The Real Werewives of Vampire County

Eventually, after several hours, I hadn’t completely convinced myself of that explanation, either. So I’d done what any normal girl would do. I powered up my laptop, jumped a few hoops to get it connected to the house’s Wi-Fi, and typed in the URL Erica had written out for me.

It was there now, on my browser’s search line. But I couldn’t hit the button, calling up the page.

Hit the button, dammit. You need to know the truth.

Hand on the mouse. Cursor sitting on top of the SEND button, I closed my eyes. The muscles of my hand tightened. My heart constricted. My lungs slowly deflated.

I clicked.

I swear, my heart stopped completely.

After waiting a handful of seconds, I forced my eyes open.

The newspaper article was open. Oh God. I was about to learn whether I’d just made the mistake of a lifetime.

The first thing I saw was a photograph of a smiling, pretty Michelle Stewart. The sight of that image felt like a sock in the gut. The headline was even worse.

Husband Suspected in Wife’s Mysterious Death.

Shit!

Footsteps pounded overhead. They came closer. Someone was coming down the stairs. I clicked the red X, closing the page.

“Chrissy? Are you down here?” Jon called from the stairs as he stomp, stomp, stomped down them.

My hands were shaking as I grabbed the box of patterns I’d been sorting and pretended to be working. “Yep, I’m here.”

Jon turned the corner.

There he was. So handsome. Strikingly handsome. Was that the face of a killer? Were those dark brown eyes the eyes of a murderer? He smiled at me. The expression looked genuine. He looked happy, as glad to see me as I had been to see him only yesterday. “Hello there. Settling in okay?”

“Yes, I sure am.”

He came closer, too close. I felt my body stiffening, even though I knew that one newspaper article did not mean he was definitely a killer. I hadn’t even had a chance to read the article. Perhaps the headline had been misleading. Perhaps the article’s author had taken liberties with the facts in the case.

Perhaps I was hoping for a miracle.

He bent to kiss me but stopped short. “Is something wrong?” Clearly, the man knew how to read body language.

How to respond to that question?

“I’m just feeling a little … overwhelmed, I guess.”

He straightened up. His expression was puzzled, not at all hostile or suspicious. “Overwhelmed about what?”

Of course, he had to ask that.

“About … being a stepmother. About facing this huge change. We don’t know each other as well as we probably should, so there’s that, too.” It was a partial truth, as close as I dared get.

He glanced at the box at my feet then up into my eyes. “I understand.” He motioned to the box. “Can I help you unpack?”

“That’s very sweet, but I think I can handle this. Are you hungry?” I asked, thinking it might be wise to deflect his attention. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

“No, that’s okay. I didn’t bring you here to become my live-in waitress. Go ahead and keep working. I can find something.”

“Your neighbors stopped by. They brought muffins and bagels. They’re on the counter.”

Now his expression turned tense. “They did?” Underlying the tension, I sensed a little hint of hostility. I hadn’t seen any of that yesterday. Okay, maybe I had. But I’d assumed that was because they’d interrupted us. “They were here this morning?”

“Yes. Is that a problem? Do you dislike them? I didn’t get that impression yesterday.”

“No, I don’t ‘dislike’ them. Not at all.” As if a switch had been thrown, his expression brightened again. His stop-your-heart smile was back in place and the twinkles I’d always found so charming began twinkling. That shift had alarms ringing in my head. Back in college I’d dated a guy who’d had a bad temper. His moods shifted like that. Hot. Cold. Happy. Furious. Not a good sign. “If I can’t help you, I guess I’ll go upstairs, drag my lazy son out of bed, and get us something to eat.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

He gave me a friendly, chaste kiss on the mouth then stared into my eyes for a handful of heartbeats. I wasn’t the first to look away. I didn’t want him thinking I was hiding something. I didn’t want him knowing I was afraid, or suspicious, or having second and third doubts about the move. More than anything, I didn’t want him suspecting I knew about that newspaper article.

He straightened up. “Shout if you need anything.”

“Will do.” I waited until he had closed the door at the top of the stairs before I turned back to the computer. This time, I was determined to read the whole article. I needed to find out the truth, ugly or not.

The article was dated September 22nd, 2008.

Michelle Stewart, 28, was rushed to University of Michigan Hospital on Saturday, September 20th, 2008. It was thought at the time she had attempted suicide, although that wouldn’t explain all the evidence found at the scene.

Stewart died at the hospital within hours of being admitted and mystery surrounds her death. On September 23rd, less than forty-eight hours after her death, Stewart’s husband, Jonathan Stewart, was brought in for questioning. At this time, no formal charges have been filed.

Authorities admit this case is shrouded in mystery. The Ann Arbor PD is not willing to provide many details in the case. However an informant has come forward to tell me Michelle Stewart had notified Jonathan that she wanted a divorce shortly before her death. At this time, that cannot be confirmed.

An autopsy has been performed but police are not releasing Michelle Stewart’s cause of death. Items removed from the home paint a gruesome picture. Until more details are released, we’re left to wonder and speculate on what happened on Saturday, September 20th. It’s possible we may never know.

I took a long, deep breath. It was far from condemning, much too vague to tell me if I had anything to worry about or not. I decided I needed to do a search, see if the reporter had written any follow-up articles on the case. Or see if the case had been reported by any other newspapers.

An hour later I had nothing else. Strangely, that article was the only one I could locate on the Internet. A search under both Michelle’s and Jon’s names had turned up nothing. Not even the expected online phone directory. It was as if, outside of that newspaper article, they didn’t exist in cyberspace. Just for kicks, I Googled my own name. Sure enough, there were pages of links, though many of them weren’t for me. My name wasn’t exactly unique. I shared a name with a famous handbag designer, for one. I was going to have to assume a new identity when I (hopefully) released my clothing line.