Who Killed My Husband? (3 page)

According to the file, Darren worked several towns over from where he lived--approximately a 50 minute drive. Most would not consider this a terribly long commute, but Rochelle had mentioned to Jack how her husband hated his job and the drive it took to get there. Yet he often would stay out there overnight or come home late at night, something she always found curious but didn’t dwell on.

Now Jack was dwelling on it. What if there was some significance to this town, in Darren’s eyes? Something he’d be willing to “die” for?

It took one simple search to find what Jack was looking for. Within minutes Jack had found evidence of a man named Robert Jones living in the very town Darren worked in. He had the same birth date and everything. If this man was in fact Darren, he really hadn’t tried hard enough to disguise himself.

Jack set out to find the mysterious Robert Jones within the hour. He’d been hoping to be home by 8, but now that was out of the question. He sped down the highway, tapping his fingers anxiously on the steering wheel.

It took longer than 50 minutes to arrive due to traffic, but finally Jack found himself pulling onto the street his search had indicated Robert Jones lived on. He rolled slowly down the street, peering out his window until he found the house he was looking for.

Jack parked across the street and emerged from his car, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous. What if he was wrong? What if Robert Jones had nothing to do with Darren Jones? What if this were some strange sort of coincidence?

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Jack strode across the street, removing his badge from his jacket pocket so as to have it ready. A motion sensor light came to life as he walked up the driveway, bathing the front yard in light. Jack flinched but continued on.

As soon as he knocked, a dog started barking hysterically beyond the door. Someone shushed the dog before cracking the door open. It was a woman.

“Can I help you?” she asked cautiously. It was hard to see her in the dim light, but she appeared to have light hair and skin.

“Detective Jack Blanks,” he said, holding his badge up close to the door. She squinted against the darkness. “Who am I speaking with?”

“Jackie Jones,” the woman said, looking Jack up and down with a critical eye.

“May I speak to a Mr. Robert Jones?”

“My husband just got home from work. He’s had a long day. Can this wait until the morning?” The woman closed the door further, so that Jack could only see a sliver of her body and the hallway light shining from behind her.

“I’m afraid not. It’s urgent that I speak to your husband immediately.” Jack shook off the feeling of unease he was still carrying on his shoulders. He was
on the right track, he could feel it.

With a sigh of frustration, the woman retreated from the doorway, shutting it in Jack’s face. Moments later Jack heard elevated voices from inside the house, although he couldn’t make out the words.

Jack leaned sideways, craning his neck to peer in through the front window. It sounded like that’s where the voices were coming from. It appeared to be the living room. A couch and two armchairs were arranged against the far wall, pointing towards the television which was closer to the window. Right in front of the couch, arguing vehemently, were Jackie and a man.

The man had his back to the window. He wore a dark gray shirt and dark jeans. A towel was slung over his right shoulder, shifting up and down as he gesticulated wildly. The woman was facing the window but didn’t seem to have noticed Jack yet.

The man turned his head sideways and pointed at something off to his left--the front door, presumably. Jack whipped back from the window, both of out of fear of being seen and out of shock.

It was Darren.

This is what Jack had come here for. He’d been seeking out Darren masquerading as Robert, but part of him had never expected to actually find him. Yet here he was, standing in some strange suburban home with a woman who was not Rochelle Jones, despite the fact that everyone presumed him dead.

Jack slid a hand into his jacket, running his fingers along the holster of his gun. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to use his weapon, but even from outside he could tell that tension was thick in the air.

The shouting stopped abruptly. Silence stretched on for a full minute, before the lock clicked in the front door and it swung open again. Jackie faced him with bloodshot eyes.

“Robert needs a few minutes. I’m sorry for the wait.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. She was visibly shaken. Her knuckles were white from clutching the doorknob, and she kept shooting nervous glances over her shoulder.

“Ma’am, I apologize. I need to see your husband right now.”

Jackie sputtered a response, but Jack didn’t hear her. He pushed past her and into the home despite her protests. His hand was still resting on his weapon when he burst into the living room.

“Stop!” he shouted, drawing his gun and pointing it at the frozen back of Darren Jones.

Darren had been in the middle of stepping out the back door. A backpack was slung over his shoulder and a jacket had been hastily put on. He put his hands up and turned to face Jack, keeping a wary eye on the gun pointed at his chest.

“Darren Jones,” Jack said coolly. “You’re not dead at all, are you?”

***

“I’m going to kill him.”

Those five words reverberated throughout the room. Everything seemed to have frozen.

Rochelle and Shelby sat side by side on the couch. They were in Rochelle’s home, and Jack stood before them. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot and scratching the back of his neck.

“Rochelle,” Shelby whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder. She refused to meet Jack’s eyes.

