EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder Read online

He sighed. "What can I do to convince you that she's not my secret lover, or anyone else I know?"

  Jennifer wasn't sure that he could convince her. Women didn't call her husband at night as damsels in distress without there being some motive other than the obvious. She could have used the bizarre story as a way to get Peter to come to her rescue. Or, in other words, out of the house and into her bed.

  Of course Peter would distance himself from it. He was very good at that. Deny, deny, deny. As if that in and of itself would make this simply go away.

  But with no proof, Jennifer could not really accuse him of infidelity again. Maybe if she could talk to the woman face to face, the truth would come out.

  But where would she find her? Carlson's Canyon was a good place to start.

  Jennifer studied Peter's handsome face. "Just forget the whole thing," she said.

  "You sure?"

  "I'd like to be. I just hope she doesn't call anymore."

  "Yeah, me too," he said.

  Peter put the phone back on the nightstand and turned out the light. Soon he was snoring softly while Jennifer lay there thinking about the phone call.

  * * *

  A half an hour later, Jennifer slid from her husband's arms. She quietly slipped into a robe and left the room.

  Downstairs, she cut the TV on just as the weatherman was speaking.

  "...A freak and violent storm has hit several local areas including Bridge Bay and Carlson's Canyon..."

  Jennifer shivered at the thought. Had the caller really skidded off the road and been trapped inside her car in Carlson's Canyon?

  If so, had she phoned others too? Or had Peter been the only one she chose to call for some reason?

  Jennifer debated whether or not to call 911. The last thing she needed was to be the butt of someone's very poor joke.

  Or her husband's cheating ways.

  But she had to do something.

  Grabbing her cell phone, Jennifer called 911.

  "Can you tell me if you've received any reports tonight of a woman in a car accident in Carlson's Canyon?"

  "I'm not showing anything, Ma'am," the operator said.

  She had to be sure. "Could you please check again?"

  "Are you aware of such an accident?"

  "My husband received a call from someone claiming she was trapped in her car in Carlson's Canyon," she told the operator.

  "Did she say where exactly?"

  "No."

  "What's the name of the person involved in the accident?"

  "Jennifer," she said, feeling uncomfortable.

  "Last name?"

  "I don't know her last name."

  "What's your name?" the operator asked.

  "Valerie Lane," she said, opting to use her middle name to keep from making the situation even more confusing.

  "I'll notify the police, but I can't guarantee how long it will take them to check it out. We've had an unusual number of calls tonight due to the weather."

  Jennifer hung up. She was having second thoughts about the whole thing. Maybe she should just forget about it. Peter obviously had. Now that she'd reported the alleged accident, it was out of her hands.

  But every second counted and time had already been wasted since the woman called. How much longer would she have to wait till help arrived?

  At that moment, Jennifer made the decision to do what she had wanted to ever since the caller had invaded her world.

  * * *

  Jennifer went back to the bedroom. Peter was lying on his side and showed no sign of waking up. She considered briefly telling him about her desire to see if she could locate the distressed woman, but was sure he would try to talk her out of it. Especially if he had something—or someone—to hide.

  No, this was something Jennifer had to do on her own. She gathered her clothes and crept quietly into the hallway.

  She took an umbrella and her cell phone with her.

  Outside there was no sign of rain. Jennifer wondered how they had managed to be spared nature's wrath.

  Had Carlson's Canyon gotten the worst of it?

  She drove down Highway 219. Soon huge drops of rain were pounding her windshield. Jennifer had to turn the wipers on full speed just to see ahead. In the torrent she could barely make out the sign that read: Welcome to Carlson's Canyon.

  Jennifer looked back at the road only to see a deer suddenly appear out of nowhere directly in her path. It made no effort to move, as if frozen by fear.

  She slammed on the brakes, but realized it was too late to keep from hitting the poor animal.

  Just before the moment of impact, the car swerved sharply to the right, then spun out of control. Jennifer screamed and put her hands up defensively as the car veered off the road, overturning several times down a steep slope before landing upside down.

  When Jennifer came to, she was upside down with the seatbelt holding her in place. Groggy and in a great deal of pain, she somehow managed to reach down and pick up her cell phone. She punched the speed dial to her house. A flash of lightning lit up her cracked windshield.

  "Hello," the voice bellowed sleepily in Jennifer's ear. It was Peter.

  Hearing his voice gave her hope. "Peter," she moaned. "Help..."

  "Who is this?" she heard him say.

  "It's me...Jennifer." She grimaced, certain her legs were broken as well as one of her arms.

  "Jennifer?" Peter repeated. "Look, who the hell are you and why do you keep calling here saying you're Jennifer?"

  Her immediate reaction was anger rather than the crippling pain and weakness that wracked her body. "I'm your wife. Why are you acting this way?" She tried to conserve her energy. "I've been in an accident... Carlson's Canyon... Lost control of the car on a rain slick road. It overturned..."

  There was a long pause.

  "Jenn...is that you?" Peter asked.

  "Yes," she cried.

  Another pause.

