The New Husband(101)

It was the third photograph that left Nina shaking.

This was another picture of her, only it wasn’t her. The woman in the photograph was leaning up against a tree in a verdant park, and unquestionably in her twenties. And strangely enough, she looked just as Nina had at that age. Judging by the woman’s outfit—plaid, pleated miniskirt, a high-neck sweater, platform shoes—it was a style Nina might have worn in the ’90s. The haircut, however, was the same as Emma’s, the same as Nina’s—a bob with straight bangs and angled sides. While Nina and the person in the third photograph shared uncannily similar facial features, the younger woman had the saddest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Who are you?” Nina whispered, touching the glass as she traced her fingertips along the contours of the young woman’s face, so similar to her own.

She surveyed the rest of the room, not that there was much to see. She noticed now what she hadn’t before: a small book on the bed. It was the only book in the room and possibly in the entire house, which was odd for someone who studied history and enjoyed building robots as a hobby.

Nina picked up the book and studied it. She ran her hand over the textured cover of brown leather. She dragged her fingers along the edges of the yellowing paper. It smelled old, like a vintage volume an antique dealer might own. Only when she opened the top cover and flipped through the crinkly pages did she realize it was somebody’s handwritten diary.

At first, she figured the diary was Simon’s, but while the neat and looping handwriting was as legible as a teacher’s might be, it was remarkably different from his. The lettering looked familiar, and she remembered where she’d seen it. Simon had shown her a few pages of Emma Dolan’s diary when they were talking about her depression. The handwriting was unquestionably the same. But when Nina turned to the inside cover, searching for an inscription, she found the name of Allison Fitch.

A sinking, sick feeling washed over Nina. Not only had Simon lied about the diary belonging to Emma, he’d also lied when he told her he had no pictures of his first wife. There was at least one photograph of Allison Fitch, and it was hanging on the wall directly opposite her.





CHAPTER 56


Nina held her hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp rising from her throat. She sat on the edge of the neatly made bed, the diary splayed open on one leg, and began to turn the pages.

From the very first entries, it was evident that Allison Fitch, Simon’s first wife, was an abused woman. Nina read page after page of her pain, angst, fear, hope, and self-doubt, feeling the burn of guilt for violating the confessions of a woman in crisis, yet unable to resist the imperative to push ahead.

She realized Simon must have carefully selected passages from the diary to mislead the police into thinking Emma had been depressed to the point of suicide. In reality, they had been the words of another woman. The entries made no note of the date or year. It would have been easy for him to photocopy passages that weren’t particularly incriminating and glue them into a blank book to support his assertion that Emma was depressed, countering Hugh’s claims of abuse.

She read on.

Well, I screwed up another plan. Got the date wrong. My mistake, but I’m always messing up something, aren’t I? Simon’s right. I’m a total screw up. Anyway, I cleaned the kitchen to try and make it up to him, but didn’t do it to his standards, so once again I’m a failure. Guess I’ll try harder.



Hugh’s words came back to Nina: Does he make you question things? Nina recalled the countless times Simon had accused her of failing to remember something and thought: Not things, people; he makes the women in his life doubt themselves.

These were Allison’s private thoughts, and for a moment Nina struggled to wrap her mind around the fact that Simon read them to himself in bed like it was Jane Eyre.

Her breath caught, all color draining from her vision, after reading one particularly illuminating passage.

I get what I have to do. I have to leave him. Yes, yes, yes, I’ve said it before. Heard it a thousand times, too. But it’s not easy. I don’t have any money. He’s taken it all. I don’t even have access to the bank account. I didn’t understand what I was signing. He made it seem like it was important, but when I asked ONE simple question, he snapped at me and asked if I trusted him. So I signed it and when I went to take out money that’s when I found out I wasn’t on the account anymore. I don’t have any credit cards, and all the tips I make I give to Simon to pay the bills. God, I wish he NEVER came to the restaurant that night. I wish I never left with him. More than anything, I wish that I never met Simon Fitch!



Nina realized Simon had told her another lie. He and Allison weren’t college sweethearts. She’d been a waitress or something, maybe down on her luck when he met her. She was probably young and without the means to support herself. It would have made it easier for him to take control of her life. Nina wondered how long they’d dated before the abuse started.

Some of what Allison shared in her diary revealed a more volatile side to Simon than Nina had seen. Intuition told her his methods hadn’t changed with the years, but he had refined his technique considerably.

I got home from the bar and Simon was already in a nasty mood. He looked at his watch and said I should have been home 13 minutes ago. 13 minutes! Like he had timed it. I told him the buses were running late. He told me I should have called and I said, yeah I should have, but I said it really sarcastically. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but he got up off the chair and came at me fast. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back so hard I cried out in pain, and told me to watch how I spoke to him. But he didn’t hit me, so it’s no big deal. It was just words. Words don’t leave marks or bruises.