeed I do. But breaking a hip at our age is nothing to sneeze at either.”

  “How long will she be in surgery?”

  “Maybe a couple of hours, with the recovery time and all.”

  Bridget pulled out her phone and checked the time. “I haven’t had breakfast yet. Why don’t we go downstairs to the café and get something to eat?”

  Her dad got to his feet with a non-committal grunt. “I’m not all that hungry, but I’ll drink a coffee with you.”

  They took the elevator down to the ground floor and seated themselves in a quiet booth in the café with their coffees. Bridget had appraised the unappetizing array of congealed egg croissants and decided to pass on breakfast. The truth was, the very thought of eating anything turned her stomach to mush. It was horribly ironic to think that there was a morgue in the basement of the hospital, and she had a corpse in the trunk of her car. If only there was some easy way to drop off a body anonymously, like you could drop off an unwanted baby with no consequences and no liability. She squeezed her eyes shut at the horror of the odious secret she’d inadvertently uncovered in Steve’s Mercedes. It didn’t bear thinking about—not yet at any rate. One thing at a time. She’d deal with it after she made sure her mom got through surgery safely. This was turning out to be the worst day of her life.

  Her dad reached across the table and covered her hand with his. “Don’t take it so hard, honey. Like you said, Mom will pull through this just fine.”

  Bridget flashed him a melancholy grin. If only he knew how bad things really were. In light of what she’d discovered in the trunk of Steve’s car, a broken hip was the least of her problems. But how were you supposed to tell your dad that your husband had murdered a woman he was having an affair with and stashed her body in the trunk of his Mercedes?