I was that kid who used to sneak glimpses of her friends and family through the keyhole, to see what they were up to. I would put my eye against the hole and catch a glimpse of their world, like a tiny television that never revealed the complete story.
It must have been that instinct that made me look when I saw the shopping list on Eric’s iPad. He used that function where you tap the screen with your Apple Pencil and an instant note appears. He was always so proud of his command of modern technology, even though he was in his fifties.
The list itself, at first glance, was innocuous: rope, tape, and bin bags. But we didn’t need anything like that in the house. I knew I shouldn’t have looked; nothing ever good comes of spying. But I couldn’t help myself; I had to open his iPad and see what else I could find. It was just like those early days of having my eye to the keyhole, an impulse I couldn’t resist.
Starting with his messages and emails, I found nothing there to raise my suspicions. At one point last year, I had thought he might be having an affair, but I talked myself out of it. There were no messages from unknown numbers, no emails other than from work. I was about to walk away, and then I spotted the journal app.
Passworded. Shit.
Then I worked out the idiot had used his mother’s name as the password. Spanning over several years, every couple of months there were detailed descriptions of women. They were all about my age, most with my blonde hair and slim build. Some were a little younger than me. Neatly recorded at the end of every entry was the woman’s name.
The first couple I didn’t recognise, but then I started seeing names that I was familiar with. I racked my brains. Were they work colleagues, friends? Then it hit me: the names had been on the news.
I wrote the names down quickly, in case Eric returned from the supermarket. Then I went over to my laptop and typed in the first couple. They were women who had gone missing. There were reels of their husbands asking them to ring them. Parents begging their daughters to get in touch. Three names in and I heard the front door slam.
“Hey, honey, where are you?”
“I’m in here,” I replied.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, just some research for tomorrow’s lesson,” I lied. “I’ve finished now.”
“Cool. I got us some steak for dinner; want me to start cooking?”
I nodded and off he went.
I had met Eric at teacher training. He was geeky with his glasses and his love of technology. Teaching was his second career; he had been working in banking but found it too boring, so he was pursuing a career in mathematics. My parents disapproved, but I was smitten with his salt and pepper hair and our talk about classic novels.
Within six months we were engaged and married the year after. I had taken a job at a local primary school and Eric had given up teaching to pursue a career in social media marketing. He hadn’t wanted children at his age, and that was fine with me; I had a classroom of kids to hang out with.
Dinner was delicious. I cleared up while he went into his study to do some work. We fell into bed at 10, and within a couple of minutes, I could hear Eric snoring beside me. Easing myself out of bed, I went back to the laptop to check the other names.
By 2 am I had found the rest of the women: all missing, some with frantic families, others presumed a suicide. None of the bodies had been found. Why did my husband have their names and details on his computer? Was he investigating their disappearance? Yes, that must have been it.
The next morning over breakfast, I dropped into conversation one of the missing women’s names. “Did you hear, they still haven’t found that mother of three who went missing last month, Claire Hayden?”
“Claire Hayden, never heard of her,” he said without missing a beat. “Right, got to go. Have a meeting. Oh, and I will be late home tonight, honey; I have a late client meeting.”
He kissed me on the head and left without a backwards glance.
The day passed slowly, but at 5 pm I was outside Eric’s work, having convinced my best friend Ellen to lend me her car. I watched him drive out of the parking lot and head towards town. This is silly, I reasoned with myself. He is clearly going to a meeting.
Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside a local cafe. Not a great place for a meeting. Maybe the client was poor. Getting out of the car, Eric walked towards the door, stopping to speak to a young girl standing outside. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, blonde like me. They stood talking for a while, and then I watched him motion to his car. The girl nodded and they both walked to it. He held the door open for her like he used to for me.
They started driving towards the outskirts of town this time. I followed at a good distance, keeping his brake lights in my eyesight. That was when the lorry pulled out on me from the side street. I only just managed to brake before I hit it.
Several times I tried to get around him, but it was not possible. When he finally turned off two miles later, Eric’s car was nowhere to be seen. I spent the next hour trying every road on that two-mile stretch, looking for a familiar car, but couldn’t find it. Giving up, I went home.
Eric arrived home two hours after me. “Hey, honey. You’re up late. Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I replied. “How was the meeting?”
“Very productive,” he smiled. “I’m knackered, though. Going to grab a shower and go to bed.”
I stared at his back as he picked up his iPad and walked towards the bedroom. It felt like I was looking at him through a keyhole again, seeing only a fraction of the man, and desperately fearing what the complete picture would reveal.
I heard the water turn on, and ten minutes later the bed creaked as he got into bed. A half-hour later, the soft snoring came from the bedroom. Sneaking in, I picked up his iPad. Standing in the doorway, I scrolled to the journaling app.
There for today was a new entry: a description of the young girl, under the name Kara Clark.
Eric left early the next day; I was barely up. I poured myself a coffee and turned on the morning news.
Witnesses are being sought in the disappearance of teenager Kara Clark, last seen last night by her parents. Kara said she was going to meet a friend from school for a burger in town and has not been seen since. If you have any information, please contact this number.
The heat from the spilt coffee scalded my ankle, but I barely registered it. I looked down at the dark stain blooming on my sock. The realisation hit me like a train: I was married to a serial killer. My lungs stopped working, leaving me gasping for a breath that wouldn’t come. I looked at the number still displayed on the screen. Reaching for the remote, I turned the television off.
I reached for the phone. My parents were right; Eric was no good for me. But if they were right about him, what did that make me? I’d defended him, chosen him, built my life around him. What would the world say when they learned I had been married to this monster? No, I couldn’t let my parents be right. I couldn’t let anyone be right, could I?
Loved this. That did'nt go where I expected at the beginning. 👏👏