Who Killed My Husband? Read online

  Who Killed My Husband?

  By Sheila Rose

  Copyrighted Material

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All characters, names, artwork and related materials mentioned herein, whether registered or unregistered are the property and trademarks of Sheila Publishing. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  Copyright ©2015 Sheila Publishing

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  Rochelle walked briskly up a stone walkway towards a house, her heels clicking softly on the ground. She wore a light green blouse and a black pencil skirt, which was just an inch or two shorter than she normally wore. Long enough to still be appropriate in public, but just short enough to drive him crazy. She suppressed a grin.

  She arrived nervously on Michael’s doorstep. She’d spent the better part of the morning preparing herself for this one blessed hour that she was able to spend with her lover. Her chocolate skin was freshly waxed and velvety smooth, coated in the fragrant lotion that Michael loved. Her hair fell in soft waves down her shoulder, and she had taken the time to apply a light layer of makeup to play up her natural features. She felt beautiful when she took the time to care for herself this way, but she felt even more so whenever Michael glanced at her.

  Unlike with her husband, these small efforts never went unnoticed by Michael. He showered her with endless affection and compliments, and admittedly, Rochelle loved it. If she was being honest with herself, she’d even go so far as to say she loved him too.

  Rochelle met Michael three years ago where they worked together. And although she was married, they clicked almost immediately. It was one of those situations where it couldn’t be helped. The spark was there, refusing to be denied. But Rochelle, had to leave work soon after to care for her autistic son. It was the right decision for her, but she couldn’t deny that she missed Michael. She spent her days at home, a lonely house wife devoting her time to caring for others. But at some point she realized that she needed to care for herself as well. And that meant her heart as well as her body.

  She reached out to Michael after a time, and they reconnected. But this time, they became much more than friends. She would never forget the first time she felt his hands on her body, how it made her burn with a desire she had never known.

  She glanced over her shoulder, checking her surroundings once more. This was where she felt safe. This was where she felt at home. She was just raising her arm to knock on the front door when it flew open before her.

  “Hello, Rochelle.”

  A man stood before her, looking as handsome as ever. His dark brown hair was shaved short, freshly cut a day or two ago. She locked eyes with him, deep browns staring into his blues. He was still wearing his light gray suit from work. It looked marvelous.

  “Michael,” she responded, the corners of her mouth twitching up into a grin. He took a step back from the doorway and she stepped inside.

  “Did you park down the street?” He asked, peering down the road as he shut the door.

  “Yes, of course,” she answered. “Stop being so paranoid.”

  “I just don’t want you getting into trouble,” he murmured, drawing closer to her. He trailed his fingers down the side of her cheek while he inspected her face. She shivered.

  “I think I can handle myself,” she breathed, the air hitching in her throat.

  Michael was standing so close to her now that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. He really does look amazing in that suit, she thought. He was tall with broad shoulders, so much so that she felt dwarfed standing next to him.

  He tilted his head towards her, and all of a sudden she could feel his hot breath against her skin. She whimpered in desire.

  “Is there something you want, Rochelle?” he whispered.

  She didn’t answer, not in words. Instead she ran her hands up his chest, dancing her fingers along the buttons in his suit. She brought them up and over his shoulders, noting the muscles she could feel beneath the thick fabric. And then her fingers were in his hair, and she was pulling his head down to crash his lips against her own.

  “I want you,” Michael groaned.

  “Yes,” she gasped as he thrust his hips against hers. “Yes, please.”

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,” Michael said. “I had some music on in my office, and I didn’t hear over it.”

  “It’s okay.” Rochelle smiled, reaching up to grasp his ivory face in her palms. “You’re here now.”

  “Yes I am.” He breathed. “And I’m not going anywhere. I missed you.”

  “I missed you too,” she said breathlessly.

  “I was actually going to feed you lunch,” Michael said, gripping her waist in his hands. “But now that I’ve seen how beautiful you look in that outfit, I’m not sure I can hold out that long.”

  “C’mon.” Rochelle grinned, grabbing his hand and leading him back to the room she knew so well.

  Once they were inside the safe haven of his bedroom, they began to kiss and caress each other like love-hungry teenagers. Michael pulled back, reaching for the buckle of his pants.

  “Too many clothes,” he panted.

  Rochelle shimmied out of her skirt and blouse while Michael undressed himself. And soon they were nothing but hot skin on skin. She caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror, and Rochelle liked the way they looked together. His light skin against her dark, a beautiful combination that blended together whenever they made love.

