Chapter 2 - The Man in the Wedding Photo
I didn’t sleep that night.
Vanessa did not sleep in our bedroom.
After dinner, she followed me home in her SUV while I drove Kayla in my truck.
Neither of us said anything in front of our daughter.
Kayla sat in the back seat hugging her backpack.
“Are you mad at Mommy?”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“No, sweetheart.”
It was a lie.
She watched me in the mirror.
“Grandma Ruth made Mommy cry.”
“I know.”
“Did Mommy do something bad?”
That question hurt worse than anything Vanessa had said.
I forced a smile.
“Adults sometimes make mistakes.”
Kayla looked out the window.
“Will Mommy still live with us?”
I couldn’t answer.
At home, I tucked Kayla into bed.
Vanessa waited downstairs.
When I entered the living room, she stood near the fireplace with her arms folded.
“I want to explain.”
I walked straight past her to the cabinet where we kept old family albums.
“Malcolm.”
I pulled out our wedding album.
“Grandma said he came to our wedding.”
Vanessa’s face tightened.
“You’re seriously going through pictures now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re acting insane.”
I stopped.
“Insane?”
I turned toward her.
“You lied about where you slept.”
She opened her mouth.
“You had your sister cover for you.”
“Because I knew this would happen.”
“What would happen?”
“This.”
She threw up her hands.
“You turning into some detective.”
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly.
“You spent the night with a man who kissed you in the street.”
“It wasn’t romantic.”
That stopped me.
I stared at her.
“Then what kind of kiss was it?”
She looked away.
I opened the album.
Our wedding had been twelve years earlier.
Vanessa in white.
Me in a gray tuxedo.
My father still alive.
Grandma Ruth dancing with a glass of champagne.
Dozens of faces.
Family.
Friends.
Coworkers.
People I had forgotten.
Vanessa stood across the room watching me turn pages.
Then my phone rang.
Grandma Ruth.
I answered immediately.
“Grandma?”
“I remembered his name.”
Vanessa rushed toward me.
“Malcolm, please.”
I stepped away.
“What name?”
Grandma said, “Terrence.”
I frowned.
Terrence.
The name tugged at something.
Then Grandma added, “Terrence Cole.”
My fingers went numb.
I knew exactly who that was.
I looked up at Vanessa.
She saw recognition hit me.
“No,” I whispered.
Vanessa began crying.
Terrence Cole had been Vanessa’s boyfriend before me.
Not just some boyfriend.
The boyfriend.
They dated through college.
They were supposedly engaged for six months.
Vanessa told me Terrence cheated on her and disappeared from her life.
When she met me, she said she was done with men like him.
I used to joke that I should thank Terrence.
Without his stupidity, I never would have gotten Vanessa.
Now I wanted to throw up.
I flipped backward through the album.
Then I found him.
He stood near the back of one reception photo wearing a navy suit.
Twelve years younger.
Same narrow face.
Same scar near his chin.
Terrence Cole.
I held the picture toward Vanessa.
“This man?”
She wiped her cheeks.
“Yes.”
I sat down.
My knees suddenly felt weak.
“How long?”
“It’s not what you think.”
“That sentence needs to die tonight.”
She flinched.
I pointed at the picture.
“How long have you been seeing him?”
“I haven’t been seeing him.”
“Grandma watched him kiss you.”
“Because he was emotional.”
“Why?”
Vanessa pressed both hands against her forehead.
“Because he’s sick.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“He has cancer.”
The anger inside me stumbled.
Not disappeared.
Just stumbled.
Vanessa sat across from me.
“He contacted me three months ago.”
“Three months?”
“He said he needed to tell me something.”
“And you kept this from me for three months?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You start with words.”
She ignored that.
“He’s been in treatment. He doesn’t have much family.”
“So you became his wife?”
“No!”
Her voice cracked.
“No, Malcolm.”
“Then why were you there all night?”
She took a breath.
“Because he collapsed.”
I watched her carefully.
“I went to see him. He got sick. I stayed because I was afraid to leave him alone.”
“And the kiss?”
“He kissed my forehead.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Grandma said he kissed you.”
“She saw us from down the street!”
“So now Grandma’s eyesight is bad?”
Vanessa stood.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“After lying for three months?”
She froze.
There it was.
The problem bigger than Terrence.
Even if every word she was saying now was true, I no longer knew which Vanessa I was listening to.
The honest one.
Or the one who had been rehearsing lies.
I closed the album.
“Why did Terrence come to our wedding?”
Vanessa’s eyes flicked down.
“He wanted closure.”
“You invited him?”
“No.”
“Did you know he was there?”
She didn’t answer.
“Vanessa.”
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
I stood.
“You knew your ex-fiancé was at our wedding?”
“Yes.”
“And never told me?”
“He left early.”
I backed away from her.
Every answer opened another door.
Behind every door was another lie.
Then something else occurred to me.
“Why Layton Street?”
Vanessa blinked.
“What?”
“If he’s sick, why is he living in a house on Layton?”
“That’s his place.”
“No hospital?”
“He was discharged.”
I studied her.
“Where does he work?”
“He doesn’t right now.”
“How does he afford that house?”
Vanessa’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
I stepped closer.
“Vanessa.”
She started toward the stairs.
“I’m exhausted.”
I caught her arm lightly.
“Whose house is it?”
She pulled free.
“Terrence’s.”
I knew she was lying.
I don’t know how.
Maybe marriage teaches you someone’s face so deeply that even the smallest shift becomes a scream.
I opened my phone.
I searched the address.
Twenty-eight Layton Street.
Property records came up.
Owner: Cole Family Holdings LLC.
That meant nothing.
Then I searched the company.
A second name appeared.
And I stopped breathing.
Registered agent:
Devin Carter.
My brother.
I looked toward the staircase.
Vanessa had stopped halfway up.
She saw my face.
“What?”
I held up the phone.
“Why does my brother own Terrence’s house?”
Her entire body went still.
May you like
And upstairs, somewhere above us, a floorboard creaked.
Devin was standing at the top of the stairs.
