2. Alibi
Chapter two
Alibi
The heat of a massive engine baked the skin of my forearms.
The chrome grille of a black truck sat less than three inches from my face as the engine idled. The stench of scorched rubber easily overpowered whatever was left of the manicured suburban lawns. I knelt on the blistering asphalt, my arms wrapped protectively around my stomach.
A heavy truck door slammed shut. The sound rattled my teeth.
Footsteps pounded against the pavement, fast and heavy. A massive frame dropped to the street beside me, blocking out the aggressive afternoon sun.
“Jesus… hey, hey, I’ve got you,” a deep, rough voice said above me. Two large hands gripped my upper arms. “Are you hurt? Talk to me.”
My lungs seized. I stared blankly at the faded denim covering the man’s knees.
The hands squeezed my arms, steadying my swaying body. A sudden smell of sawdust, dry pine, and crisp outside air washed over me. It cut cleanly through the lingering ghost of Marcus’s cologne.
I blinked, my vision finally focusing. Hayes Alexander. My next-door neighbor.
His gray eyes tracked over my face. The polite, neighborly distance we usually kept was entirely gone. He dragged his gaze down to my hands, checking the swollen curve of my stomach. A dark shadow of scruff lined his jaw, the muscles pulling tight as he ground his teeth.
“Thank fuck,” Hayes said, his chest heaving under a gray henley. “I didn’t hit you. But, Elena… You fell right in front of me. Are you bleeding? Are you all right?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat felt completely swollen shut. I shook my head, hoping that was answer enough.
Hayes didn’t ask another question. He shifted his weight, sliding one muscular forearm behind my back and the other beneath my knees. He stood up, lifting my dead weight against his chest like it was nothing.
The ground fell away. The sudden elevation made my stomach lurch. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, squeezing my eyes shut. His chest was just a wall of solid, steady heat. He didn’t smell like expensive grooming products. He just smelled like work.
Hayes carried me across the asphalt, his boots thudding a rapid rhythm against his paved walkway. He kicked his front door open with a solid crack of his heel.
The air inside his house hit me like a cold shock. It smelled of worn leather, black coffee, and absolute quiet. No tuberose. No heavy floral lies.
“I’m going to be sick.” I gagged. The words scraped out of my throat.
Hayes changed course instantly. He strode down a short hallway and pushed into a dimly lit bathroom. He lowered me onto the cold slate tiles, his hands supporting my waist until my knees rested safely on the floor.
I leaned forward and grabbed the edges of the white porcelain toilet bowl.
The shock finally broke. My body forcefully rejected the afternoon. I violently threw up the half-eaten salad my mother had prepared for me at lunch. The acidic burn scorched my throat, bringing tears to the corners of my eyes. I choked, gasping for air, and heaved again.
A warm palm flattened against the space between my shoulder blades. The weight of his hand was the only thing keeping me pinned to the floor.
“Let it out,” Hayes murmured, a low, steady rumble above my head. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”
I emptied my stomach until there was nothing left but dry heaves.
The muscles in my abdomen cramped tight.
I pulled back from the bowl, trying to clear the bitter taste of bile from my tongue, and I slumped sideways.
I dropped my back against the bathroom wall.
Freezing, glorious relief seeped from the slate hex tiles into my bare legs.
Hayes knelt directly in front of me. He reached over to the sink, ran the faucet for a second, and turned back. He pressed a cool, damp washcloth into my trembling palm.
I gripped the terrycloth and dragged it across my mouth. The rough fabric scraped my lips, bringing a flush of circulation back to my freezing skin.
He stayed on his knees. He didn’t hover, and he didn’t pull away. He simply watched me, his forearms resting on his thighs. He waited for my brain to catch up with my body.
“I saw them,” I whispered.
The words hung in the quiet bathroom. Saying it out loud made it horribly real. It dragged the nightmare out of my head and dropped it right onto the slate floor between us.
Hayes didn’t ask who. He just waited.
