Chapter 6
Camille
BEFORE THE ALIBI
My phone vibrates with an incoming text from Hank.
Heads up! Dropping Ben off in five
He’s hammered
Also he bought some hunting trip to Argentina
It’s late. Close to midnight. I must have dozed off while I was waiting on him to get home from the Ducks Unlimited banquet. After liking Hank’s first message, I throw off the covers and head downstairs in case he needs any help getting Ben inside.
Part of me is pissed I’m having to deal with this in the middle of the night, but mostly I’m struck by how out of character this is for Ben. He isn’t a big drinker. It’s not that he doesn’t drink, he just keeps a strict limit on the amount.
But over the years I’ve realized the lack of drinking is more about control. Ben likes control, and getting drunk makes him lose it. When he drinks, he speaks more freely. Drops his guard in a way that makes him vulnerable.
I’m more curious about what brought on the loosening of his usual ironclad control than I am bothered to have to tend to him in this condition.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, headlights flash across the room as Hank pulls up the driveway.
I open the side door and watch Ben struggle to get out of Hank’s truck.
It’s a massive vehicle, very different from the sleek SUVs Ben prefers.
It suits Hank, though. The DU event was his idea.
It’s an annual dinner where duck hunting enthusiasts raise money to support wetland conservation.
There’s always lots of things to bid on during their live auction, including, I guess, hunting trips to Argentina.
Ben isn’t much of a hunter but has been known to go on trips for either the social or business networking aspect.
He was less than enthused to attend, but something must have changed his mind when he got there because he’s all smiles now.
“Cammie! Want to go to Argentina and shoot some ducks?”
Ugh. I’ve made it very clear how much I detest that nickname.
“Not particularly.” I look at Hank, who has grabbed Ben’s briefcase from the back seat of his truck and is steering Ben toward the door. “I should make you take him to your house.”
Hank lets out a deep laugh, the kind that makes you want to laugh too. “Not on your life, Cammie. He drank enough Scotch that it’s likely to come back up at any moment.”
I elbow him in the side when he passes by me to get Ben through the door and he just laughs again.
Ben’s eyes are glassy and his cheeks red.
He is in rare form and has completely zoned out.
As soon as he’s close enough, he falls into my side.
His arms wrap around me while he buries his face in my neck. Yeah, drunk Ben is very different.
Hank steps away, holds Ben’s briefcase up. “I’ll just put this on the counter.”
By the time I maneuver Ben to a chair at the kitchen table, Hank is shutting the door behind him.
“Sit here. I’ll get you some water and Advil. Did you eat anything?”
I step away but he pulls me back, causing me to fall in his lap. His hands slip under my shirt and his mouth moves to my neck, giving me sloppy kisses while he feels me up. “Don’t go.”
Ben is rarely affectionate. At any other time, this attention might be nice, but not when I’m worried he’s going to vomit all over me.
“What brought this on?”
“So stressed out.” His hand edges to the waistband of my pajama bottoms. “Fucked up and now everything is fucked.”
I stiffen in his arms but he’s too far gone to notice. “What did you do?”
“Fucked up.”
Running a hand through his hair, I try to stay calm. There’s a glimmer of hope at his admission, since I had all but given up on finding evidence to use against him.
“We can fix whatever it is, but you have to tell me so I can help.”
He pulls me in closer so his head can rest on my shoulder. “I’m gonna fix it. Got a plan. After, we’ll go to Argentina then come home and start making babies.”
I scoot off his lap and he almost falls on the floor before catching himself at the last minute. Making babies is the last thing we’re going to talk about.
“I’ll fix you a sandwich. The bread will hopefully soak up some of the booze.” My sharp tone is also lost on him.
Ben leans back in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed. He’s not far from passing out. There’s a good chance he won’t remember any of this tomorrow.
I move to the cabinet and grab a glass and fill it with water, then pull the bottle of Advil from the drawer. Just as I’m shaking two pills out, I glance at his briefcase where Hank left it on the counter.
And the first thing I notice is that the little brass latch is in the up position. It’s unlocked.
That briefcase is never unlocked.
My eyes flick to Ben and then back to the briefcase. If I am ever going to have a chance to see what he hides inside, it’s tonight.
Making sure I don’t lose this opportunity, I start moving with intention.
Sandwich forgotten, I hand him the pills and water.
Then help him upstairs. It’s painstakingly slow since he misses every other step while also still trying to get a hand down my pants.
The second his head hits the pillow, he’s snoring.
And I’m racing back downstairs.
I stare at the briefcase a few seconds before I flip it open.
There is a stack of files and papers, and I lift each one out, studying it carefully before putting it face down on the counter next to me.
Once I’m done, everything will go right back inside in the same order so there’s no way for him to know I went snooping.
The only sounds in the house are the hum of the air conditioner and the rustle of paper, which makes this feel more stressful than it should.
After about every third piece of paper I pull out, I check over my shoulder to make sure he’s not behind me.
He’s already admitted he “fucked up.” Now I just need to discover what that fuck up is.
When I think there’s nothing here to give me any clue, I finally find something.
It’s a bar napkin.
There’s a logo in black in the bottom corner that says doug’s tavern.
It’s the words on the napkin that give me pause.
A woman’s name: Aubrey Price, followed by a phone number and address written in handwriting that isn’t Ben’s. I pick up my phone, searching both the bar’s location and the address on the napkin. They’re fairly close to each other; both are in a part of town I don’t frequent.
Next, I type the woman’s name in the search bars of my social media accounts. I find her easily enough, confirming I have the right person when I see her last post is a picture of her behind a bar, bottles of bourbon in both hands as she pours drinks. Doug’s Tavern is tagged as the location.
Aubrey looks to be in her midtwenties. Shoulder-length dark hair. Maybe black but it’s hard to tell in the low lighting of the image. She looks slim and petite behind the bar, her face lit up in a big smile. Someone who’s probably fun on a night out.
Anger bubbles up inside me as I take a picture of the napkin before carefully putting everything back into the briefcase the way I found it.
Before, my obsession felt unfounded. Now, I feel vindicated.