Chapter Thirty-Eight
Owen pulled into his drive after work that evening to find Jessica’s car gone. Apparently, she’d come home at some point during the day and retrieved it.
Switching off the engine, he climbed out, sifted through his keys as he made his way to the porch, and let himself inside.
He could smell her essence in the house as he did every time he walked through the door.
A deep-seated pain sliced through him with the knowledge that he’d likely lost Jessica for good.
Owen didn’t blame his wife for running out on him. Whether she was guilty of wrong doing or not, she had to feel betrayed after he’d Baker Acted her.
He told himself he’d done the right thing by having her mentally evaluated. But Owen wasn’t so sure anymore.
The Jessica he’d loved since college, would never do the things he’d accused her of. But that didn’t change the fact that she had admitted to seeing ghosts, broken into the neighbor’s house, and traveled to another state to visit the very psychic whose body had later been found stabbed to death.
Owen stopped to stare at the wall above the sofa. According to the police, the message left there had been written in animal blood, though no animal had been recovered.
Could Jessica really do such a thing? Owen wondered, forcing his gaze away from the now clean wall.
He trailed off down the hall, coming to a stop in the doorway of their bedroom. The drawers hung open on Jessica’s dresser, empty of their contents save for a red shirt neatly folded in the top one.
Owen’s stomach tightened with sorrow. He moved deeper into the room until he stood in front of the dresser.
“Ah, Jess,” he whispered, reaching into the drawer and wrapping his fingers around that red shirt. He brought it to his nose, took a deep breath and drew her lingering scent deep into his lungs.
Tears of anger and resentment sprang to his eyes. He had lost everything he’d ever cared about. First his precious son Jacob, and now his beautiful wife, Jessica.
Covering his face with the red shirt he’d bought her for her last birthday, Owen gave in to the overwhelming pain gripping his heart. His legs gave out beneath him and he slid to the floor in a cry of denial.
* * * *
Owen wasn’t sure how long he sat on his bedroom floor before he realized that darkness had fully descended. Numb to his very soul, he lacked the strength needed to push himself to his feet.
Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he pulled his cellphone free, slid his thumb across the screen and selected Jessica’s number. He typed out a text. Can we please talk? I’m sorry, Jessica. God, I’m so sorry. I love you.
The doorbell rang just then, startling Owen out of his tormented thoughts.
Using the dresser for leverage, he pushed himself to his feet and practically ran down the hallway on numb, tingling legs.
“Jess?” he breathed, unlocking the door and yanking it open.
Disappointment was swift as he took in Marge’s nosy expression. “Mrs. Hawthorn,” he greeted, unable to hide the despondency in his voice.
Marge stood on the porch wearing her usual green robe and hair rollers. “I came to see if you were alright.”
Masking his emotions, Owen responded as calmly as he could manage under the circumstances. “I’m fine. Why would you ask?”
“Well, after your wife showed up here with that tall, good looking fellow and left with several suitcases, I assumed there was trouble in paradise.”
Jealousy tore through Owen. He had no doubt the tall, good looking fellow Marge mentioned was the same man he’d seen in the elevator with Jessica.
He moved to close the door. “I appreciate your concern, Mrs. Hawthorn, but everything is fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Didn’t look fine to me,” she sniffed, lifting her chin.
Owen hesitated. “What are you trying to say?”
She peered up at him, her face pinched in a disapproving manner. “From what I could see from my front yard, they kissed in this very doorway before they left earlier.”
Owen’s jealousy was soon replaced with a fury so deep he found it impossible to respond to Marge. He closed the door in her face.
A roar of denial ripped from his lungs. He drew back his arm and slammed his fist into the wall next to the door.
Pain exploded through his hand, but he didn’t care. It paled in comparison to the agony his heart felt over Jessica’s betrayal.
Cradling his now throbbing hand against his chest, Owen stumbled to the kitchen and took down a bottle of whiskey from the top of the refrigerator. He didn’t bother with a glass, instead, he twisted off the cap and brought the bottle to his lips.
The alcohol burned all the way to his gut. Still, he continued to drink.
He staggered into the dining room and dropped heavily onto a chair. With images of his wife in another man’s arms, Owen allowed his pain to consume him.
He turned up the bottle once again.