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Story: Sins of a Husband

Chapter Seven

I’m giddy with excitement as a black sedan pulls up to the curb. I open the front door and fly down the steps just as Oliver exits the car. The driver gets out, opens the trunk, and pulls out my husband’s suitcase.

“Thank you, sir.” Oliver reaches into his pocket and hands him some cash.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Tate.”

“You as well.” Oliver turns to me and wraps his loving arms around me. I notice a perfume scent on him. It’s the same Joe Malone perfume he bought me.

“You smell like a woman,” I smirk.

“My God, Kat.” He grabbed the handle of his suitcase, and we climbed up the steps. “The woman sitting next to me on the plane bathed in it before boarding.”

“Was she pretty?” My brow arches, stepping into our home.

“She was very attractive for an eighty-year-old woman.” He smiles. “I told her she smelled nice because it made me more eager to hurry home to you. She told me it was her favorite perfume. Her husband bought it for her, and it’s the only perfume she’s worn for the last fifteen years.”

“I’d say her husband has good taste. Just like someone else I know.” Happiness coursed through me that he was home.

He grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs. “We need to make up for lost time,” a smirk dances on his lips. “I missed you so much, darling.”

“I missed you more.”

For the next hour, we celebrated his return.

“I should go away more often,” he says, running his fingers through my hair.

I lift my head from his shoulder. “No, you shouldn’t.” I press my lips against his. My happy, euphoric feeling quickly dissipates as I stare into his eyes and think about the two men who were brutally murdered this week.

“I don’t know if you heard, but another man was murdered Friday night,” I say.

“What?” His brows furrow. “Who?”

“Another client of the firm’s husband. He was stabbed twenty-two times like the last guy was.”

I never told Oliver how many stab wounds were inflicted on Brian’s body. All he knows is he died of stab wounds.

“That is terrible. Do the police have any suspects yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

It is awful and hits too close to home. What are the chances that Brian and the two other men were stabbed twenty-two times? Not once, not twice, not even ten times. Exactly. Twenty. Two. Times.

“I don’t know what to say. What are the chances that both men were the husbands of two of your firm’s clients?” he asks.

“Carter called just before you got home to inform me of a mandatory meeting at the office tomorrow at 8:00 a.m.,” I say.

“I can tell you’re upset.” His grip around me tightens. “I’m sure it’s just a big coincidence.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I lay my head on his shoulder.

“As you all have heard, two men, the husbands of two of our clients, were murdered last week,” Dave Reynolds says. “I spoke with the detective handling the case, and she told me they don’t have any leads at all so far.”

And they never will. I silently think to myself.

After the meeting ends, I glance at my watch to see how much time I have before we meet with Mr. Calloway and his attorney. Ten minutes. Just enough time to hit the bathroom before heading back to my office.

I exit the stall and stand before the sink, holding my hands under the warm water. The bathroom door opens, and Samantha walks in.

“What a horrible meeting,” she says, reaching into her purse and pulling out her lipstick. “Like we need to be reminded of the murders. It’s all that’s been on the TV for days. You know what I did last night?”

“What?” I ask.

“I held Travis really tight all night. At one point, he told me I was hurting him because I was squeezing so hard.”

“I can relate to that. I pretty much didn’t let go of Oliver all night either.”

“I’m sure this is worse for you considering—way to go, Sam.” She shakes her head. “Me and my big mouth. I’m really sorry, Kat. I didn’t mean to?— ”

I lightly touch her arm. “It’s okay, Samantha. I know what those women are going through losing a husband.”

“You do, Kat. Maybe you could talk to them. Tell them your story about the accident and how you moved on.”

That was the last thing I wanted to do. “Yeah, maybe.” I smile. “I have a client meeting. I’ll see you later.”

When I enter my office, Britney Calloway sits in the chair, waiting for me.

“Are you ready?” I ask, grabbing her file from my desk.

“You bet I’m ready.” The look on her face startled me. It was pure hatred and anger.

I opened the door to conference room three and gestured for Britney to take a seat.

“Gentlemen,” I say, sitting across the table. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Mr. Calloway has agreed to everything Mrs. Calloway wants except for the house in the Hamptons and alimony,” says Mr. Striker, his attorney.

“Fuck you, Steven!” Britney points at him. “You built that house for me! That is my house!” she shouts.

“I built it for us, Britney,” he shouts back.

“Like I said. You can fuck off because I’m not letting you have it.” She folds her arms. “The only reason you want it is to take her there.”

Two hours later, the argument was still going on. I didn’t think Britney Calloway had it in her. When I first met her, she seemed timid—overly thin in plain clothes and mousy with straight black hair and little makeup. She didn’t strike me as the wife of a multi-millionaire.

“He’s not getting the Hampton house,” Britney says as we leave the conference room. “I’ll kill him before I let that happen. ”

I was taken aback by her statement, considering two other husbands who were in the middle of a divorce were just murdered.

“Don’t worry. You’re getting the Hampton house.” I lightly touch her arm.