What You Don't Know(105)

She’d brought it up only once, when they were side-by-side in bed. The lights were all out and they weren’t touching, the blankets were tamped down between them, keeping them apart.

“I thought you were a different man when I married you,” she’d said. “I didn’t expect things to be like this.”

She wasn’t cruel about it, only matter-of-fact, and then she rolled over on her side, away from him, and went to sleep. He’d wanted to grab her shoulder, to see the startled look in her eyes when she woke up, and demand to know what she meant, that she explain how he was so different, tell him what she wanted.

But he’d let her alone.

And then she’d started sleeping with that cop, and later she’d told him that it wasn’t because of him, it wasn’t because he made her unhappy but because of work, that the pressure to get the story drove her to it, and he’d forgiven her, but forgetting is a completely different thing, and he sometimes still asks her about Hoskins when they’re having sex, asks what it was like to fuck Hoskins, if he went fast and liked to prop her legs up on his shoulders, if she let him push it into her asshole, and she never answers, just turns her face away, and sometimes he thinks she might be crying but if he runs his hand on her cheeks it always comes away dry. That’s why he finally asked for that promotion—because his wife is so disappointed in him that it doesn’t even make her cry anymore.

He gets up after a night of broken sleep, and showers, brushes his teeth. The water coming from the tap tastes strange and there are tiny ants circling the drain.

Maybe all this is my fault, Dean thinks. He’s always bringing up Hoskins, making Sammie think of him. He turns on his cell phone. Lots of missed calls, and a few voicemails.

Nothing’s happened. I swear.

And, Go fuck yourself.

He decides to go home. They’ll fight, he thinks, and then they’ll make up. Things can go back to the way they’ve always been, because maybe she’s telling the truth. She’s been writing for the Post again, covering the Secondhand case, and maybe that’s the reason Hoskins had gone to see her at work. Even if it’s not, they can work things out, they always do. They’ve been married too damn long to just throw everything away.

But Sammie’s not home. And she’s not at work. Not answering her phone.

So Dean does what he does, he signs onto the computer and tracks her phone. It’s amazing, the things technology can do these days, and it pulls her up immediately—well, not her, but a blue dot that’s supposed to be her. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his wife, but it’s addictive, and he likes to sign in at random times and check in, see how accurate it is. Pretty damn spot-on, he knows that, even if she’s walking around at work with her phone in her pocket he can sit in front of the computer and watch the blue dot move.

His phone rings as the screen finishes loading. She’s in a house, not too far away, and it feels like the blood is all rushing to his forehead, thundering through the veins there. She’s with Hoskins, he knows it, when he didn’t come home she ran right out so she could jump into bed with him—

His phone rings in his hand.

“Goddammit, Sammie—”

“Mr. Peterson? This is Jenna at the Denver Police Department.” The woman is talking fast, so he can barely understand what she’s saying. “I’ve been trying to reach your wife—”

“She’s with that goddamn detective,” Dean cries. “That’s where she is. Detective-fucking-Hoskins.”

There’s a pause, a long one, and then the woman speaks again, sounding strange.

“Actually, it’s Detective Hoskins who asked me to call you.”

“She’s not with him?” There’s a heavy feeling settling on his chest, like he’s being slowly suffocated. Something is very wrong, because the police wouldn’t be calling otherwise, it’s bad when the police call a person; he knows that from Sammie. If I’ve been murdered, they’ll call you right away, Sammie had told him once. She’d been joking, and he’d told her to shut up, that he didn’t want to talk about those things happening, it was like a wish, in reverse. If you talked about it, it would come true. They’ll probably ask if you know where I am, because the spouse is always the main suspect, at least at first.

“No, sir. It’s very important that we locate her. Do you happen to know where she is?”

That blinking blue dot.

“Sir?” the woman says. “If you know where she is, please tell me.”

If I’ve been murdered. Sammie would laugh about things like that, make it into a joke, even after he asked her to stop. He doesn’t think those kinds of things are funny. They’ll call you right away.

Dean hangs up. The blue dot isn’t moving, but it’s still blinking. He’s going to find his wife.

*

The blue dot has led him to a house that is small and brick, set far back from the street, and there’s Sammie’s car parked out front, the black car with the crack running through the left side of the windshield, he’d wanted to get it fixed but Sammie had said no, that it didn’t interfere with her line of sight, that she didn’t want to have to pay the deductible. He’s scared, his stomach is roiling in his gut but he still pulls right into the driveway and climbs out without bothering to turn off the car. The front door is unlocked and he pushes it open, expecting someone to greet him with a gun; he’ll be shot because he’s trespassing—This is private property, son, get out—and he wonders why the hell he’d rushed out of the house without bringing a weapon. Not that he owns a gun, but it would’ve been easy enough to bring a knife, or one of the golf clubs from the set Sammie had bought him a few years ago. He wishes he had something in his hands, anything, the weight would be comforting to hold, but the only thing he has with him is his wallet, and how could it possibly help, to clutch a square of leather in front of himself like a nervous woman holding a purse? In the end, Dean goes in with nothing but himself, and his fear.