His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

Solomon’s notebook snapped shut and he asked for a recent picture.

James crept into their dining room to the sideboard where they kept their wedding pictures. They’d had someone snap them with his cell phone while they were at the courthouse at city hall, and then he had them printed from a photo app. He opened the drawer and they were still in a pile, unorganized.

His favorite picture had the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes, but he realized that was a profile shot and would be of no help to the police. He placed it to the side in favor of one that had them both facing the camera. He was in a black suit with a white shirt and a yellow tie—yellow, her favorite color. Daffodil. She’d always called colors by what they represented. The designer in her and all. She wore a flowy off-white dress with lace sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, but not a proper wedding gown. Her dark hair cascaded in waves just past her shoulders, and her storm-colored eyes glowed with happiness.

Her expert makeup job covered the bruises.

James held on to it for a few seconds before handing it to Detective Solomon.

“She has bangs in this picture, but she’s been growing them out. Tucks them behind her ears now,” he said, making the same gesture she always did when she moved the hair out of her face. “Please find her, Detective,” he said, and pushed out a tear.

James still wanted to keep their early life a secret. To be honest, he knew she’d lied about her past anyway, and with good reason. People lie all the time. But was she really Tessa Smyth? He still didn’t know.

And he needed to make sure the detective didn’t find out what really went on between them earlier that week.

Thankfully, he’d already destroyed the note he left her that morning.

2

Tessa

To say I’m a creature of habit is an understatement. I have a type, and I have a cycle with men that I’m unable to break, always overlooking their flaws. No matter how obvious they are—all my exes practically wore a flashing neon sign that said “Fix Me.” Asshole One, Asshole Two, Asshole Three—I lost count. Eventually, I just called all of them Asshole. Asshole Number Whatever.

And now, here I am, running out after yet another man punched me. Again. And again. Then, he crossed a line, even for me. But this time, I thought ahead. This time, he’ll pay.

After walking all night, I finally got to a bus station in a town twenty miles away. Yes, I walked twenty miles in the dark, following the side roads, careful not to be spotted by traffic cameras. It was warmer than it should’ve been this time of year. Even for nighttime, the heat bounced off the gravel and made my clothes stick to my body, but I had to get far, far away.

After purchasing my ticket with cash, I waited. The area around me smelled of homelessness and despair. The walls were piss yellow and reminded me of my first foster home when I was twelve. I’ve been separated from my half siblings and my full brother Kenny for a long time. Unfortunately, my mother was a Monopoly board and the little silver penis game piece always trotted all over her, passed GO, and ironically never had two-hundred dollars. Last I heard, Kenny had a few kids with a few different women, half-brother Christopher was doing some hard time, and the half-sister twins, Sara and Tara, ran off. No one cared about the well-being of me, the youngest one. And thus began my cycle of LOVE ME.

I was giddy for the bus that would propel me away from yet another situation where I was in too deep. Married this one, too. I never learn. Get abused once, shame on you, get abused ten times, shame on me. This one, though, he was the best at hiding it. Not like the other Assholes. The first one I married—which wasn’t even legal because I was underage and he, well, wasn’t—was a tattoo artist. The one who threw boiling water on me and gave me the dimpled scar on my arm. The other men through the years varied from beer distributor to truck driver to landscaper. This last Asshole was legit nine-to-five, except when he had to work late, which was often. “Entertaining,” he said. Because he had a stable job, I thought he was the ticket out of my hellish round-and-round of bad men. I thought I was finally going to be the lead in the rom-coms that raised me—girl gets cheated on, trusts no one, has hijinks with a new guy, falls in love despite their differences, and lives happily ever after.

Nope. Instead, he sniffed out the girl who needed to be rescued, and, pretending I was the heroine in said rom-com, I fell for it. He told me later that he saw my bruises when we met and knew I’d be a good little punching bag. Someone who wouldn’t make waves. Someone who would let him do whatever the hell he wanted, because where was I going to go? Like I didn’t know he was sleeping with his coworker too. The one with the Spanish name. Worst-kept secret in town.

Still in my hard plastic chair at the depot that makes my butt numb, I fiddle with my purse, where I have some newly purchased makeup. I open a compact. Peering into the mirror, I’m thankful the cut that probably needs stitches is hidden under my hair and you can’t see the huge lump. The blue and purple around my left eye has slightly faded into a putrid yellowish green that is hard to cover with foundation. I press the foam pouf into the cream-to-powder mix and dab it under my eye, which cakes a bit under my not-enough-sleep wrinkles. Checking the clock on the wall, the one that looks