Gwyneth's Secret [RUNNER UP - Freeze-Dried Fiction Contest]

~1~

I thought the pounding was in my head. Wine, followed by tears, followed by more wine will do that to a girl, every time. But the noise becomes so intrusive that it has to be outside myself.

Between the blotches of snow caked to the window, there are hints that a dreary dawn has arrived. But just barely.

I roll in the direction of my alarm clock. 6:30 a.m.

Bang, bang, bang. 

I sigh and sit up too fast. I block my dry heave with the crook of my elbow.

My housecoat. More than a comfort. A necessity. I'm still wearing my old wedding lingerie.

He said I look divine...

When I pass the mirror, I cringe and wipe smeared lipstick off the corners of my mouth. Rose red. It matched the flowers. It isn't my color, but, then again, I wasn't myself yesterday.

I'm not sure whom I expect at the door. Sam maybe, my maybe still husband? Or Sebastian?

But no. I notice the squad car parked next to a snow bank before the man. The "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am" finally brings the person standing on the porch to my attention.

He flashes a police badge. "Gwyneth Fitzpatrick?"

"Yes, that's me."  

"I'm Detective Mariano." He has tired eyes, a rich brown. They make me hate him less. I'm almost convinced he isn't like all the other assholes in my life. "Do you mind if I come in? I'd like to ask you a couple of questions."

I have nothing to hide, criminally speaking that is, and at some point the night before, I declared a loyalty to no one but myself. "Sure. Come on in. I'll make a pot of coffee."

"I wish I could stay for some, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. Thank you for offering."

"Please, call me Gwyn." He glances at my couch. I nod and gesture to it. He gives me a polite smile and takes a seat, pulling out his laptop, all at the same time as if he means not to waste a single moment. It's clear that I'm not the first interview of his day. And I probably won't be the last. "Rough night?"

"Yeah," he says while typing. "And that's why I'm here." He pulls out four photographs from his case and lines them up on my coffee table. One is a mug shot of a blonde with a vacant stare. The three others are candid shots of well-dressed people at parties. Despite the sunglasses and varying hairstyles, it's obvious the same woman appears in each picture. She has distinctive lips and high cheekbones. Perhaps she could have been a model in her prime if she hadn't been disproportionately top-heavy. She had nice full breasts, but the shoulders–they could have been her downfall. "Do you know this woman?"

I lift the mugshot and give it my all. "No." I shake my head and set it back down. "Is there a reason I should?"

"Do you have any idea where your husband is?"   

"Sorry, no again. I haven't seen or heard from him since yesterday morning."

"Is that unusual?"

He looks up from the screen and into my eyes in time to see a few tears spill out. I shrug and look away. "Yes and no." His scrutiny feels invasive, especially after years of feeling invisible. "I did kick him out of my house...again, and I hoped it would be the last time. I did reconsider, though. I texted him and invited him back so we could talk it through."

"And when was that?"

"There were two texts, actually. The first text was around eleven and the second, I would say about four thirty-ish. Hold on. I can confirm that..." I retrieve my cell phone and show him the two unanswered texts. "See? I was pretty close. 10:49 and 4:53."