After His Mistress Framed Me, My Husband Left Me to Die

On Sunday morning, Jared dropped a duffel bag onto my bed.

"Pack a bag," he said. "We’re going up to the cabin in the Cascades. We need to clear the air."

I looked at him. The cabin was where we had spent our honeymoon six years ago. We had built fires on the hearth and talked about growing old together. Now, the thought of that place turned my stomach.

"I can't hike with a broken wrist," I said quietly.

"You don't need to hike," he answered. His voice was flat. "Leyla needs fresh air. And you need to be out of the city. You're coming."

I had no car keys. My surgical privileges were gone, and my bank accounts were frozen. I was his prisoner in everything but name.

An hour later, I sat in the back of his black SUV.

My right arm rested on my lap, wrapped in Dr. Cole’s clumsy plaster. Every bump in the road sent a dull, sickening throb through my fractured radius. I pressed my left thumb against the exposed skin of my knuckles, breathing through the pain.

Leyla sat up front in the passenger seat. She wore a soft white knit sweater and oversized sunglasses.

"If it’s a girl, I was thinking about the name Clara," Leyla said, resting her palm lightly on Jared’s thigh. "Or maybe Lily. What do you think, Jared?"

Jared kept both hands on the wheel, but his jaw relaxed slightly. "I like Clara. It sounds like family."

"We can paint the nursery butter-yellow," she said, leaning closer to him. "Not blue or pink. Just warm and bright."

I turned my head and looked out the window. Tall Douglas firs blurred past in shades of dark green and gray.

I glanced at the side mirror.

A dark sedan was trailing us. It stayed three car lengths back, never closing the gap, never falling behind. Rain beat against the glass, but through the mist, I caught the familiar outline of a man behind the wheel.

Nolan Kennedy.

He was still there. Watching.

I didn't say a word. I leaned back into the leather seat and let my eyes shut.

***

We spent two days in the mountains.

I stayed in the spare room on the ground floor. Leyla took our old master bedroom. Every evening, their quiet voices drifted through the vents. I spent the hours sitting by the small desk, forcing my stiff fingers to open and close. Five hundred repetitions a day. The pain made my vision blur, but I didn't stop.

On Tuesday afternoon, a heavy mountain storm rolled in.

"We’re leaving," Jared announced, hauling their bags to the car. "The pass will ice over if we wait until dark."

The drive down was completely silent.

The two-lane highway cut through miles of old-growth forest. Thick pine branches hung low over the asphalt, blocking out the daylight. No cell service. No passing cars. Just the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers against the glass.

We rounded a sharp curve.

Jared slammed his foot on the brake.

The SUV skidded on the wet road, tires screeching before the vehicle came to a hard halt.

A beaten-up pickup truck was parked sideways across both lanes, completely blocking the road.

Before Jared could put the SUV into reverse, two figures stepped out from the dense tree line.

They wore dark jackets and black ski masks. Both carried short-barreled shotguns.

This was no random breakdown. The road was blocked with surgical precision.

Leyla let out a high, piercing shriek. "Jared! Oh god, Jared, they have guns!"

"Lock the doors!" Jared yelled, hitting the console switch.

It was too late.

One of the masked men stepped to the driver’s side and slammed the butt of his shotgun against the glass. The heavy window shattered into thousands of tiny pebbles. Cold mountain air and rain poured into the cabin.

The barrel of the gun jammed directly against Jared’s temple.

"Don't move, rich boy," a rough voice barked through the wool mask. "Hands on the wheel. Now!"

The second man ripped the rear door open. The barrel of his gun pointed straight at my chest.

"Out!" the man screamed. "We need a hostage! Get out of the car!"

Leyla sobbed hysterically, burying her face into Jared’s ribs. "Don't let them take me, Jared! Please! Save me!"

Jared didn't hesitate.

He wrapped his left arm tightly around Leyla’s shoulders, pulling her body completely under his chest. He shielded her head with his own arms, burying her face against the leather.

Then his right hand reached into the back seat.

His fingers clamped around the collar of my wool coat. With brutal, sudden force, he shoved me forward into the open doorway.

"Take her," Jared said.

His voice didn't shake. There was no hesitation. No regret.

"Take her! Just leave us alone!"

The gunman seized my jacket. Rough hands grabbed my shattered right arm and yanked.

A bolt of pure white agony tore through my bones. I screamed as they dragged me backward out of the SUV. My boots hit the wet gravel, and I lost my footing, crashing onto my knees.

The man hauled me up by my collar, dragging me toward the dark, tangled brush of the woods.

"Jared!" I cried out, my voice cracking against the wind. "Jared!"

I looked back through the rain.

The SUV’s engine roared to life. Jared didn't look at me. His eyes were locked straight ahead, his arms still curled tightly around Leyla.

Tires spun against the slick pavement.

The car lurched forward, jumped the muddy shoulder around the pickup truck, and sped away down the mountain.

He left me in the dark.