Faithful Fateful

Faithful?... Fateful

KCFirst wrote the story

Faithful?

in 2020, about a wife who falls in love with her boss. Hubby is blindsided of course.

I thank KCF for his kind permission to write an alternate ending. I'd urge you to read the original story

https://www.literotica.com/s/faithful-1-

-first so you can understand all the characters and their motivations.

This story picks up when Tom, overcome with anger and feelings of utter betrayal, leaves the cabin, his wife, and her lover.

There is NO sex in this story, just in case you want to move on now. It's in LW to maintain continuity. This is more of an erotic thriller. I'd written two alternate endings to this story back in 2020, and the next one -still to be published - has the sex.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

+++++++++++

From KCFirst's original:

I spent the rest of the weekend sitting at home in my recliner, staring at the TV. I really didn't pay much attention to what was on; my mind was busy with pictures of my lovely wife with that asshole John. Since I had been to the lake house, and knew the layout, I could picture them in various rooms, embracing with a big smile, kissing as they held each other overlooking the lake; in bed together with him doing things only I should be doing; and her doing things that should be only for me!

I wondered what she would say when she came home, if she came home. I really wished she wouldn't come home; but I don't know where else she would go.

ALT ENDING - Fateful

Sunday morning, after another fitful night's sleep, my anger and rage started to subside. I'd spent Saturday drinking and wallowing, staring at the television like a zombie. I couldn't tell you any show that had been on. I then started thinking like a normal person again. The rational parts of my brain reminded me:

you've suspected this for four years. It shouldn't surprise you.

One good, rational thought led to another: I didn't trust my wife, plain and simple. I'd caused myself so much stress, and spent so much money, trying to prove that she'd been cheating. Every time I'd been told there was no 'there' there, I'd felt a perverse mixture of relief and disbelief. The absence of evidence had only made me more suspicious. I'd been caught in a torturous loop of my own making. That realization made me feel stupid.

When she did finally cheat, she didn't do it behind my back. She rubbed my face in it. She made extra sure I could feel the heat of all that money burning. All those years married, now wasted. It didn't matter much to me that I'd technically get more dollar value from the split. Hell, talking about dividing up the assets just made me feel that heat all over again.

Here's a little something for your trouble. Don't spend it all on one PI.

Divorce was the only option, though. The more I ruminated, the more I became certain of that, even as I questioned every other decision I'd made. I wouldn't be with a woman who was able to treat her husband this way, all the while claiming to love him. She'd had a four year affair - albeit sexless - with her boss, and, in classic cake-eater fashion, she'd gone out in a blaze of glory.

Oh well, her loss,

I thought.

The next thought was better. I could play just as dirty. I could try to rope-a-dope my wife. I could delay filing for divorce, and instead just separate out the finances. Maybe a trial separation, based on what my lawyer recommended. Separation or not, I wasn't about to have sex with her anymore, so it would just be a matter of time until she broke her own post-nup - the one Gail had come up with, and talked her into giving me. John and Gail would be England, so Molly would have to get her needs met elsewhere. But I'd bet even if she stepped out with someone else, it would still be enforceable.

I was fantasizing, I realized. I couldn't blame myself for not thinking straight considering what she'd heaped on me the past seventy-two hours.

I needed to cut my losses and move on. Based on her recent actions and admission of love for John, I had very little faith in her thinking process. She'd probably run to an attorney if I tried to put her in a cage. Shit, maybe she already had one lined up, as part of some back-up plan with John and Gail. If she knew me at all, she had to know how I'd feel and react to all this. The post-nup was likely a ruse so she could have her weekend. Maybe she and lover-boy would file immediately, like tomorrow. That would trump and preempt any other agreement - even Gail's - and would be as easy as filing for irreconcilable differences. I'd already decided I would wait until that bastard John and his sadistic wife left for England before filing the divorce papers, just in case they tried for one more romp. Now I would have to rethink that. I might as well get my investigator on the job, Monday morning, just to make sure.

