The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (29 page)

“What? Why would he do that?” She stammered. “He went with his wife.”

Vivienne gave Lena a pitying look. “Maybe he figured he’d need an alibi and you could provide it. Not that you would have known that. You were probably as surprised as anyone to find out that his wife was coming.”

“Or let me guess.” Ryan stepped toward her, using his broad body and height to intimidate the truth out of her. “Tom told you that he would pass the trip off as some kind of finance conference. Then he tells you that Ana found out and he had to pretend as though he’d planned the cruise as a surprise for the both of them, but he’ll make sure to make time for you too. Next thing you know, you’re hearing that his wife went overboard and he’s begging you to say the two of you had been talking the whole time.”

Lena stepped back. “We had been talking. Other people saw us.”

“The two potheads who saw you who weren’t sure about the timeline,” Ryan said. “You could have talked to Tom hours before, or to a guy who happened to look like Tom. And now that we’ve caught you in one lie, we are going to interview everyone on that ship. We’ll find out exactly who you were talking to and when.”

“I was talking to Tom.”

“And when we prove you lied, we won’t just charge you with providing a false alibi,” Ryan continued. “We’ll get you for being an accomplice.”

Vivienne flashed a pained smile. “You couldn’t have known what he had planned. You were surprised that his wife was on the ship, right? And then, when he told you about his wife’s horrible accident, you just wanted to protect him.”

Ryan countered Vivienne’s faux-friendliness with a glare. “Did he tell you that Ana found out about the two of you and jumped? Did you feel guilty for cheating with a married man? Is that why you lied?”

Lena was trembling. She put a shaky hand on a shelf of wine bottles.

“Lena, you okay?” Vivienne was trying to sound sympathetic. But Ryan could hear the predatory edge in her tone.

Lena’s hand slipped from the top of the shelf onto a glass bottle. She stumbled backward, pulling the wine from its holster. The bottle hit the hardwood floor. Lena hopped back as though it might break, but it rolled to her feet instead. She picked it up, hand still vibrating, and repositioned it on the rack.

“This is ridiculous.” High notes of hysteria pinged in her voice. Her limbs still trembled. “If you’re going to arrest me, do it. If not, leave me alone. I’m sticking to what I said. I ran into Tom—a former customer—on the boat. We talked. I didn’t tell the police or reporters the customer part because I didn’t want to drag the store name into this. That’s what happened. I’m not changing my story.”

“But did you really talk at seven thirty, Lena?” Vivienne asked. “Are you sure?”

“I’m done talking to you.” She walked around them to the door and held it open, dramatically, as though she’d just caught them stealing.

Ryan shot Vivienne a “what now?” look. He wanted to bring Lena in, but not until he had more information to force her to change her story. It didn’t help anyone but Tom’s eventual defense attorney to allow Lena to put her lie on the record.

Vivienne handed Lena her card. “You don’t want to protect a murderer.” She gave her a grave look. “You never know when he’ll turn on you.”

Lena didn’t make eye contact, but she took Vivienne’s number.

Ryan scowled at her as he passed. “Call us, Lena,” he said. “If we catch Tom lying first, there won’t be anything to discuss except your sentence.”

Lena looked as though she might cry. Ryan waited a beat to see if it would happen, but she didn’t break. Instead, she let the door go. He stopped it just before it hit him in the back.

As Ryan walked to his parked car, he noticed his hands were in fists. He was opening and closing them, like a heartbeat. A desire to squeeze something overwhelmed him. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and rotated it in his hand.

“Do you want to bring in Tom?” Vivienne asked.

“I don’t have enough to force the truth out of him. I at least need proof of the affair to put him on the defensive.” Ryan looked at his phone. Part of him felt like throwing it in frustration. Instead, he thought of his contacts.

“The maid acted as though she knew he was sleeping around.” He opened the car door. Vivienne slid inside the passenger seat. “I’ll drop you off. Then I’m going to pay her a visit.”

