As long as his dinner was served by seven, he wouldn’t care how long Jules spent at Rachel’s. That was the goodand bad thing about her marriage: it gave her room for independence but gave her no incentives for spending it wisely.
She headed downstairs, Jake’s panicked voice still fresh in her head. “There’s blood. Signs of a struggle.”
Either something had gone terribly wrong, or their problem had just solved itself.
Chapter 4
Rachel
Iwatched my husband stand in the center of our bathroom and stare at the scene that I had so carefully laid out. The cameras, which were hidden in our bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen, were equipped with audio and 4K Video, which meant I had heard the one-sided conversation with Jules and could see the dart of Jake’s green eyes as he looked from the bloody handprint to the sink area and back again.
Come on, Jake. The pieces are all there. Put them together.
He should be calling the police, right now. That’s what I would have done the moment I saw blood and evidence of a struggle. But Jake is slow on some things. Hell, it took him eighteen months to propose, and three hours to put together the office chair I had ordered online.
He moved, out of sight of the camera as he walked into the closet area. I switched to the bedroom feed in time to see him step through the doors and into the suite. He went to the fireplace and sat in one of the big leather chairs in front of it, then focused on his phone.
Yes,I mentally chanted.Good. Call the cops.
The cops, I knew, wouldn’t take it seriously. Not until I was missing for forty-eight hours. Jake would properly freak out, then find me well before that deadline, but the act of calling the cops is something that would make the Incident more real. Plus, it would make for a great story later. One we could tell our grandkids. The time that Grandpa reported Grandma as missing.
I unwrapped one of the pesto mozzarella sandwiches and took a large bite, catching a piece of sun-dried tomato with my tongue just before it fell. I chewed slowly, in small bites, aware that I needed to be conservative with my food. I had three sandwiches and two bottles of water. Enough to last me for three days, though I’d be here for a day, maybe two, max.
I didn’t love the idea of camping out in a well overnight, but I was prepared to. I was wearing fur-lined leggings and a long-sleeve bodysuit with a hoodie over that and a rain jacket tied around my waist. I had a ski hat tucked into my pocket and a fanny pack with snacks. I had planned everything out perfectly, and assuming that Jake used one millimeter of his brain, he’d find me by tonight once UPS made a signature-required delivery.
I tapped the tablet screen, which was a new device I had bought for this purpose and protected with a waterproof case. I zoomed the camera in on Jake’s phone, and my jaw sagged in surprise.
He was playing his golf simulator game.
Not calling the cops.
Not even worrying about me.
It was confirmation that I was doing the right thing, but also evidence that it might be too late.
I’d like to take a moment and point out that I had tried, over the last few months, to get Jake’s attention. To get him to focus on and prioritize our marriage and our relationship.
He hadn’t even noticed, which was why I was here, camped out on a wire service platform that was barely big enough for me to turn around on, waiting for him to panic.
Something dramatic was needed and this was my answer.
Jake needed to know what his life would look like without me in it. After all, that was when men normally did a one-eighty. When the divorce papers were served, when the affair was discovered, when they finally realized that their relationship was not immortal and that they were being held accountable for their sins.
I didn’t want to go that route. I didn’t want to turn ugly in order to convince my husband to love and treasure me. I wanted him to have his own epiphany. To think it was his idea, and for my hands to stay clean.
But now, instead of panicking over my well-being, Jake was hunched over his phone, lining up a shot. His thumb moved across the screen and the video changed, showing a bird’s-eye view of ocean and golf course as his ball flew toward the pin.
Kidnappers could have me bound and gagged, in their van.
They could be torturing me.
Raping me.
Killingme.
And my husband was just sitting in our bedroom, playing on his phone.
I locked the screen on the tablet and resisted the urge to throw it down into the dark shaft.