“My dress,” I choked out, digging my fingers into the damp washcloth until my knuckles went white. The image flashed behind my eyelids again—the platinum bob, the torn lace, the violent thrusts. “She was wearing my dress. My mother was wearing my wedding dress… And fucking my husband.”
Hayes’s breath caught. He went completely still. But he didn’t say anything about them, about the traitors I’d left behind in my house. Instead, he leaned forward, closing the distance between us. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”
There was something so steadying about his words, something that cut right through the fog in my head.
Just like that, the paralyzing grief evaporated.
It was replaced by something else, something sharp and mean.
They were fifty yards away. They were ruining my home, defiling my sanctuary, laughing at my swollen body.
I slammed the wet washcloth onto the floor. I grabbed the edge of the bathroom vanity, my arms straining as I hauled my heavy body upward. The dizziness threatened to pull me back down, but the sheer force of my anger kept my knees locked.
“I’m going back.” I seethed, my breathing turning shallow and rapid. “I’m going to walk into that room and I’m going to scream until the police show up. I want them out. I want them out of my house.”
I took a step toward the doorway.
Hayes stood up. He moved fast, stepping directly into my path. He didn’t grab me, but he placed both of his large hands firmly on my shoulders, halting my momentum.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
I glared up at him, hot tears spilling over my eyelashes.
“He has the money, Elena,” Hayes said. “If you walk in there screaming, he’ll use your pregnancy against you.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid. My breath hitched. Hayes was right. I had no idea how he knew, how he’d guessed, but he was completely right.
Marcus owned the bank accounts. My name wasn’t on the mortgage. He gave me a prepaid debit card that he monitored from his phone to use for groceries. I had no car, no independent income. I quit my teaching job at his insistence to ‘focus on the pregnancy’, and I had a baby due in three months.
If I confronted them now, Marcus wouldn’t feel shame. He would feel cornered. He would look at my flushed face, my shaking hands, and my massive belly, and he’d spin it. He’d use my pregnancy hormones, my exhaustion, and my financial dependence to paint me as hysterical.
Sylvia would back him up. Wide-eyed and innocent, she’d place a manicured hand on her chest and tell the world her daughter was having a mental breakdown. They’d call a doctor. They would strip my credibility away, lock me in a psych ward, and take my child.
My husband would crush me, and my mother would help him do it.
The reality of my situation sat in my chest like a stone. I couldn’t fight them. Not today. Not empty-handed.
I needed a plan. I needed absolute secrecy to tear Marcus’s life apart.
My eyes darted over Hayes’s shoulder. A black digital clock sat on a floating wooden shelf above the toilet.
The red numbers glared back at me: 3:42 PM.
My heart skipped a beat, and an entirely different kind of panic gripped my chest.
“The shelter,” I gasped, my fingers flying up to grip Hayes’s wrists. “Marcus thinks I’m still there. But he’s supposed to pick me up. He always does, after work.”
How many times had his work days actually involved him fucking my mother while I was at the shelter? It didn’t matter. That wasn’t the problem right now.
Hayes’s eyes narrowed, his mind instantly catching up to the timeline.
If Marcus suspected I was in the house at three-thirty, my entire advantage was gone. The element of surprise was my only weapon. If he knew I saw them, he would lock down the bank accounts, change the locks, and file for full custody before I could even hire a lawyer.
“I need an alibi,” I demanded, squeezing his wrists, my fingernails biting into his skin. “Right now.”
Hayes didn’t waste a single second arguing. He dropped his hands from my shoulders and spun toward the hallway.
“Let’s go.”
I chased him through the house, my flats slapping against the hardwood floor. He grabbed a set of keys off an iron hook near the front door. We burst out into the suffocating afternoon heat.
I practically threw myself into the passenger seat of his F-150. The black leather interior baked my skin through my dress. I grabbed the seatbelt, pulling the heavy nylon strap across my chest and carefully tucking the lap portion underneath my bump.
