MY HUSBAND'S MISTRESS WORKS FOR ME

I shoved my brass key into the front door deadbolt. It jammed halfway.

I jiggled the metal. It refused to turn. The fixture gleamed under the grey sky, freshly installed and completely foreign to my touch. Mark worked fast.

I stepped back from the mahogany door. My gaze dropped to the porch stones. Two heavy-duty black trash bags slumped against the brick pillar.

I grabbed the knot of the first bag and ripped the plastic open.

My grey wool sweater spilled out. A pair of scuffed sneakers tumbled over the concrete. Nestled in the center of the fabric lay a pile of shredded glossy paper.

A thick drop of water hit my cheek. Then another. The sky opened up, unleashing a sudden, heavy downpour.

I ignored the rain soaking through my thin blouse. I reached into the pile of clothes and scooped up the torn paper.

A tiny face stared up at me from a jagged scrap. Leo, wearing a blue birthday hat. On another piece, Lucas’s chubby fist clutching a cake. My boys, one year old. Mutilated into dozens of unrecognizable fragments.

I pinched a sharp corner of the photograph to pull it from the wet wool. The stiff, laminated edge sliced right across my index finger.

A bright bead of red welled up. It dripped, mixing with the muddy rainwater pooling at my feet.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. A freezing numbness simply crawled up my legs, settling deep into the marrow of my bones.

Tires crunched over the wet gravel behind me.

I turned my head. Mark’s black Porsche Cayenne idled at the base of the driveway. The tinted passenger window hummed down.

Mark leaned across the leather console. He kept the engine running, the wipers slapping rhythmically against the windshield.

"You're trespassing, Evelyn," he called out over the storm.

I held up my bleeding hand. "You changed the locks before the twenty-four hours were even up."

"The judge finalized the order," Mark replied. "This is my property now. Chloe wants to start measuring the living room for new furniture tonight, and your presence is a liability."

"You threw my memories in the garbage."

"I threw away clutter." He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "Do you have any idea how much those kids cost me today? I don't need your junk taking up space in my house."

"They were your sons' baby pictures."

"They're teenagers now. They don't care about baby pictures, and neither do I." Mark reached inside his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out a silver money clip and peeled off a crisp fifty-dollar bill. "Take this."

He flicked his wrist. The green paper fluttered out the window, caught a gust of wind, and slapped directly onto the toe of my soaked shoe.

"Call a cab," Mark ordered. "Get out of the neighborhood. You're making a scene, and I don't want you tracking mud all over the driveway."

I stared down at the money clinging to my wet leather flat. The rain quickly plastered it to the shoe's surface. I didn't bend to pick it up.

"Pick it up, Evelyn," Mark snapped. "It's more than you have in your bank account right now. Take the handout and leave."

"I don't want your money, Mark." My voice came out completely flat. The anger had burned out, leaving only ash.

"Suit yourself." He reached for the window button. "If you're still sitting on my porch in ten minutes, I'm calling the police. I won't have the neighbors gossiping about a vagrant on my lawn."

"Where are the boys?" I asked.

"Inside, picking out their new bedrooms," he said. "Don't bother knocking. They don't want to see you."

The passenger window began to roll up.

Before the glass could seal, a massive engine roared over the sound of the storm.

A sleek, midnight-black stretched Rolls-Royce Phantom glided down the street. Its massive tires hit a deep puddle, sending a violent wave of dirty water crashing directly against the side of Mark's pristine Porsche.

Mark slammed his hand on the horn. "Hey! Watch where you're going!"

The Phantom stopped perfectly still. It parked horizontally across the bottom of the driveway, completely blocking the Porsche’s exit to the street.

Mark rolled his window back down, his face flushing red. "Move that tank! You're blocking my driveway!"

The driver's side door of the Phantom swung open.

A man stepped out into the downpour. He wore a tailored black uniform, his pristine white hair slicked back perfectly. He snapped open a massive black umbrella, shielding himself from the heavy rain.

He ignored Mark completely. He bypassed the Porsche, his polished shoes splashing heavily through the puddles, and walked straight up the stone walkway toward the porch.

He stopped two feet in front of me.

He tilted the umbrella forward, casting a dry shadow over my shivering shoulders.

Then, the man placed his right hand over his chest and bowed deeply, his waist bending at a perfect ninety-degree angle.

"Madam," he said, his voice carrying clearly over the heavy rain. "The family has been waiting."