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He wheezes, dropping the glass on the ground. It shatters into pieces, but he doesn’t move. This image was taken from outside their house, right through the kitchen window. He snatches out another picture of Jolene standing on the terrace, sipping from a coffee mug. Then another of her sitting in a coffee shop, but this image is what terrifies him most because she’s not alone. She’s sitting at the table with that witch from the rally. All the images are small, as if printed on a portable printer.
He notices black marker bleeding through a sheet of paper in the envelope and snatches it out to read the words.
THROUGH THE WINDOWS I CAN SEE.
HOW YOU TREAT YOUR WIFE SO MISERABLY.
HOW CAN YOU BE SO CRUEL, MR. BAKER?
WHEN THE TRUTH COMES OUT, I’LL SAVE HER.
“No.” His throat is dry, hands shaking as he reads the words again and again. Then he freezes and looks up when he realizes the person got into his apartment. They’re probably still here.
He places the envelope down and steps over the broken glass to get to the kitchen. He pulls out the largest knife from the knife set and holds it in front of him. The only doors belong to the bathroom and laundry room. He checks the bathroom first. Nothing.
He faces the sliding laundry door next and his heart drops. He’s not sure how he hadn’t noticed the streak of blood on it when he passed by it the first time. The wooden paneling of the doors could hide so much behind them. They give a clear view for someone to wait, to watch.
He grips the door handle, heart beating madly, and wastes no time swinging it open. There is no one inside, however there is a dirty beige faux leather purse with streaks of blood tied to the upper rack, dangling by a broken strap. Dominic sucks in a sharp breath, knowing for a fact it’s the same purse Brynn Wallace had the night he was with her in New Orleans.
TWENTY-NINE
JOLENE
I normally don’t have people visit me so late at night. I like to think that any time after ten o’clock is an unholy hour. Not that I’m very religious, or anything. I do believe there is a higher power overseeing us all and that they determine how our lives are strung together. And whomever this higher power is, I find myself quite upset with them, because the way my life has developed is far from a dream.
It’s rude of me to even complain. After all, I have a life much better than others. My time on earth has been fruitful thus far, albeit difficult. I’ve suffered bullies all while living in a broken home and no matter how positive I try to be, it seems the world is built to suck the positivity right out of me.
The only reason I think of a knock this late as unholy is because it means bad news. Nothing good can come from a knock on your door when it’s bedtime. However, I’m expecting these people.
Daphne and Ricardo.
They enter my house and Daphne immediately wraps her arms around me, smelling like toasted coconuts and vanilla. There are no words I can use to express how I feel as she hugs me tight. I want to tell her how I feel, to pour it all out, but this is beyond hurt, beyond shame, beyond anything I’ve ever subjected myself to. How do you explain the horror you faced as your husband stared you in the eye and choked you? How do you tell anyone that he used your flaws and weaknesses against you, called you names, berated and belittled you? How do you tell anyone that after all this time—when you thought your romance was happenstance and that you were the luckiest woman in the world—it is possible, that the man you love has been using you the whole time?
I lead the couple into my living room and Daphne says she’ll go to the kitchen to make tea. Ricardo sits across from me on a single recliner, eyes trained on me.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks. His voice is different at night. Gravelly. Dangerous.
My phone pings, and there’s a message from Dominic: Why are the security cameras off? Not safe to have them off, Jo. Make sure the house is locked up.
I ignore his message, listening to Daphne clank around in the kitchen. I don’t want him knowing Daphne and her husband are here, and I’m glad he’s left like the selfish bastard he is. It’s not safe, yet you’ve left your wife at home alone and without protection? Sure, there are the police at the end of the driveway, but they can’t see much from there. Hell, Daphne and Ricardo parked on the street behind our house, and I allowed them access through the back gate so the police wouldn’t spot them.
I put my attention on Ricardo, whose gaze hasn’t left mine. He’s always been a good husband to Daphne. He’s always been there for her. I feel a slight pang of envy at the thought, but also relief because Daphne is my best friend and she deserves someone who loves and protects her . . . as well as her friends. I know it wasn’t easy for him to agree to come here, and as Daphne told me, I must be sure. If I’m to bring Ricardo into this, I have to do it wisely.
“I’m positive,” I say.
Ricardo nods, and though it feels like blood is swimming in my ears and that I might faint, there is no turning back now.
THIRTY
DOMINIC
Dominic stirs awake in the bed, panting raggedly as his eyes bounce around the hotel room. His hand is on his chest, the white comforter sloppily draped over the lower half of his body. He’s not sure when he dozed off.
He didn’t want to sleep at all, but he drank more, drowned himself in bourbon, and curled under the covers as he thought about the events that’d transpired over the past week.
The witch.
The hallucinations.