  "You drove to Carlson's Canyon?"

  "I had to try to find her," she said.

  "Who?"

  It was only in a moment of clarity that Jennifer knew who the mystery woman was, even if she couldn't explain it.

  "Me. I had to find myself, Peter." She swallowed. "And put the past where it belongs so I could focus on our future."

  Peter seemed to understand what she was saying.

  "Hold on, sweetheart," he pleaded. "I'm on my way. Don't you dare die on me! I love you, Jenn. I swear no one will ever come between us again."

  "I love you too," she told him, knowing that she had become the victim of her own nagging doubts.

  Peter had passed the test of faithfulness and Jennifer was sure they would have the rest of their lives to work on making each other happy beyond words.

  # # #

  DEATH BY TRIAL AND ERROR

  She wanted to kill the bloody bastard.

  But how?

  Run him down with her car?

  She could imagine him begging for his life as he lay wounded in the street, bones broken from head to toe. She would make him suffer before once more rolling the car over the damaged goods.

  And again, until the life had been snuffed out of him.

  Perhaps she should lace his chicken noodle soup with cyanide?

  She would get a great thrill out of seeing him clutch his burning throat in a desperate attempt to relieve his agony. Or roll his eyes from a combination of the poison taking effect and the sheer disbelief of it all.

  She would dance with delight watching him squirm on the floor as if he had been possessed by the devil himself.

  And in that final moment of distress between life and death, she would laugh at him spitefully, the way he surely had been laughing at her for the last six months. Or however long it had been since he'd decided sharing another woman's bed gave him more pleasure and passion than sharing hers.

  It was exactly one week ago that Harrison had told her about his affair. His intonation, usually deep with assurance and rich with confidence, had come across as
flat and unrepentant. She felt as if she had been lowered into molten lava. Or told that she had a malignant brain tumor. The pain could not have been any worse.

  "What—?" The word had shot from her mouth like a cannon. She was certain she had misunderstood him. Or even if she had understood him correctly, he surely couldn't have meant that which she feared most.

  Perhaps he was only playing with her, looking for some sort of reaction. He often liked teasing her, telling her things that would incense her, only to laugh playfully like a schoolboy who had pulled up a schoolgirl's dress merely for the sake of fun and frolic.

  She hated that part of Harrison, the power he had over her to bring her to the brink of tears, to make her feel her whole world was about to collapse; then just as easily make her believe she had the whole world and all its blessings in the palm of her hand.

  With him being her most cherished blessing.

  Yes, he brought out the best and worst in her, often with merely a gesture, a smile, a frown, a comment, or some other manner of communication that could only exist between a husband and wife.

  She looked at him standing in the doorway of the bedroom. For an instant, it was as if she had traveled back in time some two decades earlier when she first met Harrison Kincaid and fell in love with him the moment he flashed his megawatt smile at her. He was tall and solidly built, as if to her specifications. Dark, wavy hair was swept to the side and his eyes were a deep shade of blue. They were the kind of eyes that penetrated to the depths of your soul when he looked at you. She thought he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

  And he still was.

  It had been a childless marriage, borne as much from genetic mismatches as the decision to forgo having children in favor of their careers and each other.

  He had gotten up, careful not to wake her, and dressed as if it was just another day in the life of Harrison Kincaid: author, lecturer, philanthropist, and asshole. She wondered how long he had stood there watching her, probably replaying his revelation over and over in his mind, trying to think of how best to let her down easily. For all Harrison's faults, he had always tried to cushion the blow when he had something bad to tell her, as if he could somehow come across as an angel of mercy rather than the devil in disguise.

  Sitting up in bed, Emma suddenly felt more vulnerable than she ever had in her life. She saw herself as a forty-five-year-old hag with breasts that had begun to sag, hips that had expanded every year, and thighs that were beginning to resemble something akin to cauliflower. Her hair, once a lustrous shade of crimson, had become thin, flat, and seemed determined to remain a convoluted gray no matter how many different dyes she applied to it. Crow's feet had taken up permanent residence at the corners of her rich green eyes. Her taut porcelain skin was now dull and wrinkled.

  She wondered if he saw her the same way. Had she grown too old and unattractive? Was she no longer enough for him now that he had begun to sense his own mortality at the age of forty-eight?

  Had he really betrayed her in the worst way that a husband could ever betray a wife?

  He seemed to be reading her mind as he stared at her without blinking. He remained wedged inside the doorway, as if to come closer would only make what he had to say that much more difficult. His lips were opened slightly as if trying to say words that wouldn't come out. She noticed the deep furrow on his brow and couldn't help but think that he suddenly looked every bit his age and some.

  Finally, he stepped into the room and up to the foot of the bed. He turned away, as if he could not stand the sight of her, before meeting her gaze head on.

  "I said I'm involved with another woman—"

  This time there was no mistaking his meaning. He was having a sexual relationship with someone else. He had forsaken their marriage vows to be with someone who was probably younger, sexier, able to bear his children, and brainless.

  Even then, painful as it was, she wanted to make him tell her in clear English what he meant.

