THE WOMAN BEFORE

Chapter 22

E V A N S

     It’s been a day already, and Rosina hasn’t called me or texted. I have checked my inbox for any messages, but there are none. I’ve sat for several hours behind my office desk patiently waiting for a call from her to no avail. Is that her way of punishing me for not telling her the truth? I hate to think so. I know she won’t do that. We settled things the other night, and I gave her a cheque to get another wedding gown. Everything is perfectly fine between us, and maybe I’m imagining things. Perhaps, she wants some space—and that’s why she hasn’t called me all morning, but at least a text would have been better.

     My gut tells me a different story. I don’t like the sound of the story. That’s why I have driven to her house and parked across the street. I look yearningly out, hoping to catch sight of her from upstairs or the kitchen. That way I will be assured she’s fine and drive back, but there is no sign of her anywhere. Where is my wife-to-be? Did something happen to her? Is she all right? Maybe she ran out of items and had to rush to the market to get them, but her car is still in the drive. She wouldn’t leave without it.

     Unfastening the seat belt, I open the door and step out, my eyes fixed on the house. It’s a weekday, and most of the neigbors aren’t home. I scan Layla’s house, the retired woman she visits every night. Her drive is empty and the door to her house looks locked. No luck there.

     I head straight to the front porch and press the doorbell, fiddling with a coat button and constantly tapping my shoe against the hardwood floor. Ten or fourteen seconds elapse, and I get no response. I ring the bell again and wait. Nothing.

     I pull out my cell and phone her. When I hear a familiar song she likes ringing from the house, I touch the knob and enter. She didn’t lock her door! This doesn’t sound like Rosina. She will never forget to lock her door.

     Following the direction of the song, I pass by the spacious living room, the study, and the basement, finding myself in the kitchen. Her phone is lying on the center table. I near it and pick it up, then dip it into my pocket.

     Glancing up, I look around the kitchen. Various pans and trays are splayed on the kitchen counter. Strained pasta sits in a colander. Next to that are sliced carrots on a plastic chopping board. A glass of wine stands on the countertop of the kitchen island. She was definitely in the middle of lunch when she left abruptly. What could have been so urgent that she had to leave and not lock the door?

     Trying to wrap my head around the situation, I pace back and forth. I stop momentarily when my leg hits a table. I look on the floor and find shards of broken ceramic plates. I bend down and pick a shard. Lifting it, I notice the edge is covered in something crimson. It occurs to me it’s ketchup, but as I take a close look, I realize it isn’t ketchup. It’s blood!

     A sudden coldness grips me and I bristle. Quickly, I let go of the shard. As I rise, I notice spatters of dry blood are caked on the hardwood floor. I reach for my phone and dial 9-1-1.

*   *  *

     WE FOUND MORE evidence that suggests a crime had taken place in the house when two officers arrived. The lock on the backdoor was tampered with, and they discovered footprints trailing from the backdoor to the living room and finally to the kitchen.

     I make way as two men in crime scene jackets move into the kitchen. Officer Davis, a stout man wearing a dickies uniform, wide-brim hat, and utility belt leads me away from the crime scene and into the living room. His deputy, a tall man with brawny shoulders, probably around mid-thirties follows behind us. He wears a similar outfit to Officer Davis.

     I sit across from them as they ask routine questions. I tell them who Rosina is to me and what led me here in the first place. His Deputy takes down what I’m saying into a small notepad.

     “When was the last time you heard from her?” Officer Davis asks.

     “A couple of nights ago. I didn’t see her last night. We had a misunderstanding, and I wanted to give her space. When she didn’t call or text me this morning, I decided to check up on her, and that’s when I found blood on the floor.”

     I try to suppress the anger I’m feeling. Maybe it’s too early to point fingers at Isla, but she is the only person I’m thinking of right now. If anything happens to Rosina, Isla is. . .

     “And has this happened before? She not calling you?”

     “No. It was just the stupid misunderstanding that caused all of this. We’re getting married in a few days,” I say, my eyes welling up with tears, then imploringly, I add, “You need to find her. She’s going to be my wife.”

     “We will, Mr. Kingston. We just need to ask a few more questions,” says Officer Davis.

     “I will answer any question.”

     “Did she have any known enemy? I mean... anyone who you think could be responsible?”

     I waste no time in answering him. “Isla.”

     His brows pucker. “Who’s she?”

     “My ex. She didn’t take it lightly when she found out I’m getting married.”

     Her words begin to ring in my head. You have no idea what I’m capable of. Sure I did not. I underestimated her. I thought her threats were empty, and she said them because she was shocked and angry. I didn’t think she was capable of this. Right now, I’m praying she hasn’t killed her already. Okay, maybe I’m being cynical. The Isla I knew wasn’t capable of murder. She was the most loving woman back then, but the Isla now is different. She is filled with anger and bitterness. And an angry woman is capable of anything.

     My mind lingers on Rosina. Is she all right? Is she in pain?

     “Tell us more about her,” Officer Davis says.

     I do as he requested and watch his deputy jot down all the information they need to find my wife-to-be. Nine minutes later, he rounds up his questions and assures me a detective from the department will start a formal investigation, and that I should be open-minded and be ready for anything. I thank them and escort them to the front door, watching as they duck under crime scene ribbons cordoned off the perimeter of the house. Alone, once again, I wonder if this is all a terrible nightmare. I can’t believe Rosina is gone.