Hunting Down My Mysterious Doctor Wife

Eleanora sat in the last row of the classroom, her spine pressed hard against the rigid plastic of the chair.

The air in the Manhattan elite prep school felt heavy, thick with the scent of expensive cologne and entitlement.

She kept her head down. A thick layer of black gothic eyeshadow weighed down her eyelids, and dark, matte lipstick coated her mouth. The makeup felt like a physical mask, tight and suffocating against her skin.

At the front of the room, Mr. Mortimer Pinsky paced in front of the whiteboard.

Eleanora raised her hand. Her arm muscles tightened, holding the posture steady.

Pinsky's eyes swept over the back of the room. His gaze hit Eleanora, slid off her like water off oil, and landed on a blonde girl in the front row.

"Yes, Chloe?" Pinsky smiled, revealing coffee-stained teeth.

Eleanora lowered her arm. Her knuckles brushed the edge of her desk.

A crumpled ball of lined notebook paper flew from the left side of the room. It hit Eleanora's desk with a soft thud, rolling to a stop against her knuckles.

She didn't flinch. She didn't open it. She just stared at the jagged edges of the paper.

The shrill scream of the dismissal bell pierced the air.

Eleanora grabbed her frayed black canvas bag. She shoved her worn notebook inside, the metal spiral scraping against the fabric.

She pushed her chair back. The metal legs screeched against the linoleum floor.

She walked toward the back door.

Out in the hallway, the crowd of students parted. They stepped back, pressing their shoulders against the lockers as if she carried a contagious disease.

A group of boys leaning against a water fountain let out a sharp, mocking whistle.

Eleanora kept her face completely blank. She reached into the pocket of her oversized black hoodie. Her fingers found the familiar plastic wrapper of a strawberry lollipop.

She unwrapped it with one hand and popped it into her mouth. The artificial sweetness hit her tongue, a small, grounding sensation in the middle of the noise.

She pushed open the heavy, carved oak doors of the school.

The autumn air outside was sharp and cold. It bit into the exposed skin of her neck.

Inside her pocket, her cheap prepaid phone began to vibrate. It buzzed violently against her thigh.

She pulled it out. The cracked screen glowed with a caller ID: New York City Police Department.

Eleanora swiped the screen to answer. She lifted the phone to her ear. Her boots stopped moving on the concrete steps.

"Hello?" she said.

The officer on the other end spoke quickly. The words "Philip Sanders," "severe car crash," and "suburbs" pushed through the speaker.

Eleanora's jaw went slack.

The strawberry lollipop slipped from her mouth. It hit the concrete stairs and shattered into sticky red shards.

Her stomach dropped, a violent plunge that left her breathless. Her fingers clamped down on the plastic phone case so hard the edges dug into her palm.

She didn't hang up. She just started running.

Her heavy boots pounded against the pavement. Her lungs burned as she sprinted toward the nearest subway station.

She slammed her MetroCard against the turnstile scanner, pushed her hips through the metal bar, and threw herself into the waiting train car just as the doors slid shut.

The train lurched forward. Eleanora grabbed the overhead metal pole. Her knuckles turned stark white. Her chest heaved, pulling in shallow, desperate breaths.

Forty-five minutes later, she burst out of the suburban Long Island station.

A cold, stinging rain had started to fall. It soaked through her hoodie in seconds, chilling her to the bone.

She sprinted down the familiar tree-lined street.

Up ahead, two police cruisers sat parked in the driveway of the Sanders residence. Their red and blue lights flashed, reflecting off the wet asphalt.

Eleanora didn't slow down. She shoved the heavy front door open. It wasn't locked.

Inside the living room, the air was warm and smelled of vanilla candles.

Aleta Boyd, her adoptive mother, sat on the plush velvet sofa. Aleta held a white lace handkerchief to her face, her shoulders shaking in a rhythmic, practiced motion in front of two standing police officers.

Eleanora walked straight toward them. Her wet boots left dark mud tracks on the pristine white carpet.

"Where is he?" Eleanora demanded. Her voice was raw, scraping against her throat.

Aleta lowered the handkerchief. There were no tears in her eyes. Only a flash of pure, unfiltered disgust.

One of the officers stepped forward. He held out a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was Philip's crushed watch and his blood-stained wallet.

"I'm sorry, miss," the officer said.

Eleanora stared at the blood. Her chest tightened, a physical band squeezing her ribs until she couldn't pull in air.

She looked up.

At the top of the grand wooden staircase stood Cornelia, her stepsister. Cornelia was leaning against the banister, the corner of her mouth pulled up in a distinct, chilling smirk.

The blood rushed out of Eleanora's head. A cold, heavy realization settled in her gut.

They knew. They had known before she even got the call, and they hadn't told her.

Eleanora turned her eyes back to Aleta. "You didn't even call me," she said, her voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register.

Aleta stood up, dropping the handkerchief onto the cushion. The mask of the grieving widow vanished.

"Get out," Aleta snapped, pointing a manicured finger toward the open front door. "Philip is gone. I am not feeding a useless freak for another day. Pack your trash and get out of my house."

Eleanora didn't argue. The muscles in her jaw locked.

She turned around. She walked to the entryway console table and grabbed her damp canvas bag.

She didn't look back. She walked out the door and stepped off the porch, right back into the freezing rain.

She walked down the driveway, the rain washing the black makeup down her cheeks in dark, muddy streaks.

A massive, all-black, bulletproof Cadillac SUV rolled silently down the street. It pulled up right next to her, the tires hissing against the wet road.

The driver's side door opened.

Devonte Merrill stepped out. He wore a tailored black suit. He opened a massive black golf umbrella and stepped forward, holding it directly over Eleanora's head, blocking out the rain.

Eleanora stood under the dry canopy. Her chest rose and fell.