Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Never Went Home
I did not open the letter in front of them.
That bothered Mitchell more than if I had screamed.
“Danielle, what did you get?”
I put the envelope back into the drawer.
“Why do you care?”
“Because you’re acting insane.”
Theresa recovered quickly.
“She wants attention. It’s her birthday.”
I looked at the pot still lying on the comforter.
“You threw cookware at me at seven in the morning.”
“Beside you.”
“That distinction makes you feel better?”
Mitchell stepped into the room.
“Everybody calm down.”
“Where were you last night?”
His shoulders stiffened.
“Working.”
“Where?”
“Downtown.”
“With whom?”
“Clients.”
“Names?”
He laughed.
It was the same defensive laugh he had used six months earlier when I found lipstick on a restaurant receipt in his car.
Back then he told me I was becoming suspicious because we had been trying unsuccessfully to have a baby.
I apologized.
That memory embarrassed me now.
“This is ridiculous,” he said.
Theresa crossed her arms.
“Mitchell doesn’t owe you an interrogation every time he comes home.”
“He’s my husband.”
“And you’re his wife. Try acting like one.”
I stood.
“Both of you leave the bedroom.”
Theresa actually laughed.
“This is my son’s home.”
That sentence had been repeated for months.
His kitchen.
His money.
His home.
The strange part was that the condo had been mine before I met Mitchell.
I purchased it at twenty-seven using savings, an inheritance from my grandmother, and a mortgage that remained solely in my name.
Mitchell moved in after our wedding.
He contributed to monthly household expenses.
But the deed had never changed.
We had discussed adding him once.
Then my attorney advised me to wait because I had bought the property before marriage and still owed a substantial balance.
Mitchell had acted insulted for about a week.
Then he dropped the subject.
At least I thought he had.
“Actually,” I said, “it’s my condo.”
Theresa’s expression hardened.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You always need to remind him you have more.”
More property.
More savings.
A steadier income.
Those comparisons had become increasingly important to Theresa over the past year.
I had assumed she was embarrassed that Mitchell’s commissions were unpredictable.
Now I wondered why she cared so much.
Mitchell glanced toward the drawer again.
“Are those my bank statements?”
“They were mailed here.”
“You opened my mail?”
“No.”
I pulled one out.
It was addressed jointly to Mitchell Hayes and Danielle Hayes.
A savings account I had never known existed.
“Apparently somebody added my name to an account without bothering to tell me.”
Mitchell stared at the paper.
Theresa sat down on the edge of the bed.
That was the first moment I became certain the affair was not the biggest secret in the room.
“How much is in it?” I asked.
Mitchell didn’t answer.
“I already know.”
Theresa looked at him.
Mitchell looked at his mother.
Neither looked at me.
Three statements.
Three months.
More than $86,000 moving through an account with my name attached to it.
And nearly every large transfer had gone to the same recipient.
May you like
T. Hayes.
Theresa.