“Get off me,” Rochelle snarled, recoiling from Shelby’s touch. “My husband
left
me. He faked his own death
because he has another
family
!” She stood up from the couch now, trembling so badly that she had to clench her hands into fists. “He has two sons, and I had no idea!”

Shelby remained silent. She stared down at the floor, her face white. Two stark contrasts: one woman angry with rage, the other frozen with shock.

Jack stuck around for an uncomfortable half hour, doing his best to ensure that Rochelle wasn’t about to embark on a murderous rampage and dealing with the aftermath of the discovery he made. Shelby he wasn’t so worried about, as she seemed to be handling things much better.

After he left, Rochelle and Shelby sat side by side on the couch in utter silence. Shelby was still staring into the distance, her eyes bloodshot.

“Why are you so upset?” Rochelle asked, turning to her neighbor. “He didn’t leave you. At least he’s not dead.” Her voice sounded several octaves too high.

“I’m just surprised,” Shelby murmured, swallowing with difficulty. She then stood up. “I think I should head back to my place. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to see how you are.”

Rochelle stared up at Shelby for a moment. “Um, alright.” She said slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” An undercurrent of grief was creeping into Rochelle’s tone again. Shelby fled the house as quickly as she could.

Back in her home, Shelby paced endlessly. Back and forth, back and forth. She wrung her hands, pulled her hair, and cried for the first time since she heard the news. She beat her fists against the wall until her knuckles were red and cracked.

She collapsed onto her bed and inhaled deeply, trying to calm her racing heart.

“It can’t be true, it can’t be true . . .” she whimpered. “He wouldn’t do this to me.”

Everything was blurring together. Fatigue and grief were making the world a whirlwind of mixed senses and emotions.

After an hour had passed, Shelby sprung from the bed. Her eyes were dry, although they still had the telltale look of someone who’d shed countless tears. She bolted for her closet.

Flinging open the doors, she rummaged along the floor until she came up with an old shoebox. It had been shoved all the way at the back.

With trembling hands she lifted the lid and caressed the metal weapon within.

Rochelle picked up the phone as soon as Shelby shut the front door. It took her three attempts to dial the number correctly, but finally the phone was ringing.

“Hello?”

“Michael. It’s Rochelle.”

“Is this your house phone?”

“Yeah, sorry. My cell’s upstairs and I needed to hear your voice.”

“Is everything alright? Do you need me to come over?”

“Yes--” Rochelle’s voice broke and she put a hand to her mouth. Her shoulders heaved silently.

“Darren faked his death.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Darren’s not dead. He has another wife and two kids and he pretended to be dead so he could live happily ever after with them.”

At that moment, a young boy poked his head into the living room. He was about six years old, with short black hair and dark skin which matched both his mother and father’s. “Mommy?” he said hesitantly.

“I need to go, Austin’s here.” Rochelle was whispering into the phone now. “Please come over.”

With that she hung up the phone and turned back to her son. “Come here, sweetie,” she said with arms outstretched.

Austin rushed into her arms, burying his head in her hair. “Mama,” he said quietly, his little voice trembling. “I miss Daddy. When is he coming home?”

That’s when Rochelle began to cry.

***

Knock, knock, knock.

Darren Jones did not move from his place on the couch, where he sat with his head in his hands. Even as the knocking came again, reverberating throughout the house from the front door, he didn’t budge.

Whoever was demanding entry into his home hit the doorbell now, barely waiting for the sound to die away before hitting it once, twice, and three times more.

“I’m coming!” he shouted, smashing his fist against the couch cushion as he stood up. It wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. He needed to break something.

Darren stalked towards the front door. His hands were clenched into fists. He was seeing red. Every time he let his mind wander he envisioned his wife’s face when she found out the truth. The way she held their children close to her, away from him. The accusatory look in her eye as she fled the house with them.

All because of
her.
That stupid woman, Rochelle. Because of
him,
too, the detective who found him out.

Why couldn’t they just leave him to live in peace?

Darren reached the front door but didn’t bother pausing to see who it was. He swung it open and was just opening his mouth to tell this rude individual off, when he froze.

“Sh--Shelby?”

“Hello, Darren.” Her voice was flat and calm sounding, although her appearance was anything but. Shelby’s hair was unkempt, looking as if she hadn’t brushed it in days. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and her skin pale.

“What are you doing here?” Darren took a step back from the door, alarm coursing through his veins. This was a mistake, though, because the more he backed away the closer Shelby came. Within moments she was over his doorstep.

“I needed to see you.” She was staring at him with her big, red eyes.

“You don’t look well, Shelby.”

“
You
don’t look well!” she snapped. It was then that Darren noticed her left hand, shoved into her purse. She was holding something.