36

August 29

A
room service tray sat outside our stateroom. I hadn’t even jumped and Tom was spending money as though we had millions in the mail. He would not take my news well.

I used my key and opened the stateroom door. Inside was dark. Tom had drawn the blackout curtains over the balcony doors so that the only light came from the sunset slipping in from the sides of the curtains and the flickering television. My husband sat up in bed, half-naked and sipping from a near-empty water bottle.

“How are you feeling?”

He turned off the TV and patted the bed. “I boozed too hard last night. Nerves.”

The perfect segue. My thighs scratched against each other as I walked around to his side of the bed. Before sitting by Tom’s feet, I tried to brush some of the sand off the backs of my legs. I intended to sleep in this bed tonight. No point getting it all gritty. “About tonight—”

“Did you test the water at the beach? It’s warm, right? Probably a lot warmer than the pool back home. And I was watching earlier. It doesn’t seem like there are many waves.”

Was he trying to convince himself that I would make it through the swim, or me? I searched his eyes, struggling to find the right words. He seemed to do the same as he waited for me to speak. Finally, I looked away. “Tom, I can’t go through with it.”

“Ana, you have to.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and scooted down so that his bare side touched my beach cover-up. He held both sides of my face, forcing me to stare into his eyes. “We only have a few thousand in savings and now we’ve spent all this money to come down here. Are you worried about the swim? You’ve been training. I know you can do this. If you—”

“I’m pregnant.”

Tom withdrew as though I’d told him I had a contagious disease. His expression was a mixture of shock and disbelief. I remembered that look from when I’d revealed that he’d knocked me up the first time. He’d bought the ring the following day. My husband could surprise me.

I pulled out the pregnancy test box from the front pocket of my knapsack. I shook the two capped sticks onto the bed. “I was late and I didn’t feel right, so I took these tests after coming back from the beach. All the vomiting has been morning sickness.”

He looked afraid. I picked up the tests and held them out to him. “The night after Michael assaulted me, we made love, remember? It’s been ten days.”

He turned on a reading light and held the tests beneath the lamp, comparing their displays to the picture on the box’s cover: the one with the two identical lines and the word “pregnant” beside them. He stared at them for what seemed like an eternity. I tried to bear the silence, let the news sink in without my commentary. My heartbeat drummed in my ears.

Tom’s whole body tensed. He set the tests down beneath the light and stared at where they sat on the night table.

I couldn’t take it anymore. “Tom, say something.”

“Looks like you’re pregnant.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. But now there’s just no way. Are you okay?”

“It’s a shock, but . . .” He rubbed his neck. “You know what? That’s great. It stops us from doing something stupid, right?”

Relieved tears blurred my vision. “I was hoping you would see it as a blessing. I think that we should consider it a sign to get our lives in order. As soon as we get back, I’ll start looking for a job.
You can too. We don’t have to feel confined to New York, or even our current industries. We can look in less expensive housing markets. Maybe Maine? Or Florida? We have degrees, skills . . .”

Tom kissed the top of my head. He rubbed his forehead and then grabbed a pair of khaki shorts from the back of a chair and jostled them over his legs. “I’m going to get myself something for this headache, and then we’ll celebrate.”

“Are you okay?”

“I will be.” A weak smile spread across his mouth. “Be right back.”

He opened the door. I glanced at the time on the bedside clock: 6:58
PM
. The dining rooms stopped serving dinner at nine. We had plenty of time.

His broad frame filled the doorway. After a few seconds, the lock clicked closed. “You know what?” Tom turned back to face me. “Maybe I’ll just relax on the balcony.”

He crossed the room to the sliding glass doors and pulled back the curtains, flooding the room with amber light. “It’s nice out here,” he said, as he stepped out onto our little deck.

He needed time to process everything. “I’ll join you in a bit.” I sequestered myself in the bathroom and turned on the shower. The sound of the water masked my breathless sobs. I felt as I had after giving birth to Sophia: relieved, excited, scared, brimming with emotion. My husband and I had stood at a precipice, and we’d made the right decision.

