Like Father Like Daughter (9 page)
I explained my theory wherein Ryan may have broken off their affair, or at least refused to divorce me and Lindsey went blind with rage, snuck into my house and killed him.
“But why leave you alive? Devil’s advocate.”
“I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought that part through. “Maybe she felt sorry for me?” I doubted it, but it was all I could think of. She certainly hadn’t felt sorry for me for the entire past year when she was screwing Ryan every chance she got.
“I’ll certainly look into it.”
“I know where she lives,” I said without thinking.
“Oh? And how do you know this?”
“WhitePages.com. It wasn’t hard to figure out. I’m a paralegal, remember? Finding people is part of my job description.”
“Libby, listen to me very carefully.” I could hear the seriousness in his voice. “I want you to stay far, far away from Lindsey Unser. Do you hear me? I mean it.”
To be honest, it hadn’t even crossed my mind to approach her until he said that. But just like I had learned to do with Mom, I gave him an empty promise to stay clear of her.
“I’ll look into her…see if I can subpoena her cell records at least…but in the meantime, I mean it…no contact with her whatsoever.”
“Okay, okay.”
I crossed my fingers in my mind. As soon as we hung up, I sat there brainstorming ways I could contact her. It didn’t take long for me to remember that a lot of people list their phone numbers on their Facebook profiles. I opened the laptop and brought up Facebook again, typed in her name, and scrolled over to her profile details. Jackpot. Stupidly, she had her phone number listed. I wrote it down on a paper towel, folded it, and slid it into my back pocket.
***
Mom and I ate lunch together on the back patio. Homemade chicken salad with grapes and almonds, just the way I like it. She had bought a few non-organic things just to please me. And sweet tea. Mom always made the best Southern sweet tea. We sat under the umbrella to block the rays of the hot July midday sun. We talked about anything and everything besides my current predicament: her friends at church, her garden, and her most recent children’s book about a baby chick who gets separated from his mama. Lindsey’s phone number was burning a hole in my back pocket, but I had to wait until I could be alone in order to call her. What if things got heated? I was sure they might. I didn’t want Mom to know I had contacted her—didn’t want anyone to know. It was going to be our little secret—the whore and me. Besides, Lindsey had already proven she was good at lying and hiding things from people, hadn’t she?
Finally, Mom, fanning herself with her big straw hat, declared it too hot to stay outside one minute longer and dismissed herself to go work on her book. I asked to borrow the minivan keys again, and of course she obliged.
My first stop was at the closest gas station. I bought a prepaid smart phone and a sixty-minute calling card, then drove to Lake Reba and parked the minivan under a shady tree near the tennis courts.
My hands were trembling as I pulled the phone and the paper towel out of my back pocket. I unfolded it and entered the numbers into the prepaid phone. It was outdated compared to my iPhone, but God knew when I’d ever see it again now that it was to be used against me as evidence for the Commonwealth. My finger hovered over the SEND button. Could I really do it? Could I just casually call my husband’s secret lover? I had no idea what I was going to say, but I knew it had to be done, so I decided to wing it.
I pushed the green SEND button and held the phone to my ear. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. I was about to give up and disconnect the line when a woman’s raspy, alto voice came on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Lindsey…this is…uh…this is Libby Carter.”
I let that sink in for a moment. Silence.
“Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Why the hell are you calling me?” She actually sounded irritated with me. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this whore.
“We need to talk,” I said confidently, even though I was shaking and my heart was beating at about one hundred beats per minute.
Silence again.
“Hello?” I figured she had hung up and was about to disconnect the call. But she finally spoke.
“When and where?”
“Lake Mingo. Tonight. Seven o’clock.”
I hung up without saying goodbye. It would have been a politeness she didn’t deserve.
Later that night, as Mom was sitting in her office working on her book, I told her I had some shopping to do and left the house around six. It was a little earlier than I needed to leave, but I was too anxious and tired of pacing my bedroom. I was about to meet my husband’s mistress. I had to look my absolute best, of course, just to show her I wasn’t the frumpy housewife I’m sure Ryan painted me out to be. So I took a little extra time applying my makeup, getting the edges of my winged eyeliner just right, and applying an extra layer of mascara. After I dabbed on Wild Orchid lip stain by Revlon, I deemed myself as pretty as I’d ever be and jumped in the minivan.
On the drive to Nicholasville, I had the distinct feeling I was being followed. So I checked my rearview mirror and, lo and behold, I saw that damn black truck with the tinted windows following a few car lengths behind me. Now I knew I wasn’t being paranoid. But there were a number of people who could be following me, considering my current predicament. It could be a detective, an investigator with the prosecutor’s office, or even the press. Then a thought hit me like a bolt of lightning. What if it was Ryan’s killer? Maybe he was following me, waiting for a chance to finish the job.
I pressed down on the gas and zipped in and out between lanes as fast as I could, trying to shake my pursuer. After taking a couple of turns without signaling, I looked in the mirror again and saw I had finally shaken him. James Bond’s stunt driver had nothing on me.