  Michael’s comforting scent washed over Rochelle as he claimed her neck with his lips. “God you taste so good,” he murmured against her. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of that Rochelle.”

  Rochelle moaned as she eased herself back onto the bed, pulling Michael along with her.

  “Make love to me,” she pleaded.

  Michael adjusted their positions, pushing a pillow beneath her head so she was comfortable, and splaying her hair across it.

  “So it smells like you later,” he explained when she lifted her brow in question.

  Rochelle grinned, and Michael wrapped her legs around his waist, positioning his erection against her soft folds. He slicked the tip along her entrance, groaning at the wetness he felt. And then he was pushing into her, slowly, gently, like they had all the time in the world.

  He rolled his hips into her with a groan, leaning forward to suck the swells of her breasts. Rochelle arched her back and cried out at the sensation, marveling at the way his tongue felt against her. It was like a fuse directly to her core, making her clench around his hard length, squeezing him tight.

  “God I love it when you do that,” he moaned.

  Michael stared down at her with such love, such affection, Rochelle could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. No man had ever looked at her in such a way. Like she was the very air he needed to breathe.

  “Kiss me,” she pleaded. “I need to taste you.”

  Michael obliged, leaning forward to nip and suck her lower lip between his. And then his mouth crashed down onto hers possessively, with the passion that she had come to love from him.

  “I want you to belong to me,” he whispered. “Tell me we can have that Rochelle.”

  “I want that too,” she moaned.

  She was wound tight, and nearly ready to explode. It was true she would have agreed
to anything in that moment, but she truly did mean the words.

  Michael snaked his hand down between them, using his skilled fingers to stroke her clit. Rochelle writhed against him, clutching his broad arms in her grasp as her head fell back and she cried out. Her release shot down her spine like a rocket, detonating in her core.

  Michael stared down at her in awe, clutching her face in his palms as he pumped faster, racing to join her at the edge. A strangled noise rumbled from his chest, and then he was spurting his hot seed deep inside of her, milking out the tremors from both of their releases.

  He collapsed down against her side, pulling her close and stroking her back for several long minutes. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep her much longer, and he didn’t want her to go.

  When are you going to leave your husband Rochelle?” he asked quietly. “When can we finally be together? I want that, with you.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “And we will have it. Soon, I promise.”

  “I love you, Rochelle.”

  “I love you too, Michael,” she whispered.

  He laughed humorlessly before pulling back and resting his forehead against hers.

  ***

  The police very rarely came to this part of town.

  Jack Blanks rolled to a stop at the side of the highway, peering towards the blue and red lights flashing further down the street. Several police cars were parked beneath a highway overpass, arranged in a circular formation to block whatever is beyond them from sight.

  Taking a deep breath, Jack shut off the engine and stepped out of the car, shutting the door lightly behind him. His hands were shaking, so he shoved them in his pockets and began briskly walking over.

  The evening was windy. By the time Jack made it over to the scene, his eyes were watering from the current of air and his hair was sticking up in every direction. He smoothed it down hastily as a police officer spotted him and strode over.

  “Detective,” the officer said by way of greeting, extending her hand to shake.

  “Officer,” Jack responded. “You can call me Jack. Jack Blanks.”

  “Okay, Blanks,” she said with a nod. “I’m Officer Mills. Want me to catch you up?” She gestured towards the scene behind her, which Jack craned his neck to see. It appeared to be a vehicle, or what was left of one.

  Whatever car had been there before was nearly gone, as all that remained was its burned out skeleton. A blackened metal frame sat in the middle of the circle of police cars. The acrid stench of smoke hung in the air. Jack pushed past Officer Mills to get a better look.

  “We got a call about this a few hours ago,” Officer Mills said, following Jack towards the vehicle. “This highway needs some serious work, hardly anyone comes out here anymore. This has probably been here for days.”

  “The call came in about Darren Jones four days ago,” Jack said grimly. He squatted down by the front of the car. “It could have been here since then.”

  “That’s very likely.” Officer Mills stood a foot or two back from the car, looking uninterested. “This is definitely Jones’ car. We found the back plate some ways down the road, completely detached from the car. Probably fell before it caught fire. It’s in perfect condition.”

  “What do you mean, it just fell off?” Jack asked incredulously, tearing his gaze away from the vehicle to look up at Mills.

  “Either that or someone took it off,” Mills said with a shrug. “We were able to run the plates and it came up with a match. Darren Jones.”

