“I’m afraid it is, Mrs.…?”
“Buckley. Barbara Buckley.” Barb gives Gwen’s hand a tight squeeze. “My daughter has been through a lot, Detective. I don’t want to see her upset needlessly.”
“I assure you I have no intent of upsetting her needlessly. Unfortunately, this is a murder investigation, and we have to ask these difficult questions.” He reaches for one of the two glasses and takes a big sip. “It’s been my experience that the best way to approach sensitive topics like these is to be honest and straightforward from the beginning. Now, Mrs. Khoury, do you mind sharing how you learned he was seeing someone?”
“I can’t explain it. Just little things.” Gwen stares at her knees as she speaks. One of the cruelest aspects of infidelity is that the wronged party often ends up feeling ashamed. As if she were deficient in some way, and Anton’s betrayal was a reflection of her worth. That was part of the work she had done in therapy three years ago, to realize the cheating was abouthimand nother. And yet, here she is in the same position again, back to square one, shame building inside her like steam in a pressure cooker. “It’s happened in the past. I just know.”
“This may be difficult to hear, but we also found evidence of an affair,” he says. “Do you have any idea of the identity of the person he was involved with?”
Gwen removes her hand from under her mother’s and reaches for the other glass of water just to have something to do. The silence in the room feels oppressive. Does he know who Anton was cheating with, and he’s testing her? She regrets confronting Lisa.She was drunk, not thinking straight. If it gets out that Anton was screwing her neighbor, her friend, she’ll have to move. She can’t stand the thought of being the object of gossip and pity. What would chatty Gabby say? Or crazy Michelle J.? And a tiny part of her wonders, what if she’s got it all wrong? What if Lisa did just bump into him, and he was actually sleeping with someone else entirely?
And then there’s the question of what Anton told her he had been up to.
Sending the police after theother womanincreased the likelihood that all of his secrets would be revealed. This feels like chess, and she was never very good at chess. She could remember all the pieces and where they went, and that the rook did this and the bishop did that. But she was never very good at imagining the steps that would follow next. Strategy, that’s what people called it. She wasn’t one for strategy, and what is her strategy here? To tell the truth? To play dumb? To outright lie? Is there another choice? A coughing fit perhaps, or breaking into hysterics?
“Mrs. Khoury, are you aware of the identity?”
“I’m not sure, but I have my suspicions. A neighbor of ours. Lisa Greco-King. I considered her a good friend. At least I did, before.”
“You must have been very upset to learn that your husband was sleeping with a good friend of yours,” he says. “Your families are close. You’ve even been on vacation together, haven’t you?”
She gasps. He knew all along and was testing her. She feels vindicated—she was right to have accused Lisa. But that sense of vindication is overpowered by a wave of humiliation. Anton couldn’t even be bothered to leave their street to find someone to cheat with. Lazy bastard.
“We found messages on his phone,” the detective says.
“Where? I check his texts.” The words slip out before she realizes what she’s saying.The jealous wife, the insecure nag.
“He had WhatsApp on his phone. We found it hidden inside another folder.”
Gwen sinks back into the sofa, wishing the cushions could swallow her up. He must think her a fool. No, he sees deception every day. She’s just another clueless woman with a cheating husband. She had checked his messages—it was part of the condition of taking him back. But he was determined to cheat on her, so he found a way. She couldn’t watch his every move.
“Where were you Friday night?” the detective asks.
This question shakes her out of her thoughts. “Me? What do you mean? Here with the kids.”
“After your husband left, did you follow him in your car?”
Gwen coughs out a broken laugh. “Follow Anton? No. Of course not.”
“Did you drive to Villain & Saint, hoping to intercept him, catch him there?”
“What? No.”
“Did you have an argument with your husband that evening?”
“Why are you asking—”
“Neighbors overheard arguing. Raised voices.”
“What neighbors?” Surely not Aimee. She would never talk to the police about her, would she? Maybe it was Paola, who lived on the other side.
“Your husband had a gash on his head. Did he get that during your fight?”
“No, he slipped. He hit his head. He stormed out.”
“All right, I think that’s quite enough.” Barb stands up. “Maybe it’s time for you to go.”
“Not quite,” says Detective Salazar, standing as well. He pulls out a piece of paper. “We have a warrant to search the house. And your car.”