My Duplicated Husband novel · Chapter 8 of 24

Chapter 8: The Empty Bed

We didn't speak on the drive back.

Lorne kept one hand on the wheel and one hand on my knee, and every time headlights rose behind us he looked in the mirror.

It was past nine when we turned into Orchard Lane.

The house stood dark.

I had left the porch light on that morning, and it was out.

"Stay in the truck," Lorne said.

"No."

He didn't argue.

We went around the garage with the flashlight low.

The back lawn was shredded.

Fat tire ruts, as deep as my hand, ran from the gravel apron across the wet grass.

They stopped at the edge of the rose bed.

My stomach turned over.

I knew before the beam reached it.

The rosebushes lay on their sides in a heap, roots up.

Where they had stood, there was a long raw pit.

It was empty.

I stood on the edge and stared into it.

The wool rug was gone.

The shoe was gone.

Just clay, and a wet dent in the bottom where something heavy had lain.

"Lydia," Lorne said carefully. "What was in here?"

I turned the flashlight off.

The dark came in around us, cold and smelling of turned earth.

I had planned to say it differently.

I had planned to say it after dinner, in the kitchen, with tea.

"A man," I said.

He didn't move.

"Friday night he hit me, and I shoved him, and he hit the hearth."

My voice sounded like someone else's.

"He died, Lorne. I checked."

"I put him in the ground, because the sheriff plays golf with him."

"He had papers that said I was crazy."

"Who?"

"I thought it was you."

The wind went through the dead roses.

"I thought it was my husband," I said.

"He had your face and he lived in your house and signed your name."

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