Chapter 5
Camille
The Alibi
The clock starts now. It seemed impossible that I could find a way to move around without the prying eyes of my husband following my digital trail, but somehow I’ve managed to become a ghost. No phone to show my location, no smartwatch to record my raised heart rate and steps taken.
Even the car I’m driving was picked because it doesn’t have a fancy navigation system to track and report back every mile I’ve covered.
I bought this beat-up Honda Accord with cash a few days ago, which felt like an extreme move at the time, even though I plan on selling it as soon as we’re done.
Aubrey doesn’t own a car, and I couldn’t rent one without the credit card charge alert popping up on Ben’s phone, so there weren’t many other options.
But extreme or not, it’s exactly what I need to get me back to Baton Rouge undetected.
Ben wasn’t always this obsessed with tracking me.
It was a gradual thing. Seemed innocent enough at first since I could see where he was at any given moment as well.
I just never thought to check it as often as he did.
And I really don’t think he’s trying to catch me doing something wrong or cares how much I spend at the grocery store.
Ben loves control, and technology helps feed that monster.
Every single move I make is only an app away.
It was only twenty-four hours ago that I was home with Ben.
I kept him company while he packed his duffel bag for his weekend in New Orleans.
He had taken the afternoon off from work, and his charm and playful demeanor were at an all-time high, as if that would distract me from the fact that he was lying about his plans.
We made small talk as he moved between the closet, the bathroom, and the end of the bed, where his open suitcase sat. He gave me a brief rundown of how he would spend his time away, while I sat perched on the chaise longue tucked away in the corner of our room.
There have been a dozen times when we shared a similar moment in the past—him packing while I watched—and I always believed he was going to be where he said he was.
But not this time.
The road out of St. Francisville is a straight two-lane divided highway with only the occasional house or trailer and the random industrial plant that supports the local oil-and-gas industry.
It’s a boring drive, and my mind drifts to the events of the last few months that led me to take such a drastic move as allowing a woman I barely know to pretend to be me.
I had a feeling something was wrong in my relationship with Ben.
Looking back, I think that feeling had been there a long time.
It sat like a pebble in the pit of my stomach.
Small enough to brush off at the beginning, until it began growing.
And growing. Over the years, that pebble turned into a stone that weighed me down.
Slowed my steps. Even though there wasn’t anything in particular Ben did that made me start to doubt him, I couldn’t ignore the feeling any longer.
But deciding to finally do something about it is much simpler than actually doing it.
I’m not proud to admit it, but leaving a marriage is a lot easier said than done if it will result in a drastic change in lifestyle.
Any money I have is tied to Ben, and thanks to the “bad behavior” clause in our prenup that my father insisted on, access to that money requires proof of infidelity, abuse, gambling, or any criminal wrongdoing.
Dad promised this would protect me, but all it’s done is strengthen the chains that bind me to Ben.
Ben didn’t become one of Baton Rouge’s best defense lawyers by accident, so I knew it would be a challenge to find something to prove what my gut was trying to tell me.
So I went on the hunt for anything that would fall into one of those categories.
I was limited to his home office, and I knew the chances that I would find a proverbial smoking gun were slim.
And I didn’t. But once I got started looking through his things, I couldn’t stop.
Ben had his obsession and now I had mine.
I went through the drawers on his side of the bathroom.
The glove box and center console of his car.
His pockets after he put his pants in the hamper.
His wallet. Ben always says that the first thing any cop or prosecutor looks at is the suspect’s phone, so even though I knew he wouldn’t have anything there for me to find, I looked anyway.
And found nothing. Absolutely nothing no matter how hard I searched.
Finally, I had to admit to myself that I was no longer scared I would find proof he was doing something wrong. I was scared I wouldn’t.
And maybe that feeling in my gut was more about me than him. It wasn’t about Ben and what Ben was doing. It was about me wanting out and not having the courage to leave him.
There was a time I loved Ben. Madly.
It was the young, chaotic kind of love. Where every touch is new and exciting. Every emotion consuming. Every experience is a first.
Ben and I are from the same small town and started dating our senior year of high school.
In the beginning, my parents didn’t approve of him.
But somehow Ben won them over. Instead of trying to pull us apart, they began pushing us together.
The fire that probably would have burned out on its own was stoked by everyone around us.
He proposed the night of his law school graduation, to the utter delight of my parents and his.
I got swept up in the moment and set aside any reservations I might have had.
We had big moment after big moment: graduations from high school, then college, and finally law school for Ben.
Then the big, splashy wedding that took a year to plan.
But when the dust settled, it was clear Ben was at the start of a new and exciting career, while I was expected to be just like my mother—a dutiful wife who volunteered for worthwhile causes and joined the boards of charitable foundations.
And somewhere along the way, those flames had turned to dying embers, and no amount of gasoline would bring them back.
By the time I realized I’d made a mistake, it felt impossible to do anything about it.
I had no idea how to even begin to break the rules I’d followed my entire life.
My dad gave me a charmed, privileged upbringing, then passed the torch to Ben.
I had been conditioned at an early age to believe that if someone provided you a nice life then they were owed the right to make every decision as to how you lived it.
My parents wouldn’t agree to help me leave my husband unless I had a very, very good reason.
To them, marriage was until death. You rejoiced in the good times and suffered through the bad, but you never quit.
I think back to the one time I tried to talk to Mom about how I was feeling. I was staying with them while Dad and Ben were away on a hunting trip. We were at the breakfast table when I told her I didn’t want to stay married to Ben.
