Sanctuary

This story contains themes of stalking and abuse.

The first thing I noticed about the antique briefcase was that it wasn’t dusty.

My husband’s work shed had been a project, part of a birthday present for him. He loved to tinker with things; he’d always been good at piecing broken things back together. The shed was more of a tiny house, really. It had an old television set he’d picked up from curbside trash, a small couch and two wooden chairs for company, when the neighborhood guys wanted to get away for a bit. It had a small fridge, a decent-sized bathroom, and a little closet where he could lock up his more expensive tools.

It was his stereotypical sanctuary, his man-cave, his escape. I usually respected that, no matter how much I wanted to dress it up with curtains and throw pillows. I only went in when my dear, forgetful husband asked me to check if he needed to restock the fridge.

I wasn’t the nosy type. I didn’t go through his things. Only once when we were dating, and I never told him. I was so ashamed; I’d told myself that I’d never break his trust again. And in the seven years we’d been married, I’d been true to my word.

But when he texted me that day to ask if I’d check on his beer level, I noticed the closet door stood ajar. It wasn’t always locked, but it was usually closed, at least any time I’d been in there before. He wasn’t a particularly paranoid man, but he didn’t want neighbors popping in and seeing his belongings. He’d been worried a little more lately with the break-ins down the street and was researching security systems.

I walked over to the closet, and I intended to close it. I did. It would’ve been so simple to push the door shut and walk back into the house. I could even tease him later about wanting to spend money on a camera when he couldn’t manage to close and lock the door.

I don’t know if that thought is what bothered me most. I don’t know why I decided to pull the knob and swing the door open. What would I find? He was too attached to his shed to have time for an affair. He didn’t touch anything harder than beer. I continued to admonish myself as my eyes combed over the shelves of neatly stored tools.

You’re insane. You’re insane for doing this. It’s tools and work gloves. You’re a horrible wife, I thought, but I couldn’t seem to move. I stared at every item, taking in its shape, its function, wondering if there was a sinister aspect I was missing. Blood. Secret storage. I needed therapy. I’d been listening to true crime podcasts while washing dishes. That had to be it—

Then I noticed the briefcase, tucked in the corner of the top shelf. I could vaguely remember him buying it at an antique store because he couldn’t stop talking about it on the way home.

“That’s solid wood, ‘Rina. I can shine this thing up, maybe even resell it. Look at that.” That had to have been four, five years ago. I had forgotten it existed.

I continued to mentally scream at myself for invading John’s privacy as I lifted the briefcase, strolled to the coffee table, and set it down. I ran my fingers gently over the polished wood. He had lacquered it, and he had been right; it was a beautiful, rich-colored case.

And it had been used recently. Some of the tools hadn’t been, and they had a thin coating of dust.

A deep sense of dread hit me like a hot flash. It could be perfectly innocent, I reasoned. Owner’s manuals, extended warranty information. It would naturally lock to help stop its contents from spilling everywhere. I had no reason to mistrust my husband.

I quickly stood up and grabbed the briefcase, carefully placing it back into the closet and closing the door.

Leave it ajar. I couldn’t arouse his suspicion. Not because I believed there was anything sinister in the case, but because I couldn’t bear my guilt. This was a harmless moment of paranoia. At least that’s what I told myself as I shakily walked back to our home and started dinner.

**

It had been almost three weeks, and my mind kept returning to the briefcase. John couldn’t tell I was upset, not at first. He’d only recently started noticing I’d been quieter than usual, but I assured him that I was annoyed about a work project. He didn’t press too hard, and I’d prepared a story, just in case.

He was in the shower one Thursday night when I looked at his keyring. I’d never paid much attention. Gym key fob, car keys, house keys for us and his sister, who lived nearby. A couple generic keys. The small, gold key was obscured amongst the others, but I knew when I saw it that it was for the briefcase.

I told myself again that I was insane as we were falling asleep that night. The guilt of carrying out my plan after he’d made love to me was almost too much, but I couldn’t stop.

“Honey, are you doing anything after work tomorrow?”

“No, why?” He kissed my cheek. I wanted to cry.

“Could you take my car and fill up the tires on the way home? They’re getting droopy.”

I could feel his smile. It took everything I had not to throw up.

“Of course, ‘Rina.”