I arrived at Lake Mingo Park about a quarter ’til seven and pulled into the parking lot. Since the sun didn’t set until around nine in July, there were still plenty of park-goers milling about. As I sat and waited for my husband’s mistress to pull up, I watched a man and his son casting a fishing line into the pond—even though it was called
Lake
Mingo, it was really a pond. Several teenage boys were playing basketball, showing off their adolescent physiques. Three teenage girls stood on the sidelines cheering on their boyfriends as they elbowed each other in their attempts to impress the ladies.
Just when I had almost forgotten the whole reason I was there, I caught a glimpse of a beige car pulling in a few spots down from me. I looked over and verified it was the same car I had seen at Lindsey’s parents’ house—a Maxima with those stupid bumper stickers on the back bumper. I shook my head again at her immaturity.
I was sure she didn’t know which car was mine. I doubt she expected I’d be in a minivan. In fact, I was a bit embarrassed not to be in my silver Kia Sorento. The minivan totally fit the whole poor little housewife persona I wanted desperately to avoid. So I hopped out, hoping to get far away from the minivan before she put two and two together.
She stayed seated behind the steering wheel as I approached gingerly. My stomach was doing backflips. What was I going to say to her?
Hi, I’m your boyfriend’s wife. Did you kill him?
Before I could formulate any coherent thoughts, she looked over and saw me approaching. She opened the door, got out, shut it behind her, and leaned against it.
“What do you want?” she asked with her arms crossed across her large breasts. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was part of the appeal for Ryan. Mine weren’t tiny, but she most certainly knew Victoria’s secret.
“I just want to talk,” I said as I stood two feet in front of her with my hands on my hips, trying to look more confident than I felt.
An awkward moment of silence passed. Neither of us knew exactly what to say to the other. I had a fleeting vision of myself hauling off and punching her square in her overly large head, but I realized the last thing I needed was for her to file assault charges against me, which she would undoubtedly do.
“I want to know why.” I just assumed she’d know what I was referring to.
“Why what?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Lindsey. You’ve been fucking my husband for over a year. You had to know he was married. So…why? Why have an affair with a married man?”
“I didn’t know,” she said, with contrived sincerity. “Not at first. When he finally told me, he said you two were separated.”
Just as I suspected. Men always say that…don’t they? They never tell the truth. They never say,
I’m happily married, but I’d still like to fuck you anyway.
“And you believed him? How dumb can you be? I don’t buy your innocent act one bit.”
“Watch yourself,” she said by way of warning. It did not have its desired effect. I was not intimidated by this stupid little girl. Not one bit. Not only did she have a horse face, she was almost seven years younger than I was and obviously very desperate.
“How long?”
“Since last April, I think.”
“How did you meet?”
She rolled her eyes, as if I was putting her out with my questions. “Through Mike Thompson. He came over one day when I was there to buy—”
She didn’t have to tell me what she was there to buy. I knew it the minute she said Mike’s name. Mike Thompson was an old high school buddy of Ryan’s he’d kept in touch with despite the fact he was now a heroin dealer. I had begged Ryan to stay away from him, but he just said he felt sorry for the guy and wanted to help him.
So she was a heroin addict. That explained a lot. Ryan always had a soft spot for needy people. His father had been an alcoholic and Ryan himself had struggled a bit with substance abuse in high school, but he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and turned his life around. I could almost guarantee he thought he could help this poor pathetic piece of shit turn her life around too.
“Is that all? Can I go now?”
“No, I have one more question. Did you kill Ryan?”
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” She looked genuinely shocked. But that didn’t mean she was innocent. It just meant I caught her off guard. “You’re the one who’s been arrested for killing him.”
“I didn’t do it. I loved him.”
She laughed at that. “You loved a man who was fucking someone else for well over a year? Well, I have news for you, honey. He didn’t love you. He loved me. He told me almost every day. Especially when we were making love…”
That was all I needed to hear. I lost all form of rational thought in that instant and saw nothing but red. I hauled back and punched her right in the face. Her big head snapped back, and I began laughing hysterically. I had never hit anyone in my life. Not even in high school when Sadie Weaver told me to meet her after school under the bleachers to fight because I had kissed the guy she liked. But it felt good.
The good feeling didn’t last long, though. Lindsey lunged at me, grabbed a handful of my hair—bitch move—and pushed my head down to knee level. I hadn’t expected it so I nearly stumbled over, but I managed to regain my footing. I grabbed hold of her legs and pulled hard until she fell to the ground and finally let go of my hair. I stood over her and was about to land another punch when two men came running up and pulled me off of her.
“You bitch!” she screamed as she got to her knees. I was pleased to see a trickle of blood running down from her nose over her lips and onto her pink tank top.
“You’d better get out of here,” said one of the men. “Both of you, before the cops show up. There are kids here, for God’s sake.”