I showered, allowing the hot water to rinse the salt, sand, and stress from my body. After washing, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The woman who looked back at me was tan and attractive. Confident. Ready to take on the world. In no way ready to die. This baby would be a new beginning for all of us.

I slipped on a blue sundress and then prettied my face with a touch of makeup. I put on sandals. The act of dressing in real clothes intensified my feelings of normalcy.

Tom’s voice called from beyond the open balcony door. “Babe, you really should see this view.”

I grabbed my knapsack and removed everything except the money. I was ready to head to dinner, toast to a new beginning.

I met Tom on the veranda. His hands wrapped around my waist. “Hey, beautiful.”

He pressed his lips to mine, leaving me without air until I opened my mouth, allowing his tongue inside. His hands slipped under my dress. He hoisted me onto his pelvis. Dinner, I guessed, could wait.

We kept kissing as my back pressed against the railing. My backpack hung from my forearm as I fumbled with the button on his pants. I tried to shake off the bag. Before I could, Tom drove his still clothed body between my thighs and lifted me to his chest. His lips went to my neck.

“So I’m going to be a dad again?” He whispered the question in my ear as his fingers dug into my thighs. I rose higher as his lips traveled down my neck to my clavicle and toward my breasts. The wind lifted my hair, adding to the sensuality of the experience. This time, I wasn’t afraid. We’d done it before.

“Yes,” I moaned, anticipating what would come next.

“That was never the plan.”

He thrust my body forward and lifted his hands in surrender. I toppled backward, falling beyond the railing. As I hurtled down to the water, I was aware that the thought, now screaming in my brain, could be my last.

My husband had planned for me to die.

Part III

Death in absentia

The legal declaration of a death despite absence of direct proof of that person’s demise, typically made after an individual has been missing for an extended period of time, often seven years. Such declarations may be made sooner if the missing person was involved in a presumably lethal accident before disappearing, such as a plane crash.

37

December 3

R
yan climbed the narrow staircase of a three-story townhouse in Newark, following behind a doughy woman with a light step. The boards beneath his feet groaned as he leaned on the banister and took a heaving breath. A fifty-year-old was beating him up the stairs. He had to figure out how to exercise with his injury.

“How do you know Camilla?”

It was the second time she’d asked since she’d opened the door. Ryan guessed that she didn’t like letting strange men into her illegal boarding house, at least not past seven o’clock. But she’d allowed him in anyway. Never knew where your next paying customer might come from.

“She’s helping me,” he repeated.

“With . . .”

“A person we both know.”

The woman stopped climbing. She pressed herself against the wall. “She’s through there.”

His arm brushed the landlady’s shoulder as he continued up the last few steps to the converted attic room. The stairs ended in an open door. The maid’s large, black-rimmed glasses balanced askew on her nose, overwhelming her delicate face and hiding her blue eyes.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet.”

She stepped back from the doorjamb. “I was happy you called.” The “you” came out like
chew
, but the rest of her speech was near flawless. Ryan wondered how long she’d been in the States. The room didn’t appear lived in. She had scarcely more furniture than a full bed, made up with a faded floral comforter, and a dresser. No photos that he could see. No television. Nothing on the stark, white walls. The place smelled musty, like a closet kept closed.

The door shut behind him. Camilla’s mouth tightened as she gestured to the bed. “There’s no other place to sit.”

“That’s all right,” Ryan remained standing. “So you knew Ana well?”

“Very. I cleaned for her and watched Sophia.”

Ryan thought he heard a catch in her voice as she said the little girl’s name, a pause filled with longing. It must be difficult to care for someone else’s kids and then leave them. Often, when both parents worked, the nannies did more child-rearing than the parents.

“Did you work with them a long time?”

“Since Sophia was a baby.”

Sophia was three. Camilla’s length of time in the country explained her near lack of an accent, save for certain stubborn words. “And Mrs. Bacon was home with you?”

Camilla crossed to the bed and sat, eyes trained on the hands in her lap. “I . . . I worked more when she went back.”

“How often?”