The Wife Who Knew Too Much(18)

The next day at the restaurant, I was constantly looking over my shoulder. I told everyone to be on the lookout for him, and even pulled up an old photo on my phone and showed it around. Matt tried to reassure me that, since I hadn’t swiped right on Derek’s profile, we hadn’t matched, so it was unlikely that he’d seen mine. For all I knew, Derek had been back in this area for months without getting in touch, so maybe I had nothing to fear. Still, to be safe, I had Matt walk me to my car that night, and for several nights after.

A week passed with no sign of Derek. I let my guard down.

It was a Tuesday night. My shift had just ended at the restaurant and I was walking to my car through the dark parking lot when Derek came up from behind. I saw him from the corner of my eye, and the look of him shocked me. He’d always been a big guy, a gym rat, built. I’d liked that at first, until it scared me. Now he looked heavier, and not in a good way—puffy, unhealthy, with pasty skin. His hair was different, too, shaved into a fade that screamed jailhouse. I backed away, my chest tight with fear.

“Not so fast. Where do you think you’re going?” he said.

“I don’t want any trouble. Leave me alone.”

“Why should I? You’re my wife.”

“Not anymore.”

“Because of some bullshit piece of paper? I know you’re mad over the drugs, but come on—divorce? I was just try’na make a buck for us, babe.”

“Don’t blame me for your arrest. I never asked you to break the law.”

“Oh, right. You just wanted shit. A house, a new car—”

“I never said that. You decided to deal, without telling me.”

“Whatever. I apologize, okay. Now, cut the bullshit, and come home to me. I see you on Tinder, giving yourself to strangers. I’m right here. I miss you.”

He stepped toward me, into the light, and I got a look at his eyes. The pupils were pinpricks in the light-blue irises. He was on something. I started walking. He grabbed my arm. I screamed, and he clamped his hand over my mouth.

“Shut up, you’ll get me in trouble.”

My whole body was shaking. Derek had never physically hurt me before, but he’d punched walls and broken things. When he got the divorce papers in the mail, he called from prison and said I’d regret it and I shouldn’t make the mistake of thinking we were done.

I bit his hand. He yelped and let go.

“What the fuck.”

A rowdy group of customers exited the restaurant, shouting and laughing. Using them for cover, I ran for the door. He didn’t follow. Inside, I told Matt in a trembling voice what had happened. He insisted on calling the police. By the time the officer showed up and searched the parking lot, Derek had gone. There was a piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper of my car—a flyer from a pizza place with Derek’s handwriting on the back.

“Nice to see you too,” the note read, and I heard the words in Derek’s bitter voice. “You dump me when I’m down & then your on Tinder looking all happy. You owe it to me to meet up. Call me.” And he left his number.

The officer was an old guy with gray hair and a beer belly who refused to take the situation seriously.

“He’s not here. Call if you see him again,” he said.

“That might be too late. He’s hostile. He’s stalking me.”

“He says right here, nice to see you.”

“That’s him being sarcastic. He grabbed me, I’m telling you.”

“Any witnesses to that?”

“No.”

“Then it’s he said, she said, and you won’t get far in court. If he was still loitering, I could do something, but.”

“I thought the police were supposed to protect people from criminals. My ex-husband has a criminal record. He’s on probation.”

“There’s your recourse, then. Call his parole officer and complain.”

“What’s the parole officer going to do?”

“With a domestic complaint like this—”

“It’s not domestic. We’re not married, not anymore.”

“He can sit him down and give him a talking-to.”

“Talk?”

“Yes.”

Which would achieve nothing except to piss Derek off.

I spent the next two nights tossing and turning on Matt’s couch. He and his husband, Justin, told me to stay as long as I liked. But they lived in a tiny house with one bathroom and two enormous rescue dogs. A third person in that space was a lot, and I couldn’t impose forever.

I went back to my place. I wasn’t sleeping much. I was thinking about buying a gun to protect myself. On top of everything, I seemed to have picked up some weird stomach bug that left me feeling queasy. I hated my life and couldn’t imagine a scenario in which things would get better.

That’s the frame of mind I was in when Connor finally called.





10





The buzzing of the phone woke me from a fitful sleep. Pink light glowed around the edges of the windows as I reached blearily toward my nightstand. A number I didn’t recognize was flashing on my phone. It started with 917. New York. It was him.

I’d been telling myself that if Connor called, I’d decline. Instead, I frantically swiped Accept before the call rolled over to voicemail.