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

like it belongs in a school classroom, I see I have enough time to check my bandage.

The bathroom in the public facility stinks like shit and bleach. I set my brand-spanking-new roller bag by the sink and place my purse on top, then remove the gauze on my upper arm. I cut myself on the glass that I staged in the kitchen. Which was good, actually. More blood than I intended to leave at the scene. The gauze doesn’t stick to my lacerated skin as I peel it back—God knows I used enough ointment before I applied the dressing. The wound throbs and the covering with the dollop of bacitracin has given it a pus topping that begs for air, but experience tells me that I need to keep it hidden for now. A hefty pour of hydrogen peroxide and an airy, good night’s sleep are at least a day away.

As I’m reapplying the ointment, the door creaks open and a woman, who could be sixteen or forty, drags herself in. She’s carrying only a torn backpack and she gives me a half smile and a shrug when she notices our matching bruises before she disappears into the stall. I wash my hands and use the air dryer, which isn’t one of the high-powered ones that are at all the restaurants now. This one spits out cool air that wouldn’t move a feather. I pull back and wipe my hands on my clothes. I check again in my purse for two prepaid burner phones with all the bells and whistles—one for me to use at my leisure, and one for my contact to be able to get in touch with me. I’ll need to assimilate into life, wherever I land.

North. I’m going north, just far enough away from the last mistake. He’ll pretend to be worried, because who doesn’t worry about their missing wife? Fuck him. Let him find someone else to abuse. Unless my plan works and they arrest him, of course. Although an arrest is hard without a body. Maybe it’ll be just suspicious enough that it’ll ruin his cushy life. Wearing two faces is not in his best interest, even if it’s in mine.

Plus, I have help. Not everyone is on his side. I know some pretenders too, Asshole.

As I grab my bags to leave, I hear sniffing on the other side of the stall door. It’s the teenage forty-year-old. Could be hushed cries, could be a coke habit.

I know better than to get involved in other people’s problems. It never works out how you think it will.

Back in the waiting area, the muffled announcement comes out of the speaker. I’m sure it’s advising us of a departure, but the way it sounds, he might as well be confirming an order from a clown face at a Burger King drive-thru. The number to my bus is flashing on the digital panel above my head and I follow the rest of the sad sacks who line up to board. Judgment weighs heavy when they see the covered bruise on my face and the bandage around my arm. They know I’m running away. But they won’t ask. Maybe they know not to get involved in other people’s problems too.

But of course, I am running—who gets on a bus from here to there at this ungodly hour? Everyone here must be leaving something, or someone, behind. The hippie in the hemp shirt with his pregnant girlfriend are probably escaping parents who think they’re too young to marry and start a family. I happen to agree with them, but kids make mistakes.

Don’t I know it.

Even the little old man in the little old man cap, wearing his proper sports jacket with the suede elbows and carrying the luggage without wheels is probably escaping life in a retirement home. He was probably told We don’t have the energy for you anymore, Dad. We have the kids and their homework and their extracurricular activities to think about. His family probably gave up on him, and he’s off to meet the new love of his life from the senior online dating site. I really hope that’s the truth.

Some passengers are running away, and some are running toward something. I still don’t know which I’m doing.

All I know is, I won’t stop until Asshole Number Whatever pays for what he’s done to me.

3

James

James couldn’t sleep that night—why would he? The cops were just at his house. It was early, maybe seven A.M. when his cell beeped with a text from Rosita.

A Detective Solomon left me a message. Said it was about you and Tessa. What happened?

He’d never called or texted Trey and Rosita last night—it was too late by the time the police left. He had enough other shit to deal with.

Rather than calling or texting her back, he ambled into the kitchen—the room that previously contained Tessa’s blood and hair. Nothing like some evidence to go with your morning coffee. He decided to duct tape a garbage bag over the broken window to keep the air-conditioning contained. He’d have to make some calls over the weekend: one, to see if insurance covered it, and two, to get it replaced.

Candy followed his every move, as he went to the closet where they kept the extra garbage bags, and then into the garage, where he kept the duct tape on the second shelf. After retrieving it, he cut the bag into a square and secured it into place. He didn’t know what else to do.

It was Friday morning. Was he supposed to go to work?

James looked at the leftovers—the leftovers from his wife. The stains on the tile, what was left after the swiping. The glass was cleaned up. Her hair was gone. After forensics left, well after midnight, he had gone to bed and forced himself to fall asleep, even though it was that horrific, broken sleep. Every sound woke him with a start. At least it was a nice departure from the nightmares.