occurred to him: if he knew his wife better, he would know her password. If they were truly soul mates, as he believed, he would understand how her mind worked, would be able to figure out the secret pass code she would create.
The realization brought an even more hurtful truth: if their marriage was stronger, she wouldn’t be hiding anything like this from him in the first place.
The phone on the desk rang. According to Caller ID, the call was coming from Rachel’s salon.
He grabbed the phone and left her study for the hallway.
“Hey, love,” she said. “Whatcha up to?”
“Just working.”
“You okay? You sound kinda weird.”
“I’m fine. Just been busy this morning.”
“I won’t keep you then. I wanted to let you know that my appointment with the OB-GYN is for two o’clock. Still want to come?”
“Definitely. Where’s the doctor’s office?”
She gave him the address, and told him to call her if he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He assured her that he would be there.
“You sure everything’s okay, love?” she asked again.
“Everything’s fine. I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up.
Now, both of them were lying to each other.
13
After spending the night in a seedy South Side motel that rented rooms by the hour, Dexter left the city for the northern suburbs.
It was an overcast morning, the gray clouds shedding snowflakes. In the slippery snow, he was careful to keep the Chevy under the speed limit. He couldn’t afford an accident, or any incident that would attract the attention of law enforcement.
Around ten o’clock, he arrived in the city of Zion. Although he had grown up in Chicago, forty-five minutes south, until he’d met his wife he’d never visited the tiny burb. The downtown strip was a conglomeration of mom-and-pop stores and mainstream establishments. Old split-level homes and ranches dominated the neighborhoods. There was a church on almost every corner, and most of the streets had biblical names: Enoch, Bethel, Ezekiel, Gabriel, and the like, harking back to the town’s founding as a religious community.
His wife had told him that, until a few years ago, they hadn’t even allowed the sale of alcohol within city limits. It was little wonder that she had left for Chi-town, where he’d met her working in his cousin’s hair salon.
His wife’s aunt, her closest surviving relative, lived in Zion. While he was incarcerated, and the letters that he mailed to her at their house came back as undeliverable, and his attempts to call her revealed a disconnected number, he became positive that his wife had moved back to Zion to be near her aunt.
Several times, he’d attempted to collect call her aunt from prison. Predictably, the old bitch had refused to accept the calls.
Her aunt lived on the west side of town, in a neighborhood of brick ranches with large yards, winter-stripped elms, and ice-mantled pines. He slowly crawled past her house.
Like the other homes in the neighborhood, hers was a brick ranch, accessible via a long, snow-covered walkway. A Christmas tree stood in the front window, merry lights twinkling.
He wondered if the old bitch might have moved—perhaps into a nursing home or a grave. Then he saw the wooden plate on the mailbox that stated The Leonards in scrolling script.
She still lived there.
There were no newspapers piled on the porch or driveway. She’d been a stickler for following the daily news. The lack of a paper lying outside meant that she’d already plucked it off the ground, which probably meant that she was home.
He parked a couple of doors down, shut off the engine, and waited. He watched, patiently.
Occasionally, a car grumbled past, tires spitting up snow. A few houses down, a kid came outdoors with a golden re
DON’T EVER TELL 79 triever, and the child and dog tumbled through the snow until a woman yelled at them to come back inside.
Two hours later, no one had emerged from the house. It was another freezing day, however, and old folks
The realization brought an even more hurtful truth: if their marriage was stronger, she wouldn’t be hiding anything like this from him in the first place.
The phone on the desk rang. According to Caller ID, the call was coming from Rachel’s salon.
He grabbed the phone and left her study for the hallway.
“Hey, love,” she said. “Whatcha up to?”
“Just working.”
“You okay? You sound kinda weird.”
“I’m fine. Just been busy this morning.”
“I won’t keep you then. I wanted to let you know that my appointment with the OB-GYN is for two o’clock. Still want to come?”
“Definitely. Where’s the doctor’s office?”
She gave him the address, and told him to call her if he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He assured her that he would be there.
“You sure everything’s okay, love?” she asked again.
“Everything’s fine. I’ll see you soon.”
He hung up.
Now, both of them were lying to each other.
13
After spending the night in a seedy South Side motel that rented rooms by the hour, Dexter left the city for the northern suburbs.
It was an overcast morning, the gray clouds shedding snowflakes. In the slippery snow, he was careful to keep the Chevy under the speed limit. He couldn’t afford an accident, or any incident that would attract the attention of law enforcement.
Around ten o’clock, he arrived in the city of Zion. Although he had grown up in Chicago, forty-five minutes south, until he’d met his wife he’d never visited the tiny burb. The downtown strip was a conglomeration of mom-and-pop stores and mainstream establishments. Old split-level homes and ranches dominated the neighborhoods. There was a church on almost every corner, and most of the streets had biblical names: Enoch, Bethel, Ezekiel, Gabriel, and the like, harking back to the town’s founding as a religious community.
His wife had told him that, until a few years ago, they hadn’t even allowed the sale of alcohol within city limits. It was little wonder that she had left for Chi-town, where he’d met her working in his cousin’s hair salon.
His wife’s aunt, her closest surviving relative, lived in Zion. While he was incarcerated, and the letters that he mailed to her at their house came back as undeliverable, and his attempts to call her revealed a disconnected number, he became positive that his wife had moved back to Zion to be near her aunt.
Several times, he’d attempted to collect call her aunt from prison. Predictably, the old bitch had refused to accept the calls.
Her aunt lived on the west side of town, in a neighborhood of brick ranches with large yards, winter-stripped elms, and ice-mantled pines. He slowly crawled past her house.
Like the other homes in the neighborhood, hers was a brick ranch, accessible via a long, snow-covered walkway. A Christmas tree stood in the front window, merry lights twinkling.
He wondered if the old bitch might have moved—perhaps into a nursing home or a grave. Then he saw the wooden plate on the mailbox that stated The Leonards in scrolling script.
She still lived there.
There were no newspapers piled on the porch or driveway. She’d been a stickler for following the daily news. The lack of a paper lying outside meant that she’d already plucked it off the ground, which probably meant that she was home.
He parked a couple of doors down, shut off the engine, and waited. He watched, patiently.
Occasionally, a car grumbled past, tires spitting up snow. A few houses down, a kid came outdoors with a golden re
DON’T EVER TELL 79 triever, and the child and dog tumbled through the snow until a woman yelled at them to come back inside.
Two hours later, no one had emerged from the house. It was another freezing day, however, and old folks
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