Page 35 of You Know Why

“Then that is a new development. Brooklyn, your husband attended the Air Force Academy. Trained to fly C-130s. But he ended his service early under a cloud of scrutiny during the investigation. He severed with the Air Force, received a general discharge, and then, after Chloe’s death, he disappeared. We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him in a decade.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Eden says, that strange glitter in her eyes.

“That’s . . . impossible.” But is it? Trey didn’t talk a lot about his life before we met. Yes, we’ve talked about his parents, and the difficult relationship he had with them. His father was abusive, emotionally and physically. His mother didn’t stand up for him. He had a sibling, a baby brother, who died of SIDS when Trey was four, and after that, they were distant with him. Present but distant. He often said they were more interested in being pillars of society than being his parents. I thought it odd he wanted to use the family name for our son, but Trey was big on traditions. He said he was naming Four after him, not his dad.

After Trey’s final blowup with his folks, he started traveling to escape the situation once and for all. Smart and capable, he moved around until he landed in Mexico and met me.

But that’s about all we’ve discussed. Not putting him through the blow-by-blow retelling of what is clearly a horribly painful story is my gift to him. My husband is a good man. If he says his father isn’t one, then I believe him. And it’s never been an issue before. He’s never given me a reason to force it out of him. I’ve always known he’ll tell me what’s relevant about his past if and when he’s ready.

But none of our general conversations included him being an airman, or flying planes, or being married before. So maybe none of what he’s shared is true. Maybe it’s all just made up to make me sympathize with him. And he’s using me to some ends.

The idea that his life before was a complete fabrication stings deeply. Though, can I call it a fabrication? Lies of omission are just as hurtful as flat-out lies, aren’t they? Is this my fault for not pressing him harder to talk more about his past? Am I the fool here?

The answer to that is a painfully obvious Yes.

My phone buzzes again. I glance down at the screen.

Gonna kill him slow, Brooklyn. And then I’m coming for you. Tick tock.

Then it’s gone.

I lock the phone and turn it upside down on the table. “I don’t know what sort of game you two are playing. Is that why you were so insistent that I come home with you, Eden, and spend the night here? To trap me? To slander my husband’s name?” But even as I protest, my mind snags on a word—investigation. The cop said the investigation. What the hell was that about?

“It’s not a game,” Eden says. “We’re not trying to trap you. It’s a coincidence, yes, that I happened to be there today and see everything go down. But if he didn’t tell you about his military service, there may be other things he hasn’t told you.”

Chloe’s death. The investigation. Missing money. Threats on my phone.

Oh, God, Trey, what have you done?

My stomach is churning now. I regret the wine, regret ever coming here. “Like what?”

Eden glances once at the detective, who nods. “I suppose he didn’t tell you he murdered his first wife?”

Falling

I have no air in my lungs. “What did you just say?”

Theresa Lee gives me another pitying glance, then hands me a thick green file folder.

I fight down a stab of nausea and lean back into the sofa. I should get up and walk out right now, as Trey urged earlier, but the kids are upstairs, and I honestly don’t know if my feet can manage the climb. I’m tingling, like fire ants have crawled up my legs and arms, that horrid numbness, the sensation of being in one position for too long. It’s not my body, though—it’s my life. I’ve been sitting still, domesticated, and my husband has created a facade of existence for us all.

A kaleidoscope of emotions courses through me. My heart begins a restless pounding. My breath comes short. My vision pinpoints.

I do not want this file. I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to see another world, another reality. I just want my life back. I want to rewind to yesterday, before Trey dropped his bomb of a surprise in my lap. Before he turned into a stranger.

That’s it. I am not required to participate in this conversation.

My legs finally have feeling again, and I use them. I drop the file and burst out of the front door onto the porch. My instinct is to run—hard, fast. To get on a plane and disappear. To exit this particular world and find myself a new one, like I used to do. Panic clogs my throat, that jittery anxiety kicking up again. My pulse is roaring in my ears. I can’t see. The night is all-consuming, shadows with jagged teeth slinking around my body. I feel them caressing me, winding sinuously. I know, without hope or reservation, that I am going to die.

There is no breath, no sight, no resonance with the air, just my heart pumping like I’m sprinting the last two-tenths of the twenty-sixth mile. I have lost myself. The adrenaline has overcome me, and I’m suffocating. Drowning. I scream silently, everything inside me breaking apart.

And in the scream, I think of air. Of skies. Of clouds. Of rain. Of fields. Of forests. Of dust. Of death. Of life.

Life.

Kisses. Sensations.

A heartbeat. Another. Not my own. My children’s.