Chapter 4 - The Husband’s Double Life
I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. I lay there next to Michael, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the last week in my head. The detective had told me not to say anything to him, not to tip him off, that they were still building their case. But how was I supposed to act normal around the man who might have tried to kill my parents?
When he woke up at 6 a.m., he rolled over and kissed my forehead, like he always did. “Morning, baby. You okay? You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”
“Bad dream,” I lied, getting out of bed before he could touch me again. “About Mom and Dad.”
“I know,” he said, sighing. “It’s gonna be okay, though. Mrs. Hale and Marnie are locked up. They’ll get what they deserve. And your folks are gonna wake up. I know they will.”
He sounded so sincere. So honest. But all I could think about was the detective’s voice: We found traces of the toxin on his work gloves.
I spent the day pretending. I made Lily pancakes for breakfast, drove her to summer camp, went to the hospital to sit with my parents, held their hands and talked to them like nothing was wrong. But every time Michael called or texted, my hands shook. When he came home that night, carrying takeout from our favorite Chinese place, I almost broke down right there in the kitchen.
After we put Lily to bed, I decided to do something stupid. Something the detective had told me not to do. I waited until Michael fell asleep on the couch watching a baseball game, then I grabbed his keys and snuck out to the garage to look through his work truck.
It was a mess, as usual — empty soda cans, crumpled receipts, a hammer lying on the passenger seat, his work boots caked in mud in the back. I went through the glove box first, then the center console, then the toolbox behind the seats. Nothing. Just work stuff. I was about to give up, tell myself the detective was wrong, that there was a mistake, when I remembered the spare tire compartment under the truck bed.
I pried it open. And there it was.
A small, unmarked glass vial, half-full of a clear liquid, tucked in next to the jack. Next to it was a blonde wig, a frayed beige coat — the same one Aunt Marnie had been wearing in the doorbell cam footage — and a small tube of super glue.
I stared at the vial, my whole body shaking. This was it. The proof. The detective was right. Michael had done this.
But then I noticed something else. A crumpled receipt tucked under the wig. I picked it up, smoothed it out. It was from a hardware store in Indianapolis, dated 2 days before the poisoning. The items listed: one blonde wig, one women’s beige coat (size large), one glass vial with a stopper. The name on the receipt? Lila Carter.
Lila. My old best friend. The girl who’d been like a sister to me from age 5 to 18, who’d been my maid of honor at my wedding, who’d disappeared without a trace 10 years before after we had a huge, terrible fight over Michael.
The fight that had ended our friendship forever.
We’d both been 19, home from college for summer break. Lila had been dating Michael for 6 months, and I’d had a huge crush on him since I was 16. One night, we all got drunk at a party, and Michael kissed me. Lila walked in on us. She screamed at both of us, called me a traitor, called Michael a liar, and packed her bags and left town the next morning. No note, no goodbye. We’d never heard from her again.
Her last name was Carter. Same as mine. We’d joked about it as kids, said we must be long-lost cousins.
What was she doing buying those things? And why were they in Michael’s truck?
I heard the back door to the garage open. I spun around, the vial still in my hand. Michael stood in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes wide.
“Emily,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can explain.”
“You’d better,” I said, stepping back, holding the vial up like it was a weapon. “The police called me last night. They said they found the toxin on your gloves. They said you were at Mom and Dad’s house that day. And now I find this? Lila’s name on the receipt? What the hell is going on, Michael? Did you try to kill my parents? Did Lila put you up to it?”
Michael ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. “No! God, no. I would never hurt them. You have to believe me. I love your parents. They’re like my own mom and dad. Lila… she’s been back in town for a month, Em. She showed up at my job site 4 weeks ago. Said she wanted to talk, to clear the air between us. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be upset. I knew you’d think there was something going on between us.”
“What did she want?” I said.
“She wanted money,” he said. “Said she was in trouble with some bad people, that she owed them $50,000, that if I didn’t give it to her, she’d tell you she and I had been having an affair for the last year. That she’d make up photos, texts, whatever she needed to ruin our marriage. I didn’t have the money, Em. My business has been slow, we’re behind on the mortgage… I was screwed. Then she said if I did her one small favor, she’d forget all about the money. She said she needed to get into your parents’ house to get something her mom had left there years ago — some old jewelry, she said. That she’d dress up like Marnie, use the key Tyler had copied, and no one would ever know. She said she’d be in and out in 10 minutes. I told her no. But then she threatened Lily. Said if I didn’t help her, she’d make sure our daughter got hurt.”
He stopped, his voice cracking, tears running down his face. “I was scared, Em. So scared. I let her borrow my truck that day. I let her leave the stuff in the spare tire compartment until she could come get it. I didn’t know she was going to poison them. I swear to God. If I’d known, I would have killed her myself.”
I didn’t know what to say. It sounded like a lie. It sounded like the kind of story a guilty man made up to save himself. But then I thought about Lily. About how much Michael loved her, how he’d never let anything happen to her. About how he’d been the one who’d found the memory card, who’d helped the police, who’d held me every night while I cried.
“Where is she now?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “She was supposed to meet me at the old abandoned school on the west side last night to get the stuff. She never showed. I’ve been trying to call her, but her phone’s disconnected.”
Just then, my phone rang. It was Kara, screaming so loud I could barely understand her.
“Emily!” she yelled. “You need to get to the hospital right now! Someone broke into Mom and Dad’s room! They tried to smother them with a pillow! The nurses caught him running out — Emily, it was Jake. Lila’s brother. He’s out of prison.”
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Jake. Lila’s older brother. The boy who’d been sent to juvie for 8 years when we were 17 for setting fire to my parents’ garage. He’d blamed them for Lila running away, said they’d “turned her against him.” The police had said he’d be locked up until he was 30. But he was out. And he’d just tried to finish what the poison had started.
I looked at Michael. And I knew then that none of this was over. Not by a long shot.
