Our Seventh Anniversary

Trigger warning: this gets dark. Avoid if death upsets you. I'm not familiar with police and court procedures, so please overlook any inaccuracies. Hopefully that doesn't detract from the story. If that's going to bother you, be forewarned; please pass and enjoy a few of the thousands more complete stories on this fine site.

Dusk... such a beautiful time. I always enjoy this drive home, the end-of-day feeling of contentment, seeing neighbors walking their dogs or families, strip center store lights coming on in the fading light, the peace earned by a hard-worked day. That and the sated, content feeling you only get in the afterglow of a phenomenal rewarding afternoon of sex, one with multiple highs, breathtaking climaxes like the ones I only get from Felix Weatherford, son of billionaire Watson Weatherford and heir to his fortune.

***

"Hi honey," I called out as I entered, my deep peace and happiness echoing in my call. No reply. With his car not in the attached garage, I was not surprised, though. My husband was probably working late again. In the kitchen, I began pulling things for dinner from the fridge and pantry. On the counter I saw a CD in its white paper envelope, with my name on it in. Below the transparent circle, it said, "Happy Anniversary" in Mitchell's handwriting.

Instant panic goosebumped its way down my back.Holy shit! Is that today? Oh no! Oh no! Isn't it usually the husband's job to forget anniversaries? Worse than that: I not only forgot about our anniversary, but I spent it being nailed by Felix, he of the golden dick and the fortune.

Frantically, I picked up the CD, slid it out of its envelope, loaded it into the player, and turned on the TV. To the tune of our favorite song, it played a slide show of our dating years. I flopped down on the couch, stunned. Posed shots on the beach, where we asked passers-by to snap pictures of us. Views from Table Mountain in South Africa, where he took me to surprise me when he proposed. Pictures we took of each other in Butchart Gardens in Victoria, Canada. The romantic walks along the Riviera. One happy memory after another.

I paused the show, ran to the kitchen to pour a tall glass of merlot, to savor as I resumed his slide show, which rolled into another of "our" songs.Wow, what a thoughtful trip down memory lane! Did I mess it up by being late? Did he plan to show it to me as we got ready to go out for dinner? Or when we got back? Where is he, anyway?

I sat there, falling in love with Mitchell all over again. Then the show switched to video excerpts of our wedding. He had gone all out to give me the wedding of my dreams, taking out a heavy loan, cosigned by his dad, all repaid by now, fortunately. I had to admit, I looked like a fairy tale princess. I had slimmed something crazy to look my best, and it worked. Even I would have married me. His face was lit up with radiant appreciation of the bride he looked forward to spending his life with. My heart warmed and I took another sip.

After the footage of my dad walking me down the aisle, the video changed to our vows. We had both taken our time to write our own. He went first, promising to cherish me and always treat me like the fairy tale princess he knew I was. I blushed, because without question, he had lived up to that one. I could not have wished for a better man.

The scene switched to my vows which, even after six years, still moved me. When it came to me declaring to be faithful, suddenly the video stopped. Mitchell's face suddenly appeared, red with anger.What was this?I almost dropped my wine glass.

"Let's see," he spat into the camera. "Let's see how you live out your vows!" Immediately, the scene changed to Felix doing me doggy style, with me moaning, "Fuck me with that monster of yours, cowboy."

"Better than your lame hubby, isn't it?" Felix Weatherford bragged.

"Oh yes!" I cried out. "Much better! Do me like a dog with that big dick of yours. Give it to me!"

I finally breathed again.Oh shit! Wait... that happened only two days ago! Oh fuck! How did he get that footage? What am I going to do? What is he going to do?A million frantic, panicked thoughts raced through my mind. I reached for my phone and called Mitchell. No answer. I called again, again no answer. I had to do damage control. Where was he?

The front door bell wrested me back to the present. A nondescript teen asked, "Are you Brenda McCaskey?"

"Yes, why?"

He handed me a manila envelope. "You've been served," took a picture with his phone and left.

Trapped in a twilight zone, I stumbled back to the couch and ripped open the envelope. Through my tears of devastation I finally saw what they were: divorce papers.No! Shit, shit shit! No!

The doorbell rang again. Numb, I walked to it and opened. Same question, only this time it was two cops.

"Yes, I am Brenda McCaskey, why?"

"May we come in?"

"Not before you tell me why."

"Are you acquainted with a Felix Weatherford?"

"Yes, he's a Vice-President at the firm I work for, son of the owner, and we both belong to the Fit4Life gym. Why?"

"We can do this here where all the neighbors can listen, or we can do it inside. I'm Officer Ken Riley and this is Officer Jane King."

I opened the door with a horrible feeling in my stomach. I didn't know what their agenda was, but it likely wasn't good.

After we all took a seat, the female cop took over the questioning. "Where were you this afternoon between four and six?"

Oh shit. That was when I was at Felix's place getting my brains fucked out, but there was no way I could tell anyone that."Uh... ummm, I don't remember exactly. Probably on my way home, why?"

