The New Husband(17)
“Connor was really upset about not being able to help with the search, and I did what I could to reassure him the police would find his dad, that everything would be all right, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. Hell, I didn’t believe me either.”
“You implied things got even worse. Do you want to talk about it?”
Nina took in a breath to inflate her resolve. Some memories were harder to relive than others.
“Well, it was a chaotic night,” she said a bit apprehensively, “with people coming and going. By eleven o’clock the house had nearly emptied out. At Susanna’s urging I went upstairs to get some rest. I was probably a vodka tonic away from slurring my words.”
“Understandable,” Dr. Wilcox said.
“I had just closed my eyes when my cell phone chirped—an incoming text. It was a New Hampshire area code, six-oh-three,” Nina said, “but wasn’t a number I recognized, and it wasn’t anyone in my phone’s contacts. In fact, the text message started off by saying they were using an anonymous texting app that kept their identity a secret. Whoever it was didn’t want to be involved, but they had something to share.”
Bitterness rode up the back of Nina’s throat, the memory still so raw and cutting it was easy to conjure up her initial shock and anger.
“What was it?” Dr. Wilcox asked.
“The texter—to this day I don’t know if it was a guy or a girl—believed Glen was seeing a woman named Teresa.”
“Teresa?”
“That was the name in the text. I’d never heard of her.”
“And?”
“And … and for a moment I thought it was a prank, some sick person who had seen Glen’s story on the news, knew all about him, looked up my phone number somehow, and was playing with my emotions for kicks. I imagined a group huddled around a phone, laughing at this poor woman they were taunting.”
“But it wasn’t a prank?”
“No. The texter sent a picture. Two pictures, actually.”
The first picture Nina described had been too small for her to see clearly, but with a touch of her finger she’d expanded it into a larger image, filling her phone’s display.
She saw Glen out at night, lit by a camera’s flash, standing in front of a bar or restaurant Nina did not recognize, dressed in clothes she did recognize. He had his arm draped around a young woman who was heavily made up, hoop earrings almost touching her shoulders, choker necklace in place, dressed for a night on the town in a short black skirt, calf-high leather boots, and a tight-fitting black top that showed off the swell of her breasts.
The woman’s strawberry-blond hair fell well past her shoulders, framing a slightly freckled face with enviable cheekbones, vibrant eyes, and a generous smile that was the early stage of a laugh. She radiated sexuality, lust. Glen had his head turned, his face pressed up against her cheek, his lips puckered, attached to her like a remora on a shark. Even though it was a frozen moment, Nina could still tell it was an intimate kiss, not a quick peck. Glen’s blue eyes shone with delight.
The second picture she received left no doubt about the sort of kisses they shared. Glen had his lips pressed firmly against Teresa’s, their mouths locked open, his hands squeezing her backside hard enough for Nina to see the strain put on his knuckles.
Almost two years later, she could recall the follow-up text message verbatim.
This girl is Teresa Mitchell. She’s my friend. Saw Glen’s picture on TV. Think he’s your husband. Knew him as Teresa’s boyfriend. They were in love. Didn’t know he was married. Took these photos when we were out together. Sorry for everything. Thought you deserved the truth.
Nina’s hands shook so fiercely, she could barely type a reply.
Where? Where were these taken? When?
The Muddy Moose Carson NH. Teresa works there. That’s where they met. Sorry to be the one to tell you. You have my sympathy. Good-bye.
Dr. Wilcox took in a sharp breath. “What did you do?”
“Well, that same night I sent the pictures to the police, of course, and gave them the number of the texter, because after all my husband was missing, and this woman, Teresa, could have had something to do with it. But I was worried, you know, afraid how much worse it would get.”
“Worse how?”
“We were about to become a living, breathing Dateline special. ‘Cheating husband vanishes. Was the grieving wife all an act?’ You get the idea.”
“Indeed. I’m guessing there’s more to this story.”
“Much more,” Nina said.
CHAPTER 10
Lunch.
Oh, the dreaded, dreaded half hour. Some people hate gym, or get stomach cramps before math, English, or Spanish, but no, not me. I love all those classes. I love school. Homework doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I don’t get knotted up over tests; I’m not a perfectionist like that. But I am abysmally miserable during lunch.
I should explain. Lunch is where the complicated social structure of middle school gets sorted out. Groups are defined mostly by where they eat: the football team has three tables; soccer has a few; drama and band each have their own section of our incredibly noisy cafeteria—and so on. According to our guidance counselor, all that BS we heard in grade school about being inclusive doesn’t apply in the dog-eat-dog world of middle school. Here, our friend groups form because of how we spend our time outside of school, in various clubs, sports, and whatnot, which is why the jocks and nerds mix like oil and water.