Chapter 3 - The Scent of Betrayal and Whiskey
The walk to the house took ten minutes through the woods.
I moved with the practiced,
silent grace of a ghost,
avoiding dry branches,
stepping only on the soft moss and damp earth.
The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy,
casting long,
distorted shadows across the ground.
As I approached the edge of the property,
I saw it.
Our farmhouse.
White paint,
wrap-around porch,
a tire swing hanging from the old oak tree in the front yard.
A picturesque American dream,
rotting from the inside out.
Dennis’s SUV was parked in the driveway.
Serena’s little red sports car was parked right behind it.
They hadn't even bothered to hide it.
They were so confident,
so incredibly arrogant.
I moved along the tree line,
approaching the house from the rear,
heading toward the kitchen windows.
The windows were open,
the warm summer breeze carrying the sound of their voices out into the yard.
I pressed my back against the wooden siding of the house,
just below the window frame.
I slowed my breathing.
Inhale for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Exhale for four seconds.
Total control.
“Do you think the hospital called her yet?”
Serena’s voice floated through the window,
whiny,
anxious,
grating on my nerves.
“Relax,
Serena,”
Dennis replied,
his tone smooth,
confident,
dripping with that fake charm he used on everyone.
“Even if they did,
she's probably crying her eyes out in the waiting room.
Tori is predictable.
She falls apart when it comes to the kid.”
I closed my eyes,
listening to the ice clinking against the glass.
Whiskey.
They were drinking my expensive,
aged whiskey while my daughter was lying in a hospital bed with a broken shoulder.
“But what if Meadow tells her?”
Serena pressed,
the panic rising in her voice.
“What if she says we were in the bedroom?”
Dennis laughed.
A cold,
cruel sound that made my fingers curl into tight fists.
“She’s a seven-year-old with a concussion,
babe.
Kids get confused.
I already laid the groundwork with the paramedics.
I told them she was running,
playing dress-up,
tripped over her own feet.
It was an accident.
A tragic,
unavoidable accident.”
“And what about the bruises?”
“She fell down twelve stairs,
Serena.
Of course she has bruises.
Tori will be so focused on being the protective mother,
she won't even think to question it.
And if she does,
who are people going to believe?
Me,
the guy who built the community center,
or a traumatized kid?”
I reached into my pocket,
pulling out my phone.
I switched it to airplane mode,
ensuring no calls would interrupt,
then I opened the voice recorder app.
I held the phone up near the open window,
capturing every damning,
disgusting word they spoke.
“I just don't like it,”
Serena muttered.
“I told you we should have gone to a hotel.”
“And pay two hundred dollars a night when my own bed is right here?”
Dennis scoffed.
“Come here.
Stop worrying.
Once Tori brings her home,
we play the concerned family.
We help out.
We look like the perfect,
supportive husband and sister.”
There was a pause,
the sound of shuffling feet,
and then a soft,
sickening moan.
They were kissing.
In my kitchen.
While my daughter suffered.
The recorder captured it all.
The evidence was secured.
I lowered the phone,
sliding it back into my pocket,
the cold metal pressing against my leg.
I did not want to burst through the door and scream.
Screaming was for the weak.
Screaming was for people who had lost control.
May you like
I was going to dismantle their lives piece by piece,
and I was going to do it with a smile on my face.
