Skeletons in the Closet

You’ve been suspicious of Peter for several years now, the way his business trips have steadily increased from once a year to every six weeks. The way he seems almost renewed, refreshed after each absence, rather than pinched and tired like before. His new habit of returning with a piece of jewelry for you and a guilty look on his face. You’ve considered confronting him on the matter, but after fifteen years of marriage you aren’t sure you want to rock the boat, especially with the children to think about. Would it really make a difference if you knew the truth? Probably not, it’s not like it’s ever really been a marriage of true love. You aren’t ashamed to admit to yourself you married him for his construction company and decent income, not his personal charms.

If anything, it’s a bit of a relief no longer having to lie in the bedroom pretending for ten minutes once a week. How long has it been now? Long enough that you’ve stopped buying pregnancy tests ‘just in case’. No more little slips since Charlotte was born, thank goodness. One of each, fulfilling your wifely duties more than adequately – there’d only have been one child if you’d had your way. Peter may not be much for romance, but he’s a true family man and takes genuine pleasure in spending time with his kids – trips to the zoo and dinosaur museums on his days off, constantly taking them to the park. Them and that blasted black poodle of his, Trixie. At least he takes the mutt with him on his business trips, knowing you hate cleaning up after her. Probably worries you’d drop her off at the shelter if he left her behind – and honestly you’ve been sorely tempted in the past, the way she barks at you when you’re sunbathing by the pool, constantly wanting you to throw her the ball.

You’re drinking an espresso in the kitchen when you see Peter’s left his cell phone by the microwave. Now that is odd – you’d think if he was having an affair he’d be hiding it away, keeping it attached to him at all times. But he’s never secretive with it at all – in fact he still has the same lock code he’s always had, 9819, the year he played high school football and his jersey number. Sad really, how he clings to that old achievement after nearly thirty years.

Idly you scroll through his social media and texts. Nothing too suspicious there – a few likes on posts of busty blonde influencers, but men will be men. No weird numbers or repeated messages to anyone, just work-related stuff and an occasional response to invites for summer barbeques and 4th of July fireworks. Boring, really.

Of course, if he was really sneaky, he’d have a second phone, a secret one just for his lady friend. Where would he hide that? Not his office, his secretary has complete access to that and you chose her carefully – she’d report to you if there was the slightest whiff of perfume on his shirt collar after lunch. No, maybe his man cave…

You go in with the vacuum cleaner, though it’s a thin disguise as you haven’t used the thing in months, not since hiring the new cleaner. Maybe you can claim Frankie spilled crumbs on the floor, if it comes to it.

You nose around on the shelves of DVD and Blu-ray cases – relics from the time before streaming services put an end to the home cinema fad. Nothing obvious there, not even porn, but why would there be with the internet and deleted histories so readily available? The drawers of his desk are similarly tedious; one is full of pictures the kids have drawn for him, the typical family portraits outside the square house and oversized sunflowers with smiling faces. He must have been keeping them when you clear the fridge off every few weeks – kind of soppy for a 6ft 5” giant of a man like him.

Where else is there to look? You don’t have a screwdriver, so the air vents are out, and anyhow he’d want the phone somewhere with easy access… you flop down in his La-Z-Boy and feel down the sides of the cushions… nothing stashed there except the lever to make the seat recline. Aha! You jump up, press the lever and get down on your hands and knees to peer underneath.

Sure enough, there’s a dark object towards the back, almost out of reach. You wriggle and squirm until you can get a grasp on it, feeling the hard, straight edges of a metal box. Puling it out, you see that it has a combination lock, a four-digit code. You try 9819, but this time it doesn’t work. Now that IS interesting. What would someone as boring as Peter use for the code to a secret lock box? It’s not your wedding anniversary, not that you expected it to be. Not the kids' birthdays either. Finally, you try to think like Peter would and type his usual code in backwards – 9189 – and bingo, the lock springs open.

The contents are surprising. There are photographs – more than a dozen of them, all showing close-ups of jewelry – the same jewelry he’s bought home from his trips as gifts for you over the last two years. There’s the sapphire tennis bracelet you’re wearing right now, delicately wrapped around some other woman’s scrawny wrist. There are the opal earrings he brought back from Singapore, adorning the ear lobes of some Asian woman with long black hair. The gold cross and chain he got you in Sao Paulo despite neither of you being the least bit religious. That photo holds your attention more closely – something about the tanned woman’s neck looks wrong, bruised.

What do the photos mean? Is it some sort of insurance against robbery or a fire – proof that he bought them for you? A feeling of revulsion sweeps over you – is it a new fetish? Is he paying prostitutes to dress up in your jewels and then, what, screwing them and memorializing the moment? Maybe that’s why he isn’t interested in sex anymore. He’s cheating after all…

Near the bottom of the box are some other photos. These ones are older, the pixelation and quality suggest they were taken on a digital camera in the early 2000’s. The jewelry is clearly costume jewelry – a plastic charm bracelet on the wrist of a teenager, lying sprawled on the ground, blonde hair covering her face. A mood ring on the finger of a petite brunette, face down on a bed, the hand clawing at the pillows…

And at the very bottom of the box, underneath it all, you find a small heart locket – the kind the jocks used to give their girlfriends back in high school. Inside the locket on one side is a picture of Peter, and on the other a smiley cheerleader, her pompoms held high above her head…

You know this picture – it’s the same one that was on the news when you were a sophomore in college – that local girl Emilia Gilbert who went missing on prom night and was never recovered…

“I wondered when you’d find me out,” a calm voice comes from the doorway, making you jump and drop the box, your hands trembling as you raise them defensively.

Peter walks towards you, cracking his knuckles in that way you hate. He looms over you, suddenly no longer just a big buffoon of a man, but a terrifying ogre. You realize he could crush your windpipe with those hands without even trying.

“So, what now, darling?” He asks, head tilted slightly to one side, curious. “You’ve caught me, you’re married to a serial killer. Where do we go from here? I guess there’s really only two options ahead of you. So, the real question is – how much do you love your pampered little rich wifey lifestyle? How many skeletons are you willing to overlook for the sake of your summer in the Bahamas and the ladies’ luncheons down the country club?”

He sits down in the La-Z-Boy, reclining it back and crossing his legs, getting comfortable, waiting for your answer.

You don’t have to think for very long.