A skeptical look appeared on both cops' faces. The guy took over. With a hard edge to his voice, he said, "Maybe I can rephrase the question. Were you, or were you not, at the home of Felix Weatherford this afternoon?"

I was busted. But how did they know? Deciding not to lie any further, I slapped by forehead lightly. "Oh, that. Yes, sorry, I forgot."

Both their faces told me they were not buying any apparent forgetfulness of mine. I mean, who forgets getting it on with their illicit lover a few hours earlier?

"What time did you leave?"

"That I honestly don't remember. I'd say around five-thirty?"

They both nodded. The female cop stood. "Would you mind coming down to the station with us?"

"What? Why? I'm expecting my husband back any moment. It's our seventh anniversary."

The cops looked toward the kitchen, the empty, unused kitchen. "Planning to go out for the celebration then?"

I shook my head. "This may sound silly, but I forgot about it until I got back. But I suspect he has some kind of surprise planned."

"A wife forgetting their seventh anniversary?" the lady cop smirked. "So, are you going to come with us to the station or not?"

"Is that really necessary? Haven't I answered all your questions?"

"Yes, ma'am, and we thank you for that. However, your fingerprints are not on file, and we need them. Unfortunately, the only place to get them is the station."

"Fingerprints? Why do you need my fingerprints?"

"To see if they match the ones our colleagues found on the murder weapon."

"What?" The freakout button inside me tripped. "What weapon? What murder? Who got murdered? My husband?"

"No, ma'am, Felix Weatherford. The man in whose home you were a few hours earlier. He was found stabbed to death earlier today. Before we continue," he proceeded to read her her Miranda rights. Then he added, "You may be the last person to have seen him alive."

"What? No!!!" My heart broke and tears burst forth before I could stop them.

"I take it you were attached to him," the male cop observed dryly.

"We've been working together for years," I told them through sobs. "He was a good boss."

"Are you okay to drive, or do you want ride in the back?"

***

At the station, another detective interviewed me, and offered me the opportunity to call a lawyer. I'd never worked with a lawyer before, so I had no idea who to call. I called Mitchell again, but it went straight to voicemail. I called my dad next. As expected, he and my mother were freaked out that their daughter was being detained for questioning as a murder suspect. Dad got a lawyer, who came to the station after the fingerprinting and took over.

Apparently, two separate neighbors reported seeing my car in Felix's driveway on several occasions. He was single, and they suspected he'd been dating multiple women and thought nothing of the various cars.

When I heard about the multiple cars, I was appalled--the dirtbag was cheating on me, after making me believe I was the only one he'd been after!

The lawyer arranged for bail, which my parents sprang for to keep their innocent daughter from time in dirty cells.

--

As the investigation dragged on, I emerged as the prime suspect. There was no way I could prove Felix, the cheating dirtbag, was still alive when I left him. My lawyer tried to direct the police to investigate my husband and the other women and/or their significant others. Mitchell had excellent motive, having apparently learned about my dalliance with Felix, prompting his divorce action.

However, that turned out to be futile. Mitchell, the police discovered, had spent lunch and the rest of his day with his sister and her husband, apparently trying to get over the hurt my indiscretion had caused him. The doorbell camera of their neighbor across the road recorded his car arriving, and never leaving, confirming his alibi with hard evidence. He was staying with them and avoiding me.

The other women Felix had toyed with, likewise, had unassailable alibis. One was married, and her marriage appeared to be headed for divorce at the discovery of her affair with the deceased. The other woman was single, but with a boyfriend who also bailed when the investigation probed her whereabouts. However, both women could account for their whereabouts and their significant others only found out about their affairs after the apparently virile Mr. Weatherford was transported from this vale of tears by force. Thus they had no motive.

The worst problem for me was my fingerprints were on the knife that had killed Felix. How could that have happened? Then I remembered: I had used the knife numerous times to slice limes for our drinks. But I knew I didn't stab him, so how did my prints survive the other person using the knife? No answer.

Eventually, the case went to court. It was my lawyer who discovered that Felix's dad, Watson Weatherford, being a billionaire, wanted the case over and done with, with a minimum of information disclosed about his errant son's wanton pursuit of married women. To that end, the billionaire pushed, bullied and paid whoever he could, to get the case done with as soon as possible. He didn't care who killed his son, he just wanted the mess out of the media. The police chief, recipient of daddy's campaign contributions, did not want anyone in the department to investigate any further once they had a decent suspect, which turned out to be me.

During this time, Mitchell refused to speak to me, insisting his lawyer be the only contact. He never showed up in court, whether to gloat or sympathize.

Next thing I knew I was found guilty of murder in the first degree, which, of course, ended my life as I knew it.

The only time I saw Mitchell was at the sentencing. If looks could kill, they wouldn't have needed the electric chair. He silently smirked only one word: Bitch.