My Husband Cut My Brake Lines for His Mistress

Presley left the Malibu estate at two in the afternoon. I know because I was watching.

I'd parked three blocks down with a clear sightline to the driveway. She emerged in white linen, oversized sunglasses, a leather tote over one shoulder. She got into her car—the silver Mercedes Adrian had given her last Christmas—and drove south toward the city. I counted to sixty. Then I left.

I didn't follow her. I already knew where she was going. Home, probably, to whatever apartment Adrian kept her in. What mattered was that she'd left the estate empty.

I drove back to Los Angeles with the windows down. The ocean disappeared behind me. The city rose up flat and gold, the same view from Adrian's office, the one that made people forget how high they were.

I hummed under my breath the whole way.

---

The call came at six.

Adrian's name on the screen. I let it ring four times before answering.

"Jolene." His voice was tight. Controlled. The kind of control that meant he was pacing. "Where are you."

"Home. Why?"

"Presley's missing."

I set down the water glass I'd been holding. "Missing."

"Her place is torn apart. Furniture overturned. There's blood on the glass."

I closed my eyes. Counted. One. Two. Three.

"Adrian, that's—God, that's terrible. Have you called the police?"

"Security's handling it." A pause. "There was a photograph. You and Presley at the spring benefit. Someone cropped it. Left it by the door."

My hand tightened on the counter. "What are you saying."

"I'm not saying anything. I'm asking where you were this afternoon."

The air in the kitchen went very still.

"I was at the boutique," I said quietly. "Picking up alterations. You can call them if you want."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I'll find her," he said. "Stay home tonight."

He hung up before I could answer.

I stood there for a long time with the phone in my hand. Then I picked up my keys and walked to the garage.

---

The mechanic's shop was in Glendale, tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered pawn shop. I'd been coming here for three years. Marco didn't ask questions. He didn't make small talk. He fixed what was broken and sent me a bill.

I pulled into the bay just after seven. Marco emerged from the back office, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Ms. Wallace." He nodded. "Wasn't expecting you."

"Something feels off," I said. "The brakes. There was a delay this morning on the on-ramp. Just a second. Maybe less."

He frowned. "You hit something?"

"No."

"Okay." He gestured toward the lift. "Pull her in. I'll take a look."

I sat in the waiting area while he worked. The plastic chair was cracked down the middle. A television in the corner played the news on mute. I watched the closed captions scroll past without reading them. My hands were folded in my lap. I did not move them.

Marco came back twelve minutes later.

His face told me everything before he opened his mouth.

"Ms. Wallace." He stopped in front of me. "Both rear brake lines are cut."

I looked at him.

"Cut," I repeated.

"Clean cuts. Professional. This wasn't wear and tear. Someone did this on purpose."

I nodded slowly. Once. Twice.

"Can you fix it."

"I can replace the lines. But you need to call the police. This is—"

"Can you fix it," I said again.

He stared at me. Then he sighed. "Yeah. I can fix it. Give me two hours."

"Thank you."

I paid him in cash when he was done. He walked me to the car, his hand hovering near my elbow like he thought I might fall.

"You sure you're okay to drive?"

"I'm sure."

He didn't look convinced. But he stepped back and let me go.

I drove home at exactly the speed limit. Every stoplight. Every turn signal. My hands at ten and two.

When I pulled into the driveway, I sat in the dark garage for a long time with the engine off.

Adrian had ordered this. I knew it the way you know weather, the way you know when someone is looking at you from across a room. Derek had hesitated—I would bet money on it, some small three-second pause where his pen hovered over the paper—but he had written it down anyway. And someone had crawled under my car and cut the lines with clean, professional precision.

They had meant for me to die on the freeway.

I leaned my head back against the seat. Closed my eyes.

I did not cry.

I had stopped crying a long time ago.

Instead I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone. I opened the text thread with Semaj. Typed four words.

*It's time. Come get me.*

I hit send.

Then I sat in the dark and waited for my brother to bring me home.