Too Late For Regret: The Ghost Wife

Deanna sat frozen in the backseat of the taxi, her arms wrapped tightly around her waterproof bag. She pressed it against her chest as if it could stop her heart from beating out of her ribcage. Outside the window, the neon lights of Seaport City blurred into streaks of color. The world felt entirely wrong. It was moving too fast, too bright, too loud. The Black driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror. He took in her frayed jacket, the dirt on her face, and the fresh, angry red welt on her neck. "You just get back from a deployment, miss?" he asked, his voice thick with a Brooklyn accent. "Middle East?" Deanna opened her mouth to answer, but her throat felt raw. The sheer exhaustion of the day seemed to choke her. She tried to force a word out, but her parched throat only produced a dry wheeze. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head violently. The driver got the message. He closed his mouth, reached forward, and cranked up the heat. The rest of the ride was suffocatingly silent, filled only with the rhythmic thrum of the tires against the asphalt. Eventually, the city lights faded, replaced by the towering, century-old oak trees lining the wealthy avenues of Long Island. Deanna's eyes burned with unshed tears. Every tree, every manicured hedge was a blade slicing into her memories. The taxi slowed to a crawl and stopped in front of the massive, black wrought-iron gates of the Cole family estate. The towering stone pillars looked like the gates of a fortress in the dark. Deanna shoved the silver locket through the slot, just as she had promised. She pushed the door open and stumbled out onto the pavement. The cold night air bit through her thin clothes. She walked up to the glowing digital keypad mounted on the stone pillar. Her fingers hovered over the buttons. She typed in her and Joseph's wedding anniversary. The keypad flashed a harsh red light. A sharp, loud buzz rejected the entry. Deanna swallowed hard. Her fingers were stiff. She typed in her parents' birthdays. Red light. Another loud buzz. Her hand froze in mid-air. The repeated alarms triggered the motion sensors. The heavy door of the guardhouse swung open. A burly security guard stepped out, shining a blinding tactical flashlight directly into Deanna's face. Deanna threw her hands up, squeezing her eyes shut against the piercing light. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" the guard barked, his voice dripping with disgust. "Get out of here, you homeless freak, before I call the cops." Deanna lowered her hands slightly, squinting. She tried to speak, to tell him who she was, but her voice was a ragged whisper that the guard ignored. Instead, she made frantic gestures, pointing to herself and then to the estate. She dropped to her knees, unzipping her waterproof bag with shaking, bloody fingers. She rummaged past her worn clothes and pulled out a faded, crinkled photograph-a picture of her and Joseph standing right in front of these very gates. She held it up to the harsh light, her eyes pleading with the guard to just look, to just understand. The guard let out a harsh bark of laughter. "The wife? The lady of this house has always been Mrs. Candy Cole. Now back the hell up before I release the dogs." Hearing Candy's name spoken here, on her own property, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated rage through Deanna's veins. The anger swallowed her fear whole. As the guard turned his back to grab his radio from the booth, Deanna took three steps backward. She eyed the lower section of the ornamental brick wall extending from the gate. Survival instincts kicked in. She broke into a sprint, using a decorative stone planter as a stepping stool. She launched herself upward, her hands grasping the top of the wall. The sharp wrought-iron scrollwork hidden in the thick ivy scraped her palms raw as she gripped the top ledge. Deanna bit down on her lip so hard she tasted copper, refusing to make a sound. Ignoring the bleeding scratches covering her hands, she used the last ounce of her adrenaline to haul her body weight over the two-meter wall and plummeted down the other side. She hit the perfectly manicured lawn hard, rolling to absorb the impact. Fire shot up her knees. She looked down at her hands. Blood welled up from the angry, stinging scrapes, dripping onto the pristine green grass. She didn't care. She wiped her bloody hands on her pants and forced herself to stand. Staying low, she avoided the main driveway where the security cameras swept back and forth. She slipped into the shadows of the massive oak trees, following the hidden cobblestone path she had walked a thousand times before. The night wind shifted, carrying the heavy, expensive scent of blooming roses. They were the rare breed she had planted herself. Right now, the smell made her want to vomit. Deanna crept around the towering marble fountain in the center of the courtyard. She pressed her back against the cold stone, peeking around the edge toward the brightly lit main house. What she saw made her blood run cold. The romantic wooden swing chair she and Joseph used to sit on was gone. In its place stood a massive, luxurious pink plastic children's slide. Expensive tricycles and scattered dolls littered the grass. This wasn't just a house with a new wife. This was a house built around a child. Suddenly, the heavy oak front doors swung open. Warm yellow light spilled out across the patio, stinging Deanna's eyes. Candy Riley stepped out. She was draped in a custom-made silk robe, holding a crystal glass of red wine. She looked exactly the same as Deanna remembered-arrogant, perfectly styled, and dripping with wealth. "Come on out, sweetie!" Candy called back into the house, her voice lazy and content. A little girl in a fluffy princess dress bolted out the door. She ran across the patio and threw her arms around Candy's legs. "Mommy!" the little girl chirped. "When is Daddy coming home from Wall Street? He promised to play with me." Candy smiled, running a perfectly manicured hand through the girl's hair. "Daddy will be home any minute, Poppy." Deanna stopped breathing. She stared at the little girl's face illuminated by the patio lights. The shape of her eyes, the curve of her jaw-it was a miniature, undeniable replica of Joseph. Deanna's brain started doing the math. The girl looked at least five years old. If the girl was five... Deanna's legs gave out. She stumbled backward, her boot coming down hard on a dead branch hidden in the grass. SNAP. The sharp sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet courtyard.