  And tell her who this woman was.

  She was wearing a nightgown—a blue silk gown he had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary this very year. But she felt naked, as if she had just been violated, and pulled the covers up over her chest.

  "I'm not a mind reader, Harrison," she said as nonchalantly as possible. "What the hell are you talking about? You mean you're involved with a woman on yet another committee for dealing with substance abuse or illiteracy?" Aside from his writing, Harrison had practically made a career out of taking on various causes for making the world a better, kinder place to live.

  Now she wondered if he had been thinking more about his world.

  His eyes hardened and his lower lip quivered. "For heaven's sake, Emma, don't make this any more difficult than it already is."

  She felt the bile rise in her throat. Glaring at him, she said, "If you expect me to make this easy for you, you're sorely mistaken." She could feel her heart slamming against her chest like a hammer. Did she really want to hear what he had to say? Might this all somehow turn out to be a bad dream—someone else's bad dream—if she refused to listen to any more of this?

  But Emma knew she must listen. She wanted to—had to—hear all the gory details of his betrayal. It was the only way she could possibly come to terms with it.

  And deal with him.

  * * *

  Maybe it would be better if she shot him between the eyes?

  She had become an expert markswoman thanks to him and his fascination with guns. She would make sure that the last thing he ever saw with those smug, deceiving eyes was the hatred he had created in her before she pulled the trigger.

  Then, for good measure, she would shoot him down there between his legs where he had taken what was hers and given it to someone else.

  Someone who had no right to him.

  Someone who hadn't been through the ordeals, stresses, and strains he had put her through.

  Someone who hadn't bankrolled his aspirations for years till they finally began to pay off.

  Someone who hadn't invested years in a marriage that was supposed to be till death do them part.

  She found him in the study that morning, having said that he would wait for her there while she got dressed. She had not argued, having no desire to hear about his infidelity in the bedroom of all places.

  Their bedroom.

  Had she slept with him in there?

  Had they made love in their bed?

  Over and under their sheets and blankets?

  Harrison had taken the liberty of fixing them both a drink. Emma suspected that this was probably his third or fourth this morning. He wasn't a heavy drinker by and large. But that didn't stop him from indulging whenever it suited his fancy, usually to calm his nerves.

  Or guilt.

  She took the glass he gave her, but didn't drink from it.

  "I never planned for this to happen," Harrison uttered pathetically. "It just did—"

  Nothing ever just happens, Emma thought, seething. It takes two selfish people to make it happen.

  She flashed hateful eyes at one of them. "How long?" she heard herself say, as if this would somehow make a difference in the way she felt.

  Had it been going on for years without her ever suspecting?

  Or had he decided practically overnight that having another lover was just what the doctor ordered to satisfy him?

  Harrison put the glass to his lips thoughtfully. "Is that really important?"

  "How long?" Her voice rose threateningly. She needed to know how long he had played her for a fool.

  How long he had abused her love and devotion to him.

  How long he had taken everything she had ever wanted in life and destroyed it in an instant.

  "Six months," he said matter-of-factly.

  Half a year.

  One hundred and eighty days.

  One hundred and eighty nights.

  When he wasn't with her, he was with her.

  When they made love, which wasn't very ofte
n in the past six months, had he really been making love to her?

  And what about when they weren't making love? Had he been sleeping with her when he claimed to be at his office or at the cabin writing?

  Or when he was supposed to be on a book tour?

  Or hunting?

  Had she been the first? Or was she just the latest?

  Emma felt sick to her stomach. She bent over in pain, as if she had been on the receiving end of a punch to the midsection. Harrison, feigning concern, put his hands on her.

  "Are you all right?" His voice was coated with sincerity. Or perhaps pity.

  She would accept neither. Whatever he was offering came too late.

  She willed herself to put aside the nauseous feeling, straightening up, and slapping his hands away as if they were hot coals.

  "Don't touch me, you bastard!"

  He looked as if it was he who had been crushed, betrayed, and humiliated. "I know how you must feel—"

  Her eyes became razor slits. "You can't possibly know how I feel! How could you? I've given my life to you. I've been faithful to you. I've allowed you to lead a life often separate of our life. All I ever asked in return was that you remain loyal to me, in and out of bed. But you took advantage of my love and naivety and I hate you for it."

  Did she really hate him?

  Could she ever truly hate the only man she had ever loved no matter what he did?

  But how could she ever love him again, in spite of her feelings?

  Her mouth felt dry, as if she had been in the desert for a month. She lifted her glass of wine and took a sip, if only to wet her throat.

  Though she wanted only to drown herself in sorrow, there were still other questions, other answers that she needed to concern herself with. Because she'd had no experience with a cheating husband, she had not been prepared to face all the implications that came with the territory.

  Why had he told her of his affair? To absolve his guilty conscience?

  To cruelly hurt her in the worst way possible?

  Or was he was planning to leave her for this other woman?

  The mere notion sent a shiver up and down Emma's spine. Somehow in her shock she had not considered that it was he who might want to dump her rather than the other way around.