Her response left no room for argument. “What on earth are you talking about. Of course you’re going to stay married to Ben.
You’re not going to humiliate your father and me by becoming a divorcée.
” By her reaction, you’d think I’d just told her I was about to work the pole at one of the strip clubs on Bourbon Street.
I knew in that moment there was no chance my parents would support me financially if I left him.
So I stayed, and Ben made plans for us, a timetable for our future with benchmark goals. He never once asked if these were goals I shared.
Open his own practice. Check.
Hit his annual income goal. Check.
Build or buy the perfect house. Check.
Start a family.
It’s no coincidence the moment he mentioned that next step was when that feeling in my gut began to grow.
Once the house remodel was finished and the perfect pieces of furniture graced every meticulously designed room, I knew he’d be anxious to check that next box.
While I may feel stuck now, it would be nothing compared to when we had kids.
My search through Ben’s things was fueled by the desire to find…
anything…that would force me to act. Something I could hold up to him, to my parents, and say, See this?
This thing he did? This is the reason I have to leave him.
Something that would trigger the clause in our prenup.
So I continued my search.
And then one night I got lucky.
I shift in my seat, my memories scattering as I’m forced to concentrate on the road now that the traffic has picked up.
The exit for the interstate that will take me back to Baton Rouge is quickly approaching.
It’s been twenty minutes and there’s only about fifteen more to go until I’m home.
I check the time. Everything is still on schedule.
By now, Aubrey should be at the festival in the park next to the St. Francisville Inn.
I lose a little time as I battle the ever-present Baton Rouge traffic.
A few notifications have popped up on my iPad, which is sitting on the passenger seat, but a quick glance tells me all of them can wait.
Although I had to leave my phone with Aubrey since that’s the device Ben tracks, I didn’t trust her enough to let her into my phone or handle my communications.
I’ll take care of that myself with my iPad.
Finally, I’m pulling into the lot of a small market on Perkins that’s close to our street.
While it’s not perfect, I decided I would stash the car here and jog to my house.
Our street is off one of the busiest roads in the heart of Baton Rouge.
Some houses in our neighborhood can easily be seen from the road, while others, like mine, are tucked much further back, the live oaks and dense foliage screening it from the street.
But all of us have privacy from one another.
There is more traffic on our street than there should be, given how few of us live on it, but it’s a cut-through of sorts between two busy areas that has been exploited more and more over the last several years.
Ben has even drafted a petition to the city to have one end blocked off, making it a dead end, but it will take more than the full support of the residents to pull that off.
While the constant flow of cars won’t make anyone think twice if this old Honda drives by, the same can’t be said if I park it on the street in front of a neighbor’s house.
I put on an LSU ball cap and oversize sunglasses before I exit the car, then start off toward my house.
Even though I’m parking in a place I’m allowed to park and going to a house I have every right to enter, it still feels like I’m breaking the law.
I jog past the first few houses with a steady pace and a watchful eye to see if anyone who may recognize me is out and about. We socialized with our neighbors on a few occasions right after we moved in, but Ben and I both found it to be more exhausting than entertaining.
The first question every woman asked me was: When are you starting a family?
Really, it was the only question anyone asked me.
They took my vague answers as an invitation to give me their thoughts on the subject.
And when they weren’t talking directly to me about procreation, every other conversation was about kids and schools and after-school activities and sports for kids and kids and kids.
Ben didn’t have it quite as bad as I did, but he did complain that most of the questions directed toward him had to do with the high-profile cases he was in the middle of defending.
Apparently, they would know of at least one of Ben’s clients in a six-degrees-of-separation kind of way and wanted whatever juicy details he would give them.
Both of us began to gently brush off future invitations. It was one of the few things we agreed on lately.
As I approach my driveway, I take one last quick look around then increase my pace. Don’t need anyone being a Good Samaritan and calling the cops about an intruder.
As soon as I know I’m hidden from view, I slow to a walk and study our house as if I’m seeing it for the first time.
It’s a gorgeous structure made of rough-cut stones, with a steep slate roof and copper gutters, painstakingly remodeled to its former glory.
A house anyone would love to have. A house that could grace the pages of Southern Living.
But that’s the problem.
Ben wanted it to be a showplace, so every piece of furniture, every picture on the wall, every book on the shelf was chosen by an interior designer.
While I was involved in the process, he got final approval.
The end result is beautiful, but there is nothing inside that reflects my personality or, really, Ben’s either.
It could belong to anyone.
During my soul-searching, I realized I’m no different from the achievements that hang on his wall and line his shelves. A trophy wife in every sense of the word.
I know what I want out of today. I want a way out.
And just because I’m more self-aware than I’ve ever been, that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified of slipping back into the role I’ve played my entire life.
My father and my husband have had years to shape me into the woman I am today, one who does what she’s told, one who doesn’t go against them.
Today, I’m hoping for something that will balance the scales.
Evidence of his bad behavior that will speak louder than I ever could.
Aubrey thinks we’re in this together, and that whatever I find I will share with her.
And I might. Ben has lied and hid things that have hurt us both.
But…I also might not. The only people who need to know what he’s done to trigger the prenup clause are my family and our divorce lawyers.
I’m hoping I’m strong enough to leave him, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough to weather the inevitable scandal that would roll through this city if what he’s done is made public.
Is this fair to Aubrey?
No, it’s not. And I feel really bad about that.
But as Ben likes to say, “Fair is where they sell cotton candy.”