Chapter 5 - THE MESSAGE I NEVER OPENED
Michael was asleep when I returned home.
Or he wanted me to believe he was.
His breathing was too even. His phone rested facedown on the nightstand, and the bedroom television played silently.
I changed clothes in the bathroom and took my laptop downstairs.
Our phone provider allowed me to see device activity through the family account. At 8:06 Monday evening, my messages had been opened from a linked tablet.
The tablet belonged to Michael.
I sat in the dark kitchen until two in the morning.
When he finally came downstairs, he wore sweatpants and an expression of tired concern.
“You didn’t come to bed.”
“Why did you read Mom’s message?”
He stopped beside the refrigerator.
“What message?”
“Monday night. She texted me after Kara left.”
“I might have seen it on the tablet.”
“You didn’t mention it.”
“I forgot.”
“She said they wanted to talk to both of us.”
“It sounded like another lecture about retirement accounts.”
“You remember it now.”
Michael opened the refrigerator.
“Emily, I read hundreds of messages while you’re at work. You asked me to watch for anything important.”
“My mother asking us to come over was important.”
“They asked us over constantly.”
“Did you go?”
He closed the refrigerator without taking anything.
“No.”
“Were you at their house Monday night?”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
He did.
“I was not at your parents’ house Monday night.”
His voice was calm.
That should have reassured me.
Instead, it reminded me how easily he lied to customers when a job was delayed. Michael called it managing expectations.
I called Detective Shaw the next morning.
She did not sound surprised by my questions.
“We’re examining all digital records,” she said.
“Is Michael a suspect?”
“I cannot discuss the status of specific individuals.”
“Did you know he accessed my mother’s message?”
“We obtained the linked-device information yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because we did not want you confronting anyone.”
“I already did.”
She exhaled.
“Emily, please do not access or remove anything from your home. If you feel unsafe, leave.”
The word unsafe made me angry.
Michael had held my hair when I was sick.
He had driven six hours through a snowstorm when my father needed surgery.
He remembered my mother’s favorite flowers and fixed Kara’s roof without charging her.
Eleven years could not be reduced to one unopened text.
Then Detective Shaw asked, “Do you know where your husband was between eight and ten Monday evening?”
“At home.”
“Did you see him?”
I tried to remember.
I had stayed late at the accounting firm to finish a quarterly report. Michael texted me at 8:17, asking whether I wanted Thai food.
I replied at 8:43.
When I arrived home after ten, takeout containers were on the counter.
“I assumed he was home,” I said.
“That is not the same as seeing him.”
After the call, I searched our kitchen trash.
The Monday takeout containers were gone.
Trash collection had been Wednesday.
Michael came home at five thirty carrying flowers.
He had not brought me flowers in months.
“I hate how we left things,” he said.
He placed the bouquet on the counter.
“I’m scared too.”
I wanted to step into his arms.
Instead, I noticed a fresh scratch across his right hand.
“What happened?”
“Job site.”
“Which one?”
“The school renovation in Dublin.”
I knew that project required gloves and strict safety reports.
Michael touched the scratch.
“Piece of conduit caught me.”
He made pasta for dinner and poured wine.
I did not drink mine.
Afterward, he suggested we review the camera footage again.
“We need to remember what the evidence actually shows,” he said.
He inserted the memory card into his laptop.
The video opened at 6:41 and ended at 8:19.
I watched the timestamp.
“What happened after Dad took out the trash?”
“The camera probably stopped recording.”
“Why?”
“No movement.”
“There would have been movement Tuesday morning. The mail carrier. Neighbors. Me arriving.”
“The card filled up.”
“How big is it?”
“Sixteen gigabytes.”
“How long would that record?”
“Depends on the settings.”
I reached toward the laptop.
Michael closed it.
“What are you doing?”
“I want the file properties.”
“The police already copied everything.”
“Then it won’t hurt.”
“Emily, stop trying to become a detective.”
He removed the card.
I held out my hand.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“It belongs to my father.”
“It’s evidence.”
“You removed it from the house.”
“With an officer standing beside me.”
“Give it to me.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then Michael smiled faintly.
It was the same smile he used when explaining something simple to an unreasonable client.
“You’re exhausted,” he said.
My anger became cold.
“Where is the blue folder?”
“I don’t know.”
“You reacted when I mentioned it.”
“Because your family is inventing evidence.”
“My father almost died.”
“And your sister brought poisoned food.”
He walked toward the office with the memory card.
I followed.
Michael opened the small fireproof safe beneath his desk and placed the card inside.
As he bent down, I saw something behind the safe.
A corner of blue plastic.
He noticed my eyes move.
Then he slammed the safe door shut and stood between me and the desk.
“What is behind there?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Move.”
“No.”
“Michael.”
His expression changed.
Not to guilt.
To irritation.
The kind a person feels when an object refuses to stay where he placed it.
He stepped toward me.
May you like
“You need to leave this alone.”
For the first time in our marriage, I backed away from my husband because I was afraid of him.