**

The keys jingled in my hands as I slipped into the shed the next morning. I pretended to be asleep when John left this morning, but I hadn’t gotten any rest. My thoughts were churning, trying to overtake my mind. It would be such a relief when I could open the case and see nothing inside but a deck of playing cards and leafblower instructions.

I took the briefcase to the couch. I lifted the lid as the key clicked in the lock and turned. Puzzled, I pulled out two manillas folder and a photo envelope. Maybe he’d separated the manuals into unlabeled files.

There was no turning back if I peeked inside the folder. I could still pretend I hadn’t seen anything. There was nothing strange about file folders and some pictures.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I read. The double-sided sheets of paper were held together by a paperclip. It was a typed letter.

“My dear love…” It began. What would he have to write to me that he couldn’t tell me?

“I have never forgotten that night we shared. We may have been young, but I knew from the moment I saw you that you were the love of my life.”

Night. One night.

“I never thought you knew my name, much less that you wanted me as badly as I wanted you.” I skimmed the letter. My stomach was in absolute knots and my breathing became sharp and quick. I was going to pass out, but that wasn’t an option.

To be honest, I can’t remember everything in the letter. Phrases still run through my mind sometimes: “I’m writing this married to a wonderful woman, but she isn’t you. If you would just take me back into your arms.”

“Why have you removed every trace of me from your life? I’m in you still. My fingers are still in your hair, my eyes still gazing into yours.”

“You’ll realize someday that I was the one you should have loved. I don’t know how I’ll make you see it, but I don’t know how much longer I can live a lie.”

“…you will love me again.”

It’s strange how with a certain level of horror, your emotions can turn to stone. Everything becomes mechanical; life isn’t real. I took pictures of the letter before calmly moving onto the other folder. Printouts of social media posts, ticket stubs for movies. A business card. I traced the edges of the laminated card. Patricia. That had been the name of an ex, I think. Or a friend from college? Had he ever mentioned a Patricia?

I already knew what was in the envelope, but I looked, anyway. There were a couple old photographs of a younger John with a short, brunette woman. She was smiling in one, but she looked extremely uncomfortable in the other. It was a group picture, and John’s arm was around her waist, pulling her close. Women know how to recognize that ill-at-ease smile, those eyes that are secretly begging for help.

No other photo had John. There were photos of Patricia throughout time, seemingly in chronological order. Patricia with a perm in the grocery store. Patricia at the gym. Patricia walking out of a house with sunglasses on. Patricia in a car. Some of the photos were blurry, clearly taken at a distance, clearly candid shots.

I stiffly documented everything on my phone, hid it in a secret album, and rearranged everything as it had been before. I could only hope he hadn't put something on my phone. Back in the house, I changed the bedsheets before sitting on the edge of the bed. I couldn’t think about how many nights we’d shared that bed.

If I went to the police without more evidence, both Patricia and I could be in danger. As far as I knew, he hadn’t directly threatened her. Could he face enough jailtime for the pictures that we’d both have time to figure out a next move? And what then? I’d have to uproot my entire life. I’d lose my home, my job, my friendships. He’d go after me. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d go after Patricia; I wasn’t the love of his life. Could I ignore another woman’s safety? I didn’t know.

However, that letter had an indirect threat that I couldn’t ignore. When John said he would do something, he’d do it. And he said he’d make her love him again. I didn’t know what he planned to do to Patricia, but it wouldn’t be good.

Yet it was clear that I didn’t truly know my husband at all. He could have trackers on the cars. He could have surveillance already, though I doubted it. I’d insisted, and proved, that I trusted him and valued his privacy. He wouldn’t have let me near that case if he thought I would snoop. I wanted so badly to drive the three hours to her office, to show her everything, but I couldn’t. Not yet. If he’d been stalking her for those photos, he’d find out I was there.

I made a decision. I didn’t know if it was the right one or not—all I knew was that I had to do something because there was no way I could pretend nothing happened. He wasn’t the most observant—of me—but he’d know. He’d know.

The note I left was simple: “Went out for a bit. Dinner’s in the fridge. Love you bunches!”

I drove his car to the park. Who was this man, and what was he capable of? Would he know when I left the house? I boarded the rail and found the lawyer’s office. If Patricia and I were going to make it out, I needed to start a plan. I could only hope this was the right way to do it.