For 35 Years, I Kissed the Accomplice of Mom's Killer

Martha's POV

The moment Randall and the others left, the silence in the villa was deafening.

It felt like the weight of everything was pressing down on me. I took a deep breath, tending to the wound on my forehead, and quickly posted an ad on my phone to find a private investigator.

Just then, I saw Paula’s post on social media. She shared a picture of herself leaning against a man, her head slightly tilted as she watched fireworks. Although his face was obscured, I recognized him immediately. It was Randall. Standing beside them were Delbert and his family.

The image radiated warmth and love.

If Randall weren’t my husband, and if I hadn’t raised Delbert and my grandson Ozzie I might’ve believed it, too. But as I stood there, watching, a wave of bitterness washed over me.

I snapped out of my thoughts when my phone buzzed. It was a message from a well-known private investigator in town. He was eager to take on my case, so I arranged to meet him the next day to discuss the details.

That night, Randall and the others never came back.

Strangely, despite everything that had happened, I slept more soundly than I had in a long time.

The next morning, I met the investigator at a local café.

As soon as I stepped inside, a young man waved to me from the corner. I guessed he was the investigator, and when I asked, I was right.

I told him about the situation—the car accident caused by Paula thirty-five years ago that killed my mom. I asked him to collect evidence against her so I could sue her for her part in my mom’s death.

He listened carefully and replied confidently, “Don’t worry, Ma'am. I’ll have all the evidence you need within seven days. The guilty will face justice.”

After our conversation, he left quickly, but I was about to follow when I heard a familiar voice.

“Martha, what a coincidence. You’re here too.”

I turned to see Paula standing behind me, her smile full of mockery.

Right behind her was Randall, the man who hadn’t come home last night. He was holding her bag and draping her coat over her shoulders, playing the part of the devoted husband.

But in the thirty-five years we’d been married, Randall had never once treated me like that.

I remembered a time when we went shopping for household goods, and I had too many things in my hands.

I asked him to carry my bag, and he scowled at me, saying, “I’m a man! How can I touch your things? People will think I’m weak.”

Another time, I was overwhelmed with things, tripped on the street, and fell. Not only did Randall refuse to help me up, but he also deliberately stayed far away.

When I confronted him, he looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “I’m the richest man in the world, and look at you—shabby and clumsy. If anyone knew we were married, they’d laugh at me.”

But now, with the woman he loved, all those 'rules' had gone out the window.

A sharp pain gripped my chest as the overwhelming weight of everything hit me. I just didn’t want to face them anymore.

I stood up to leave, but Paula grabbed my arm, pulling me back.

“Martha, I’m talking to you. Why are you pretending you can’t hear me? Do you really hate me that much?”

I looked at her, disgusted, and shoved her away. “At least you know I don’t like you. So get away from me.”

I turned to walk away, but in the next instant, Paula grabbed a coffee cup from the table and threw it all over herself.

The coffee spilled across her beige coat, creating a large stain.

She glared at me, angry and hurt.

“Martha, I know you don’t like me, but I’ve never done anything to hurt you. Why would you throw coffee on my clothes? This coat was a gift from my mom for my birthday!”

Paula was a master of drama, always playing the victim. It was no surprise. She was just like her mother—born of a mistress, raised to perform.

Randall, completely oblivious to the scene unfolding, walked right up to me and shoved me aside. His voice was cold and demanding, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Martha, what the hell is wrong with you? Apologize to Paula. Right now.”

The force of his push slammed my lower back into the corner of the table. Pain shot through me, leaving me trembling.

I lifted my gaze, meeting his fiery eyes. He looked like he wanted to tear me apart if I refused.

Through clenched teeth, I asked, “Randall, who exactly is your wife?”

Sneering, Randall retorted, “Don’t try to play the wife card with me! I saw everything. You’re the one who threw the coffee at Paula. Don’t think just because she’s innocent and kind that you can bully her. Apologize right now!”

Randall’s voice was harsh, commanding. His words pierced through me.

I stared at the man I’d loved for thirty-five years, and my heart shattered.

Unable to hold back any longer, I grabbed another coffee cup from the table and threw it straight at his face.

“Looks like your eyesight’s failing you. Let me help you clean up. And this... this is what throwing is really like.”

Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the café.

Once outside, I went straight to my lawyer's office.

The moment I stepped in, I demanded a divorce agreement.

I couldn’t bear to be married to Randall for even another second.

But then, his following words doused me like ice water.

"I’m sorry, Ma'am. According to the records, the man you called your husband divorced you thirty years ago... and he remarried. His current wife is Paula Stone."