NATE
THE UNMARKED POLICE car pulls up in front of my house at four in the afternoon.
Calling the police was a risky move on my part. Calling the police to report the disappearance of a person who I know that I killed and asking them to locate a body that I buried myself… Well, it takes guts.
Yet at the same time, it is a calculated move. I can’t pretend that Eve has simply been home for days when her car is sitting at the commuter rail lot. My best bet is to play the role of the bewildered husband. Fortunately, I have taken several acting courses in my lifetime, and for this role, they will serve me well.
I am wearing a sweater and a worn pair of blue jeans when I answer the door. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. It is imperative to show the exact right amount of concern.
When I open the door, I discover my luck has served me well once again. The police officer standing before me is female. My charms invariably perform well on the opposite sex.
“Mr. Bennett?” she asks. “Yes.”
“My name is Detective Sprague.” The detective is petite—barely reaching my chin—and she has to tilt her head to look up at me. If she pulled her hair out of that painfully tight bun and put on a little makeup, she might be very attractive—but not at all my type. “I got the report that your wife is missing?”
“That’s right,” I confirm. “May I come in?”
A police officer is not allowed to enter your premises without your explicit consent, but I have nothing to hide. I step aside to allow the female detective to enter my home.
“Now, Mr. Bennett,” she says. “I just want to be clear about the timeline here. You say you haven’t seen your wife since last night?”
I nod in confirmation. “That’s right. She was planning a surprise trip to visit her parents, who live in New Jersey. She had a falling-out with them
several years ago, and she was determined to make things right, but she didn’t want to tell them she was coming because she was afraid they would tell her not to. Anyway, she reserved a seat on a late train, and she was intending to get there first thing in the morning. But I’ve been calling her all day, and she hasn’t been answering—the phone goes straight to voicemail
—and I checked with her parents, and they said she never showed up.”
I did call Eve’s phone several times as well as placing a quick call to Eve’s parents, just so my story would check out. They were stunned and a bit skeptical when I told them Eve had been planning a visit. In any case, they got off the phone quickly. They are not exactly enamored of me.
“I see,” Sprague says. “And you said she was taking the commuter rail into the city?”
Again, I nod. “Yes. Money has been tight, and she didn’t want to take an Uber all the way into the city, so she thought this would be better. That’s why I went out to dinner, because she was leaving early to catch the train.”
The detective cocks her head thoughtfully. “Okay, well, we did find her car at the commuter rail station, but she wasn’t there. And she did buy those Amtrak tickets, but it doesn’t look like she was on the train. Her tickets were never scanned.”
And this is where the acting skills come into play. I clap a hand over my mouth. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m afraid not. And it doesn’t look like she got on the commuter rail either, from what I can tell.”
I stumble backward, finally reaching out to grab on to the banister of our stairwell. “Oh, dear God. Do you think she was attacked at the commuter rail station?
“It’s a possibility, yes.”
“I never should have let her go to the station by herself.” My voice cracks. “I offered to give her a ride, but she told me it was fine. She never wanted to inconvenience me, you know?”
I look up at the detective’s face to see if she is buying any of this. Her expression is unreadable.
“I have to ask you, Mr. Bennett,” she says. “Where were you last night?”
“As I said, I went out to dinner at a bar, since my wife wasn’t home.” I’m sure the pretty female bartender will confirm that I was there for hours.
I even flirted with her, although she wasn’t my type. “It was late before I came home, and Eve was already gone.”
“And what is your relationship like with your wife?” she presses me. “Have you been fighting or…”
I bark out a laugh. “Fighting? God no. Eve and I have the happiest marriage of any couple we know. You could ask any of our friends. In fact…” I swallow so that my Adam’s apple bobs visibly. “We’ve been trying to have a baby.”
Sprague’s face is still impassive. I may have had the acting classes, but she has the best poker face of anyone I have seen. It’s hard to tell if she believes I’m a worried husband or if she’s penciling me into her list of suspects. “And is there anyone out there who might have wanted to hurt her?”
I hesitate on purpose.
She raises her eyebrows. “Mr. Bennett?”
“I didn’t want to bring this up,” I say, “but you’re going to find out sooner or later. There is one student of Eve’s who seems to have a grudge against her. Her name is Adeline Severson.”
“I see.” She grabs what looks like a small iPad off her belt and scribbles a few notes. “And what exactly happened between your wife and the student?”
I let out a sigh. “I’m sure this girl couldn’t be behind it all, but the truth is it was a bit frightening. Eve caught her cheating on a test, and although she ended up giving her a minimal punishment, it seems that Adeline never forgave her. Two nights ago, we caught her lurking outside our home, although she denied it when we brought our suspicions to the principal.”
“Uh-huh…”
“And there’s one other thing.” I walk over to the desk we keep in the corner of the living room and open the top drawer. I pull out a piece of notebook paper with a handwritten scribble on it. I bring it over to the detective. “She left this for Eve in her mailbox at school.”
Sprague’s eyes skim over the writing on the page. As she reads, I can hear the sharp inhale of her breath. “This is serious stuff, Mr. Bennett. How come you didn’t bring this to the police in the first place?”
“Adeline has had a difficult year,” I explain. “About a year ago, her father died. She was stalking another teacher last year, and most of the other
students at the school have ostracized her. We didn’t want to make her life more difficult, and we tried to deal with it within the school.”
Sprague is writing all this down. I even notice her underlining something. When a woman is killed, the husband or boyfriend—me—is always the prime suspect. Unless another possible perpetrator is offered.
I am offering Addie.
“All right,” she finally says, “looks like I’ll be paying Miss Severson a visit. Before I do, do you mind if I take a quick look around here?”
“Of course. Please go ahead.”
I don’t know what exactly she is looking for. Perhaps my wife’s body sprawled out in the middle of the living room? I suppose there are criminals that stupid.
Sprague makes a quick pass around the living room. She checks the bathroom next, which is utterly unexciting. Then she points at the room where I strangled my wife to death less than twenty-four hours ago. “That the kitchen?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
She opens the door to the kitchen, and when she gets to the center of the room, her eyes zero in on something lying on the floor. When I realize what she’s looking at, my heart drops into my stomach.
