A piece of shrubbery tangled in my ponytail. I pushed it away, slipping my hood over my head like I should have done when I exited the car. Sweat rolled down my back as I realized I was actually hiding in the neighbors’ bushes—trespassing at that—so I could catch my husband cheating. Who had I become? Better yet, what had Scott made me?
I poked my head out and looked around at the sleepy neighborhood turning in for the night, porch lights glowing against the inky sky as cicadas sang a lullaby. The street looked pure Americana, with its manicured lawns and 1920s cottages, like it couldn’t be part of something so tawdry as adultery. Inside me determination awakened, wrapping itself around sheer bravado.
Who was I?
A woman who frickin’ deserved the truth. And there was only one way to get that—see if Scott’s truck was parked in the carport.
So I moved quickly, skirting the brick-lined flower bed of Stephanie’s next-door neighbor before peeling off and darting toward the latched fence.
Just as I lifted the latch, I heard a door open in the distance.
“Whew,” I breathed, ducking into Stephanie’s backyard, pulling the latch closed. My heart thumped in my ears as my camera pack bumped against the wooden slats.
“Oh crap,” I whispered, groping for the camera to stop the thunking.
I pressed myself to the rough wood, squeezing my eyes shut, praying I didn’t get caught trespassing. I heard a whistle and then a door slam. If my powers of deduction were correct, it had come from the house behind Stephanie’s. My sigh caught against the fence just as a set of teeth sank into my ankle.
“Ahh.” I kicked, shaking the small furball latched on to my ankle with the tenacity of a seed tick. One strong jerk and the dog flew off. The pooch yelped, scrabbled to its feet, and came back for more. High-pitched barks erupted as the five-pound Yorkie launched itself at me again.
“Get!” I hissed, swatting a hand at the beast.
The thing obviously wasn’t open to reason. It kept bouncing at me, yipping, growling, and baring tiny teeth. If I hadn’t been so panicked, I might have stopped to admire the defense the dog was mounting. I might even think it was cute.
But its teeth were razors, and the barking was way . . . too . . . much.
“Shhh!” I waved a hand in front of it, getting another nip in the process. I moved the dog aside with a sweep of my leg, shaking my wounded hand. “Son of a—”
But as Fluffy scrabbled back at me, I noted the carport held only one car—a cute little Lexus RX 350. No truck.
Dang it.
All this for nothing.
Fluffy jumped, teeth bared, and I caught the small dog under its belly, lifting it right before the Yorkie ripped my left leg off. Immediately the little dog started crying horrible little “I’m hurt and dying” yelps that would have broken my heart if my hand and ankle weren’t throbbing.
The back door banged open. “Sunny?”
Oh, holy hell. Stephanie.
“Sunny? Baby boy, are you hurt?”
I heard shuffling and backed into the shadows, still holding the dog I hadn’t found the least bit sunny out in front of me. The thing wriggled and yelped even more. When my back touched the side of the house, I set the pup down. Sunny shot like a bullet toward his owner, still yelping as if I’d bitten him instead of the other way around.
“Aww, what’s wrong, Sunny? Is that mean ol’ tomcat after you again? Come to Mama, baby.”
I closed my eyes and prayed the woman didn’t come out to look for the mean ol’ tom. Please don’t come out. Please. Please. Please.
I shouldn’t have done this. I should have stayed in the car with Ruby, complacent, content to suspect. What had this little venture gotten me? Nothing. Except some dog bites I’d have to explain and a scratch from the oleander bush. Scott wasn’t even here.
The yelping of the dog subsided, only to be replaced by high-pitched barks. Sunny didn’t give up.
“What is it, boy?” Stephanie asked.
Another shuffling sound on the stoop made me cringe. She was going to come out here and look around. Stupid woman. Didn’t she watch horror flicks? You don’t go outside in the dark to investigate unless you have a—
“What is it?” a deeper voice asked.
I slapped a hand over my mouth so I didn’t scream.
It was Scott.
“I don’t know. Probably the cat that’s been getting into the trash cans.” Stephanie sounded like she was closer. Maybe she’d inched down the steps. Trying to take small breaths, I mimicked a statue frozen against the beige siding of the house.
“Come inside, baby. I have to leave in a few minutes,” Scott said, using a voice I hadn’t heard in ten years. It was his flirty “I’ll do naughty things to you” voice. “I found the cherry lube.”
My mouth opened and closed several times. Cherry lube? Really?
“But maybe I should check . . . ,” Stephanie trailed off.
Then I heard a giggle. “Oh, my bad little fox. Move your hand lower. Oh yeah, that’s nice.”
My hands fisted. Screw Fluffy the psycho dog. The only rabid animal out here was me. The urge to attack rose inside me. I’d scratch and bite and . . . beat them with the water hose stretched out across the backyard. I’d tear them limb from limb and . . .
I sucked in a calm, measured breath. Logic had to prevail. I had a tool of reason looped around my neck. Cameras didn’t lie. If I could get the camera out and turned on correctly, I could sneak around the corner and get a shot of Scott and Steph, who if the slurping sounds were any indication, were making out on the back porch. I carefully pulled the strap over my head, my other hand cradling the case so it didn’t bump up against the house. I could hear the dog still growling low in his throat, but the two lovers seemed too caught up in each other to detect my presence.
I managed to unzip the case inch by painful inch, praying the sound couldn’t be overheard. Easing the camera out, I searched for the small ON switch. Would turning it on make a glow? I couldn’t remember how to work the stupid flash, but I probably needed to engage it because of the cloying darkness. Crud, I should have planned to use the camera on my iPhone. That I could work, and it was usually in my . . .
Oh, crap on a cracker, I’d forgotten to turn my iPhone in my hoodie pocket to vibrate. What if it rang? Or did that little ding thing when someone commented on a Facebook post.
I shoved the camera back into the bag, pulled my phone from my pocket, and found that the phone was already turned to silent.
Whew. That could have been disastrous.
I pushed the home button and noticed a text message on the screen. It was from Scott.
Still at Superior. Running a bit late. Will be home by 10:00. Save me some cheesecake.
That son of a biscuit.
I couldn’t believe the nerve of the man. No doubt he’d pictured me at home watching reruns of Downton Abbey. He’d envisioned me picking up my chirping phone and smiling, grateful I had such a thoughtful husband who worked so hard. He’d likely thought I would text something back like, See you soon. Drive safely.
Good little wifey.
I shot daggers at the message, pressing the little camera icon on the home page.
Screw him.