Sam and Monica are having an affair.
The timeline Monica’s mother gave me means the affair has been going on for at least three years. Three years of him sneaking around behind my back—easy enough to do with his flexible schedule and my long hours. That ratty couch he has in his office at the university was probably a great place for him to hook up with her.
It seems impossible in some ways. Sam has been my rock for the last ten years. But at the same time, some parts of it make so much sense. After all, he’s had attractive undergrads throwing themselves at him for years— he’s not made of stone. It’s understandable he would have cracked at some point. Well, not understandable. But conceivable. This thing he had with Monica was surely not his first dalliance.
My mother was right—he’s much too good-looking. What a mistake.
Sam always seemed like he loved me for me. If anything, he always seemed to resent the fact that I had so much money—he never let me spring for things we could afford, like a spot in the parking garage. Then again, he loved the condo that we could never have afforded without my money. So in summary, he clearly didn’t just love me for me.
And if he really wanted a child, it must have been frustrating as hell for him to look at all those young, fertile girls in his classes and know any one of them could give him the baby I couldn’t. I’m sure that’s what Monica pointed out to him when they were first together. When they were hatching this diabolical plot.
Janelle—the girl who had promised us her baby—never seemed like she would back out. She was gung-ho on giving us the baby. But now that I think of it, I never spoke with her. Sam told me she had backed out, and that was that. I trusted him.
And of course, Sam was the one who did the background check on Monica, which I’m sure he never actually did. He was the one who gave me the numbers for “Chelsea” and Monica’s “mother.” He claimed to have checked everything out. Yeah, right.
I’m sure Sam and Monica had a lot of fun plotting to keep me from her OB/GYN appointments. Messing with the times in my calendar—either one of them could have been responsible for that. Or spiking my food with drugs—that could have been a joint effort as well. Oh, and the crystals of meth that Sam “found” in my drawer—that solves that mystery.
That letter opener that killed Denise… that was a present from Sam. I thought it was a sweet and thoughtful anniversary gift. But as it turns out, he was providing me with a murder weapon.
And now Sam is pushing to get me to plea bargain. Who knows what he told Frisch to get him to advise me in that direction. All he wants is to get me out of the way with as little cost as possible. And then he can finally be with Monica.
There’s only one problem.
If Sam did all that, he’s not just a jerk. He’s not just a cheating husband. He would be an outright psychopath. I mean, he could have divorced me if he wanted. It would have been rough and he would have lost out on my money, but it’s not like he’s some unemployed loser—he could have supported himself post-divorce. Even if he didn’t personally kill Denise, setting me up on murder charges is the work of someone seriously disturbed.
I’ve known Sam for over a decade. Yesterday I would have told you I know him better than anyone else in the world. I don’t think he’s like that. I’d never think he’d be capable of something like that.
Then again, you can’t underestimate the influence of an evil woman.
And my big bank account.
And sex. That’s a pretty big influence too.
I walk home from the Johnsons’ apartment to clear my head. When I get back to the apartment, the first thing I do is go through Sam’s dresser drawers and his closet. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly. Lipstick stains that don’t belong to me? Love notes from Monica? Monica’s lavender-scented perfume clinging to his boxers? I have no idea. Whatever I’m looking for, I don’t find it. All I find are shirts and pants and underwear, all of which smell like our laundry detergent and a little like his aftershave.
After I complete my exhaustive search of our bedroom, I collapse onto our sofa and sob. Yes, I’m crying yet again. I can’t believe my husband would do this to me. I love him. I thought he loved me. When he held my
hand that day in front of the judge, looked into my eyes, and told me he would love me till death did us part, was that all a lie?
I remember the way he said it. So seriously. The way he was so serious about everything in our relationship. Like once he said those words, he meant them with his very soul.
Shit.
I reach for my phone. I bring up my list of Favorites and see Sam’s name topping the list. I put him there after our third date. But I can’t call him now. I’m not ready to confront him yet. Instead, I press Shelley’s name. It rings three times and I’m certain she’s not going to pick up. She’s been avoiding me since Denise’s murder, which can only mean she thinks I did it. But then I hear her voice on the other line. She sounds subdued, but
at least she answered.
“Hi, Abby.” Her voice is wary. “How are you doing?”
Against my will, my eyes fill with tears again. “Shelley, can you please stop acting like I’m a murderer?”
There’s silence on the other line. My stomach twists as I wait to hear what she’s going to say. I don’t think I can take being rejected by one more person I care about.
Finally, she lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Abby. It’s just… well, you have to admit, it looks bad.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“And you hated Denise more than anyone…”
“I didn’t hate her,” I say honestly. “We just… we had a falling out. But I didn’t hate her.” I pause. “And anyway, there’s a difference between hating someone and stabbing them with a letter opener.”
Shelley lets out a strangled laugh. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“Listen,” I say, “is there any chance you could meet me for coffee? I really need to talk to you.”
“Sure, Abby. Just tell me when and where.”
It takes about half an hour to fill Shelley in on the entire story from beginning to end. By the time I finish, culminating in my visit to Cynthia’s apartment, her mouth is hanging open. I don’t know if she’s shocked or if she thinks I’m nuts. The former, I hope.
“Wow,” she breathes. “That’s…”
I hang my head, staring into the depths of my mug of coffee. “I know. You always used to say Sam was a little too perfect. Guess you were right.” “Well,” she says thoughtfully, “he wasn’t that perfect. He was nice.
But…”
I frown. “But what?”
“Well, he was boring sometimes, wasn’t he?” She takes a sip of her foamy drink. “I mean, sometimes he was fine, but other times, you’d ask him some innocent question, and he’d turn it into some big mathematical problem. Like that time we were getting soft serve ice cream and I told him to be careful not to fill it too high because it would fall, and he started trying to calculate to what height you’d have to fill the cone before it would tip over.”
I smile to myself. Shelley got so pissed off when he got out his pen and started making calculations on a napkin at the yogurt place. “Monica would probably love that.”
“And the math jokes? Ugh.”
“She likes those too.” I squeeze my coffee cup so hard, it burns my hand. Monica is so perfect for Sam in so many ways—I can’t even blame him for falling for her.
No, that’s not true. I can blame him. Cheating asshole.
I stir the coffee listlessly with my spoon. “So you think it’s really true?
About Sam and Monica?”
Shelley hesitates. “Honestly?” “Of course honestly!”
“Yes. I do.”
My heart sinks. Shelley knows Sam very well, and if she believes it could be true, it’s a bad sign. “Really?”
“Well,” she sighs, “I don’t know. There was always something about him I couldn’t put my finger on…”
“You never said that before!”
“I don’t know. I thought it was all in my head.”
My phone buzzes within my purse. I pull it out and see a text message from Sam:
Where are you? I think we should talk.
I look up and Shelley has her eyebrows raised. “Was that Sam?”
I nod. “He wants to ‘talk.’”
She takes a sip of her coffee, peering at me over the rim of the glass. “Are you sure it’s safe to be in the apartment with him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says, “if he and Monica plotted to kill Denise, he’s capable of anything. What if he and Monica are in the apartment right now, armed with a knife and duct tape?”
“Oh my God, he wouldn’t do that!” “Wouldn’t he?”
I look down at the text message from my husband. I don’t know what to think anymore. I hesitate before typing back:
I’ll be out late tonight. Let’s talk tomorrow.
