**Betrayal**
The last week of September had been unseasonably warm and dry. Soon enough, the chill would set in, followed by relentless autumn rains. The British weather was never predictable. *I really should go to the cottage before the roads turn to mud and it becomes impossible to reach until winter,* thought Evelyn, sighing as she dialled her husband’s number for what felt like the hundredth time.
*”Mrs. Whitmore, could I leave an hour early? My mother asked me to drive her to the countryside.”* Sarah from accounting tilted her head pleadingly, her eyebrows arched in that irresistible way.
*”Honestly, I wish I could leave too. Fine, but be in on time Monday—no calling in sick, understood? Or next time, I won’t be so lenient.”* Evelyn feigned sternness.
*”Thank you so much, Mrs. Whitmore. I’ll be punctual, I promise!”* Sarah’s face brightened instantly. She snatched her jacket from the closet and slipped out before Evelyn could reconsider.
*She’d already shut down her computer and had her bag ready—knew I’d say yes. But where is Edward?* Evelyn dialled again, only to hear the same automated voice: *”The number you are calling is unavailable.”* *Fine. Tomorrow, he’s coming to the cottage whether he likes it or not. Mum’s birthday is soon—we need to fetch the potatoes, jars of preserves…*
She set her phone aside, jiggled the mouse to wake the screen, and lost herself in rows of figures.
When her phone rang, she answered without looking, relief flooding her.
*”Ed, why’ve you been unreachable all day? I’ve been calling—”*
*”Apologies, this is Detective Sergeant Higgins,”* an unfamiliar voice cut in.
The name *Higgins* threw her. For a second, she thought she’d misheard.
*”Ed, where are you?”* she asked warily.
*”Are you the wife of Edward James Whitmore? How should I address you?”*
*”Evelyn… just Evelyn.”* Her throat tightened. *”Where’s Edward?”* Her pulse quickened, dread creeping in.
*”Could you come to St. Thomas’ Hospital? I’ll meet you at reception.”*
*”Why the hospital? What’s happened to Ed?”* Her voice rose in panic.
*”I’ll explain when you arrive,”* he said, and the line went dead.
She redialled, but the number was engaged. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the mouse, missing the *Close* button twice before managing it. She shut down the computer, grabbed her bag and coat, and ran.
Horrific scenarios flashed through her mind—an accident, a coma, or worse. *No, he’s alive. They wouldn’t call me to the hospital otherwise.* She clung to that.
Too frantic to think of the Tube, she stepped into the road and hailed a black cab. Ten minutes later, she sprinted through the hospital gates to the main entrance, every nerve alight.
*”I’m Edward Whitmore’s wife,”* she gasped, stumbling into reception.
A tall man in his forties stood and approached. He introduced himself again, but Evelyn barely heard. Why waste time on names when she needed to see Edward, needed to know he was alive?
*”Come with me,”* Higgins finally said, gesturing outside.
Confused—weren’t all wards accessed through reception?—Evelyn followed as he led her behind the main building to a low brick structure. He paused at the door.
*”I’m sorry I didn’t say earlier. People react differently…”*
Her eyes flicked to the blue sign beside the entrance: *”Coroners’ Court & Mortuary.”* Her knees buckled, but his grip steadied her.
*”He’s dead?”* Her voice cracked. *”I called him all day. I wanted to go to the cottage.”*
*”Yes, we found you through his phone. Sit.”* He guided her to a bench. Her legs wouldn’t hold her.
*”I was calling, and he was already…”*
*”Your husband wasn’t at work today,”* Higgins said carefully.
*”That can’t be. He had an audit.”* She wasn’t asking—she was thinking aloud.
*”Your cottage neighbour spotted his car early. Thought it odd you’d be there midweek. By lunch, he knocked. No answer. He called the police—worried about squatters.”*
*”Was he murdered?”*
*”No signs of foul play. The coroner thinks carbon monoxide poisoning.”*
*”Wait—Uncle Dave thought we’d gone together. So, he saw Ed with a woman?”*
*”Yes. Charlotte Elizabeth Barrow. Does the name mean anything?”*
Evelyn shut her eyes, shaking her head.
