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

I buy the website name, having checked the availability before getting the cards printed. It’s from one of those free website hosting places, but for seven bucks a month I can name it whatever I want without having a dot-blogspot that makes it look unprofessional.

For now, I keep the page clean, with my contact info and a few obscure close-up pictures of photos from my old house. A chic but heavy crystal vase filled with orange tulips. A gray wing chair on a fluffy red carpet with a three-foot-tall gold globe next to it. Brass lion head bookends on a white marble mantel stuffed with the classics. All things I put together when I decorated my old home. I also rip off a few images from Pinterest of lofted rooms and modern walk-in wine lockers, but really, who’s going to ask if those are actually my designs? I just want a few images on a slideshow for anyone who looks.

By the time Maribel calls me back, I’m giddy with achievement.

“Hey Mar,” I say when I answer. “I saw the news article.”

“Oh good.” Her voice is flush with relief. “I wanted to tell you yesterday, but I was too busy comforting him. It made my skin crawl.”

“So, how did he tell you?” My curiosity has the best of me.

“Well,” she starts, “I was with him every day since Thursday, the whole weekend including Monday night at your house. I asked why you weren’t complaining that he was gone all weekend, you know, like he always said you did, and asked if you were still visiting family. Then he told me he didn’t know where you were, but he was sure it wasn’t serious. I made him call and report you missing.”

“Good. The article mentioned blood. So, you took care of that too?” I ask, hopeful but relieved because I know she got it done.

“Yes, I emptied part of the vial you gave me on the floor by the back door, then quickly wiped it away with a dry paper towel when he was on a work call with China in the home office on Monday night. I was able to scatter the rest in the trunk yesterday when I borrowed his car to grab his lunch.”

He was treating her like a damn slave too. Why should she be running out to get his lunch? My stomach lurches.

“Then yesterday I called the cops from a new burner, just like you asked. Disguised my voice, said I was a friend of yours and I knew for a fact that he beat you and they should get forensics in there because I thought he killed you. Once he’s under more pressure, I’ll go to the cops about the affair.”

“Good. I read online that he told the police I was at a spa weekend.”

“Yes. So it’ll make him look even worse when I tell them that he told me you were visiting family. Like he can’t keep his stories straight.”

“He can’t. Liars lie. That’s what they do.”

Drew was digging his own grave, and he didn’t know it. Covering for an affair and for abusing me was going to immediately make him a suspect for murder.

“Keep me posted, Mar. If you need me to do anything else, to help you nail him, let me know. We’re in this together.”

“I know. I’m grateful that you came to me before this happened to me.” She pauses. “And I’m still so sorry about the whole thing. You know him; he won’t stop looking for you once he’s officially under suspicion. I’ll help you with whatever you need to stay hidden.”

“Thanks. And I’m sorry for putting you in this position. You know. Having to pretend.”

She laughs. “It’s not easy, but good things rarely are.”

We hang up, and I get ready to meet James.

Earlier, I told him I’d meet him at a restaurant in town, because I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea about me if I let him pick me up. It’s going to be weird enough coming back to the same place, albeit on different floors.

I dress casually, a white V-neck tee and jeans, and black ankle boots. My makeup covers the bruises that he knows are there. I head out early and walk fifteen minutes to the center of town. The weather is perfect, a week or so until Memorial Day weekend, and the sun is slightly setting westward, creating an orange- and daffodil-colored sky behind the taller buildings, which are now a black silhouette that looks like a painting.

I find the restaurant, Jupiter’s, on the corner of Main and Second. It’s huge, half the block, and very nice inside. One section in the back has tables with white linen tablecloths and plastic flower centerpieces, surrounded by three walls of windows that are opened to let the warm spring air inside, which gives it an even bigger, open feel. Immediately, I think of my Pinterest board and different ways I would decorate. Instead of the huge crystal chandelier in the center of the room, I’d urbanize it a bit with track lighting in various colors, setting a sexy ambiance for diners in the center of town.

The room in the front, just past the hostess stand, is large as well and busier. The bar in the center has three sides, made of sturdy oak, and there are high-top tables scattered around that seem to be first come, first served. I get a good look at the locals and smile. There are girls clinking cosmo glasses, men ordering pints of tap beer, and older gentlemen in suits swirling scotch in heavy cups. I find a solo empty seat at the bar and I’m right about to order a red wine when there’s a tap on my shoulder.

“Glad you could make it.”

James Montgomery. He looks better than I remember, especially since I’m looking at him through non-swollen eyes. He’s wearing slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie. He smiles crookedly, which I decide I love about him, and extends a