I should have felt ashamed of myself, but I felt a sense of pride instead. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins and I felt invincible. I hadn’t planned on hitting her. In fact, I had specifically decided not to. But when she told me Ryan had loved her…that he had said as much when he was making love to her…making love! She didn’t say “fucking.” She said “making love.” She knew exactly what she was doing. Knew that would hurt me worse than just saying they were having sex.
I quickly got behind the wheel of Mom’s minivan and sped away. Lindsey was still in her car as I watched through my rearview mirror.
I was so worked up that my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I had to tell somebody what had just happened. I couldn’t keep it to myself. I pulled out my cell and dialed Dani’s number. She answered immediately.
“What’s up, girl?” I could hear Ethan babbling in the background.
“You’ll never guess what just happened!”
“What?”
“I just met up with the whore.”
“You what? Why on earth would you do that? Never mind, I get it. You were curious. So what happened? Ethan, stop that!”
“I sorta…well…I punched her,” I confessed. If anyone would not judge me, it would be Dani.
“Oh, my God! No, you didn’t! You are my hero. Ethan, I said stop that!”
“I know. It felt amazing. But I hope she doesn’t press charges against me.”
“I’d be surprised if she didn’t,” Dani said. “Hold on. Ethan Michael Watson! You stop that right now!”
“Dani, I’ll let you go. Just let me know when you’re going to be down here.”
“Thanks, girl. Terrible Twos were nothing compared to Terrible Threes. I’ll let you know.” When I got home, Mom was sitting in the living room working on her iPad. She illustrated her novels digitally, rather than with colored pencils or paint. I always admired her ability to do that. When I was growing up, she worked as a graphic artist for several government contractors, but writing children’s novels was her dream. After my father went to prison, she decided to retire and focus on her passion.
“Where have you been?” she asked, not looking up from her iPad.
I used the same line I was going to use the night before when I had stalked Lindsey’s house. I told her I just had to get out and clear my head.
“Your father called,” again without looking at me.
I didn’t say anything. Just stood there like a pathetic statue unsure of what I was supposed to say.
“Why didn’t you tell me you talked to him?”
“I don’t know,” I said as I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t think it mattered. I hardly talked to him.”
“He’s worried about you.” Now she sat down her iPad and turned to face me. “Libby, I understand how you feel about him. Really I do. But he’s your
father
.”
This was exactly why I hadn’t told her I’d spoken with him. To avoid this very conversation.
“He wants you to go see him. Please, Libby. He says it’s important. It’s been almost twenty years since you’ve seen your own father.”
“All right,” I said just to end the conversation. “I’ll go.”
***
Sunday, I decided I needed at least one day’s suspension of reality, so I grabbed one of Mom’s Stephen King books, the latest one,
Finders Keepers
, from her bookshelf, threw some sunscreen in a beach bag, and headed to the community pool.
Since it was mid-July and the weatherman had predicted a cloudless, sunny day, the pool was swarming with people. Mostly little children running around and their parents chasing after them. Lifeguards blew their whistles and shouted “No running!” but that didn’t stop the little tykes. Then of course there were the teenage kids off to one corner, no interest whatsoever in the pool itself. The girls were lying out, catching some rays with their tanned oily bodies glistening in the sun while the boys walked by repeatedly, flexing their adolescent muscles and craning their necks to catch a glimpse.
I was afraid people would notice me so I’d worn as much disguise as I could—large round sunglasses, one of Mom’s beach hats, and a black coverall over my two-piece swimsuit—since I could still pull it off—just in case there were any looky-loos lurking about.
I found an empty white pool chair and asked the people next to it if they were using it. When they shook their heads politely, I dragged it over to a corner, making a horribly loud screeching sound, to where a maple tree cast a shade long enough to keep me out of the sun’s burning hot rays. Once I had my towel spread out just perfectly across the plastic chair, I sat down with both legs slung over the sides. In my younger years, I would have forgone the sunscreen altogether, but a melanoma scare when I was eighteen changed my perspective on the matter. So I slathered on the coconut-smelling Coppertone SPF 30, taking care to cover all the nooks and crannies. My dermatologist had told me years ago that harmful rays can still find you in the shade, so I wasn’t taking any chances. I envied those teenage girls their brown little bodies, but with my freckles, moles, and history with precancerous cells, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Once situated, I opened up
Finders Keepers
and began reading. Instantly I was enthralled. My mother had read every Stephen King book out there, but I had always assumed he wrote only science fiction novels, which totally weren’t my thing. But she had begged me to read
11/22/63
. I did, and it changed my outlook on the author altogether. He was now my favorite too.
I read without stopping until the moment the lifeguards blew their whistles and announced it was closing time. Just as I was packing up my book and sunscreen into the beach bag, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a man sitting at a table in the snack area. He too was holding a book, but I got the distinct impression he wasn’t really reading. Our eyes never met, but every time I looked over at him, I swore it was as if he had been staring at me and had just looked away. I remembered the black truck that had been following me ever since the day I walked out of the police station. Could this be the mysterious driver? I could never see who was driving the truck, because the windows were so heavily tinted.