The Housewife(67)

I think he knows something.





41





I checked my face the following morning like my life depended on it—which it possibly did. I had a good look, but I didn’t see anything new.

At breakfast, Roy looks even sadder than he did yesterday, so that’s something, I guess. Meanwhile, I am still in adoring wife mode, and I cut fruit shaped like stars and flowers that I serve with coconut yogurt and honey. Roy moves bits of food around on his plate. Marie comes to serve more coffee and again we are working very hard to avoid each other.

“The police want to talk to me again,” Roy says after she’s gone. He looks like he’s going to cry.

“Yes, you told me yesterday.”

“Oh, did I?” He stares at the piece of strawberry at the end of his fork.

“Why do the police want to talk to you, anyway?” I ask, putting butter on my piece of toast .

“They want me to help them with their investigation.”

“Oh? Did they say what happened to her?”

“No…I don’t know. I mean, they hinted at it.”

“What did they say?”

“The police asked me not to discuss it.”

“No, no, of course. But I’m sure they didn’t mean not to talk to your wife. They probably meant the general public. So did they tell you?”

He hesitates. “I don’t think they know. But…” He puts his fork down, puts his elbows on the table, and clasps his hands together. “Something came up yesterday.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about my cell phone.” He stares at me.

“What about your cell phone?”

“Did you use it? Ever?”

I blink in confusion. “Use how?”

“Did you use it at all? To send a text, maybe?”

“No. Why would I? I have my own cell phone.”

“So you didn’t…”

“Roy.” I laugh. “I don’t even know your passcode. I couldn’t use your cell phone if I wanted to.”

“No…no. That’s right.” He rubs a hand over his face. “This is all very confusing.”

When it’s time for him to go to the police station, I watch him from the front door as he takes his car out of the garage. He stops in the middle of the driveway, the car still idling. For a moment I wonder if he had a heart attack.

I sure hope not .

I walk over. “Everything okay?” He’s grunting, bent down, almost folded in two.

“There’s a thing there…”

“What thing?”

“Something…shiny…” He groans, then straightens. He studies the ring between his fingers. “Is that—”

I snatch it from him.

“—your wedding ring?”

Well, yes, obviously, I don’t say. I mean, it’s a very particular design.

“So it is!” I say.

“What is it doing in my car?”

That’s actually an excellent question, and then I remember. I got back in the car and fumbled with the gloves, taking them off, then putting them back on. It must have fallen off then.

“I took it off when I burnt myself, remember?” I lift my bandaged hand.

“But why is it in my car?”

“I had it in my pocket. It must have fallen out.”

“But how? When?”

“When I hugged you, remember? Anyway, you don’t want to be late.” I take a step back and tap the roof of the car twice, the way they do in the movies.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

I hurry back to the house, upstairs to the bathroom where I get on my knees and pull Roy’s appointment book out of the clothes hamper.

I sit on the floor, my back against the bathtub, and flick to the day Deb died: 7th of September, and my heart leaps into my throat. Because at 1:00 p.m., the first entry that afternoon, there’s a twenty-five-minute appointment with a Mr. Penzick, just like the computer version. But then there’s nothing until 2:30 p.m., when he sees Mr. and Mrs. Henry.

Between 1:25 and 2:30 that afternoon, he had no appointments, so no alibi. He made it up.

After the fact.





42





I rummage around the first aid box in the utility room and pick out what I think Marie will need to change the bandage on my hand. I’ve already removed the old one to put my ring back on—which hurt so much it made my eyes water—and I am pleased to see the wound isn’t as bad as I thought. Yes, my palm looks like it’s made of wax, and yes, in places it looks like I swiped it down a cheese grater, but it’s healing nicely. Perhaps I am not as self-destructive as I think I am. I took it off the burner just in time.

In my bedroom, I check my phone. There’s a message from Roy.

I’ll be home in a couple of hours. We need to talk.





I swipe it off the screen. I won’t be here in a couple of hours. Marie and I will be at the police station with our thumb drive, thumping desks with our fists and demanding justice.

I walk up to Marie’s rooms with my supplies under my arm, mentally rehearsing what we should tell the police. I’ve got some suggestions for Marie. I know she said she didn’t see Deborah’s face deteriorate, but I don’t think it would hurt for her to maybe…not lie, exactly, but let’s say, extrapolate.