Hayes vaulted into the driver’s seat. He jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life, an aggressive vibration that shook the entire cab. He threw the shifter into reverse, his right arm hooking over the back of my seat as he whipped the truck backward out of his driveway.
He slammed the transmission into drive. The tires chirped against the asphalt.
I grabbed the plastic handle above the door, bracing my weight as we took the corner of the subdivision entirely too fast.
“How far?” Hayes asked, his eyes locked on the road ahead.
“Ten minutes in normal traffic,” I replied, my voice shaking over the roar of the engine. “Across the highway. The downtown precinct.”
Hayes checked his side mirror and merged onto the main road, accelerating hard. The truck wove through the sluggish afternoon traffic. His hands gripped the leather steering wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw set in a rigid line.
I stared out the passenger window. The blur of passing strip malls and manicured hedges made my stomach churn all over again.
My mind raced, frantically constructing the mask I would have to wear. I had to walk into the shelter. I had to sit on a plastic chair. I had to wait for Marcus to pick me up, and I had to look into his lying, arrogant eyes, and smile. I had to eat dinner at the same table as my mother tonight.
My hands began to shake again. A violent, uncontrollable tremor started in my fingers and worked its way up my arms. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs, trying to crush the movement.
Hayes reached across the wide center console. He didn’t ask for permission. He grabbed my left hand, pulling it off my thigh, and wrapped his callused fingers entirely around mine.
His grip was hot and incredibly firm. He anchored my hand against the heavy denim of his thigh.
I stared at our joined hands. My skin was pale and trembling, my wedding ring mocking me from my fourth finger. His hand was tanned, scarred, and steady.
The tremors stopped.
“I’ve got you,” Hayes said quietly, never taking his eyes off the road.
I squeezed his fingers, swallowing the lump in my throat. We didn’t speak again. The silence in the cab was filled only by the hum of the tires and the roar of the engine as Hayes pushed the truck to its limit.
We hit the downtown grid. The buildings grew taller, blocking out the oppressive sun, casting long shadows across the pavement.
“Take the next right,” I instructed, leaning forward against the tension of the seatbelt. “It’s the brick building at the end of the alley.”
Hayes ripped the steering wheel to the right. The truck bounced over a deep pothole, the suspension groaning as we tore down the narrow access road.
The children’s shelter loomed ahead. It was a massive, weathered brick building with high windows and glass doors.
The entire block was dead. The traffic lights at the intersection were black. A utility truck sat parked on the corner, three men in neon vests standing around an open electrical box on the sidewalk.
Hayes slammed on the brakes. The truck shuddered to a halt directly in front of the shelter’s doors. The interior of the building was a pitch-black cavern.
I ripped my seatbelt off. If the power outage still wasn’t solved by the time Marcus got here, I’d just have to find some excuse. It seemed unlikely that he’d ever believe I’d go home, anyway. He deemed me so stupid that he was cheating on me with my own mother.
“Wait,” Hayes ordered, throwing the truck into park. He turned in his seat, his eyes locking onto mine. “If he gets aggressive, if you feel unsafe for even a second, you walk out the front door and you call me. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll come get you.”
He meant it. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded once.
I grabbed the door handle and shoved it open. The muggy city air rushed into the air-conditioned cab. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, my flats hitting the concrete. As I pushed the door of the shelter open and walked in, a loud, mechanical clunk echoed down the street.
Directly above my head, the fluorescent tubes in the shelter lobby flickered wildly. They buzzed with a harsh hum and then flooded the room with blinding white light.
The streetlamps outside flared to life in perfect unison.
The power was back. It must be my lucky day, I thought with a sudden jolt of distant hysteria.
I turned around, staring through the glass door. Hayes was still idling at the curb. He gave me a single, sharp nod through the windshield. Then, he shifted the truck into gear and drove away, disappearing around the corner of the brick building.
I stood alone in the brightly lit lobby, the cold air conditioning kicking on above me.
My alibi was set. I was as prepared as I could possibly get. Now, I just had to wait for my husband to arrive.