*”No. Impossible.”*
It was worse than she’d imagined. Twenty-one years married. Their anniversary in November. Friends envied her—Edward was the devoted husband, the doting father. She’d believed it too. The shame burned. She covered her face, rocking.
*”You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. We’ll avoid scandal. But someone at his firm might’ve known.”*
She dropped her hands, staring.
*”You were speaking aloud. We need confirmation it’s him. Whenever you’re ready.”*
Hope flared. *”Maybe it’s not him. Maybe someone took his car…”*
*”I’m ready,”* she breathed, steeling herself like diving into cold water.
Inside, under white sheets, shapes hinted at what lay beneath. Her courage failed. She couldn’t look.
*”Is this your husband?”*
She lowered her eyes.
—
Later, on the bench outside, she barely recalled Edward’s ashen face—real or imagined? Higgins held ammonia under her nose, and she jerked back.
*”Can you walk? I’ll drive you home.”*
Shuddering, legs numb, she let him guide her to his car. Fragments reached her: *”Further tests… We’ll contact you when the body’s released…”*
*”Body. Not husband,”* she whispered, resting her head against the window.
At home, Higgins settled her in the kitchen, poured brandy. It scorched her throat, brought tears. She wept uncontrollably. He draped a blanket over her on the sofa.
Time blurred. When the doorbell woke her, she stumbled to answer, tangled in the blanket. Higgins stood there. Her heart sank—part of her had hoped it was Edward, that this was all a nightmare.
She listened dully as he clattered in the kitchen. He coaxed her to eat soup. To her surprise, she finished it, even drank tea.
*”You’ve some colour now,”* he said. *”The coroner confirmed carbon monoxide. Cold night, the cottage chilled. He lit the fire, probably closed the flue too soon.”* He avoided mentioning the other woman.
*”Is there family or friends to help with arrangements?”*
*”My mother. And my son—military academy in Edinburgh. God, when he finds out his father…”*
*”Shall I call? They’ll grant him leave.”*
*”Yes, please.”* Then, flatly: *”Does she—Charlotte—have family?”*
*”Unlikely. She was only twenty-five. Don’t dwell on it.”* He stood. *”Will you be alright?”*
*”Stay. Just a little longer.”* She couldn’t face the empty flat.
He sat again. *”I went through something similar. Not as tragic.”*
*”Married my university sweetheart. Mum wanted me in finance. I joined the Met instead. Compromise—got the degree, then did what I wanted. Warned Helen—no weekends, no holidays. We were young, thought love conquered all.”*
*”I’ve a cottage in Kent. Inherited it. Went fishing one lunch break—boss, a fishing enthusiast, insisted. Got there, door locked from inside. Thought it was burglars. Pounded. A bloke swung an iron at me—got away. My wife was inside with him. Never trusted her again. Divorced.”* He pushed back his hair, revealing a faint scar.
*”Thank you. For the soup. For… everything.”*
—
The funeral passed. Evelyn told everyone Edward died of a heart attack. Even Uncle Dave kept quiet. She almost believed it herself. Easier that way. Afterward, she boxed his photos, sold the cottage.
Days before New Year’s, shopping for office gifts, she spotted Higgins and a girl of about ten in the toy aisle.
*”Which one?”* He held a brown teddy and a pink rabbit.
*”Dunno, Uncle Greg. Both are nice. Rabbit’s girly, but prettier.”*
*”I’d pick the rabbit,”* Evelyn said, recognizing him. *Greg. Of course—Gregory.*
He stared, startled.
*”Let’s get the rabbit,”They shared a quiet smile amidst the twinkling holiday lights, and in that moment, she realized that sometimes, life’s deepest wounds begin to heal when you least expect it.