  “Where is his body?” Jack asked, peering back at the car. “I don’t see anything in there.”

  “That’s because there isn’t anything.” Mills looked uncomfortable now. “No trace of Jones. He must have burnt up.”

  Jack didn’t respond, but simply got back to his feet and paced around the side of the vehicle. Mills stayed where she was, observing, until he came back around the car towards her.

  “Have you considered the possibility of a homicide?” he asked.

  “It’s always possible in situations like this.”

  “That should be the focus of this investigation,” Jack responded, hoping he sounded confident. “I don’t think this has anything to do with a faulty vehicle. Someone did this intentionally.”

  Jack remained at the scene for the next hour, staring at the burnt vehicle. He paced back and forth, wracking his brain endlessly.

  ***

  Something was very wrong with this picture. Here was an abandoned vehicle, burnt to a crisp with seemingly no one and nothing inside. The car was not discovered for days, specifically four whole days, since this man was reported missing by his wife.

  And there wasn’t even evidence of a body.

  “So, the last time you saw your husband was when, exactly?”

  Jack was sitting in his office now. It was the next morning, and sunlight streamed in through the window behind him. He’d discarded his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt nearly twenty minutes ago in an attempt to cool down.

  A woman sat in a chair across the desk from him. She had dark brown skin and matching eyes. Her face was framed by shoulder-length black hair. She wrung her hands together, a used tissue clamped between her fingers.

  “I know this is hard, Mrs. Jones,” Jack said, trying his best to sound sympathetic. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

  The woman nodded and blinked her already red and swollen eyes. “Call me Rochelle, please,” she managed to croak. Her voice sounded scratchy and she paused to clear her throat. “I saw my husband about five days ago. We had a fight. He stormed out without telling me where he was going.”

  “Was this late at night?” Jack asked, jotting down her answer in his notebook.

  “Not too late, no,” Rochelle sniffled. “It was dinnertime. I thought he was leaving to blow off some steam. He needs time to himself, sometimes . . .” she trailed off. “I went to bed expecting to wake up to him the next morning. But I woke up at 3 A.M. and he was still nowhere to be found. He wasn’t picking up his phone, so I called the police.”

  “Was he acting unusual before his disappearance? Other than the argument, I mean.”

  “He seemed distracted for days before he vanished,” Rochelle answered, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. Jack leaned in closer, ears pricked. “Our argument that night was so silly.” Her eyes began to well up with tears again and her voice cracked.

  Jack finished up his round of questions for Rochelle, trying to move things along to get her out of the office before she began crying in earnest. Once the questions were over, he shook her hand firmly and asked whether or not she had a ride home for the evening.

  “Oh, yes,” Rochelle said, blowing her nose loudly in the same tissue she had clenched in her fist the entire meeting. “Shelby, my neighbor, is waiting for me outside.” A faint smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “She’s been the greatest help during these past few days. She’s hardly left my side.”

  Jack leaned forward in his seat, suddenly interested. “You two sound close. Did she know your husband, as well?”

  Rochelle nodded, although she furrowed her eyebrows slightly. “Yes, we were all good friends. Why do you ask?”

  “In cases like this, it’s always good to cover all our bases.” Jack leaned back in his seat, mind racing. “Is there anyway you could get Shelby to come in here for a few minutes? I’d like to run some questions by her.”

  Rochelle seemed dubious. She nodded and stood up, but hesitated before stepping away. “Do you think Shelby would know anything about Darren’s dea--his disappearance?” She winced as she stumbled over the words, unable to verbalize her husband’s fate.

  “Possibly,” Jack said patiently. “She may have noticed something you didn’t.”

  Satisfied with this answer, Rochelle turned and exited the room. A knock sounded at the door approximately five minutes later and she poked her head back into the room.

  “She’s here,” Rochelle said hesitantly. Jack nodded to h
er and she opened the door wider, revealing a thin woman with reddish-brown hair and tan skin standing behind her.

  “Come in, please,” Jack said, gesturing towards the seat in front of his desk which Rochelle had previously been sitting in. Shelby inched into the room, shooting a nervous glance over her shoulder at Rochelle before settling into the chair.

  The door shut, and they were alone.

  Jack reached across the desk to shake Shelby’s hand. “My name is Detective Jack Blanks. Rochelle tells me you’re her neighbor?”

  Shelby nodded. “Shelby Lynn. I’ve been Rochelle and Darren’s neighbor for the past six years. We’re very good friends.”