I went online, separating our checking and savings accounts. I had credit cards in my name, as did she. Not much to do there. I fired up my company payroll app, changed the direct deposit to my new solo checking account, and changed the beneficiaries on my insurance. Lastly, I canceled Molly from my health insurance. Bob Voss was our corporate attorney and a golf buddy. I sent an email asking for a hard-nosed divorce lawyer. Finally, I sent my PI an update, outlining what I'd need from him for the next two weeks.

The yard needed some attention, but I figured that wasn't going to be my problem after this weekend. Instead, I started packing my belongings. I filled the garage with large plastic totes and, just to be vindictive, stacked them all neatly in her parking space, after parking her car two doors down. My day-to-day items were next, and I used a large- and medium-sized suitcase, plus my garment bag for work suits. During the packing process, I thought about what I would say in the note I left her. My ring wouldn't be prominently displayed on the message, as it was already in her possession. Then I decided,

Why leave a note at all? What is there to explain?

I was dragging the last of what I was taking to the front door when the bell rang. I flung it open for emphasis, half expecting it to be my wayward wife and her lover, or maybe that big fucker, Larry.

I was surprised instead to see a man in a cheap suit, flanked by two police officers. "Mr. Thomas Whitmore?" I nodded, somewhat stunned.

"I'm Detective Solomon." He had his badge out, plus some other documents in hand. "We have a warrant to search your premises. May we come in?"

I still hadn't said anything. That was uncharacteristic for me, but all sorts of thoughts were running through my head. That prick, John, must have filed a complaint for getting his balls kicked into his esophagus. I didn't reply out loud. I just stood back, allowing them entry.

"Mr. Whitmore, can we sit at the table while these officers execute the warrant? I have some questions for you." He waved his open hand towards the dining room table, just right of my vestibule.

"Sure, what's this all about?" I finally got out.

"Are you planning on going somewhere?" Solomon looked towards the door and my bags.

I studied him for a moment before answering. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."

"Your wife is Molly, correct?" he asked and I nodded. "And you're aware of her whereabouts right now?"

"Yes." I answered. He raised an eyebrow, suggesting that I should say more.

"At this very moment, I don't actually know where she is. Last I saw her she was at her boss' cabin by the lake about fifty miles from here."

"And when was that, exactly, Mr. Whitmore?"

"Just after midnight on Friday evening," I stated flatly. "Again, what is this about?" I was sure that Decker or his pimp of a wife were trying to cause me more trouble because I'd left.

"I'm going to need you to come to the station," he stated in a very official tone. "I have some additional questions for you."

"I'm not going anywhere until you explain."

The other officers returned with a butcher's knife in an evidence bag. They closed in on me.

"Mr. Thomas Whitmore, you are under arrest for suspicion of murder. Place your hands behind your back, please."

I was numb - literally numb in every sense of the word. The woman I'd loved and was married to for 15 years was dead. There would be no divorce, or reconciliation. Somehow, knowing she was gone forever had softened my thinking about that. Alas, I'd never see her again. Never touch her soft cheek, never kiss her lips. Never argue, scream, turn and stomp away.

Everyone who'd been with Molly in that cabin was also dead, I had been told. Larry's wife, Janet, was nowhere to be found, and the detective had been hammering away at me for forty-five minutes about where I had stashed her body.

Solomon came back through the door with the perfunctory can of Coke. "Alright, Tom. Let's start again." Somewhere over the last several hours, the detective and I had progressed from formality to being on a first name basis.

"Aren't I supposed to get a call or something?" I asked, irritated.

"Not yet, Tom," the detective said, taking a deep breath as though preparing himself. "Not unless you're asking for an attorney. I'm trying to give you a chance to get on the right side of this thing - to help yourself. We know why everyone was there. We also found your wedding band. Nobody will blame you for lashing out in a moment of rage. It's totally understandable. Is that what happened Tom? You were so hurt, and felt so betrayed, that you lost it for a moment?"

"I've explained this already, Detective," I said with a sigh. "I left the cabin late Friday. I've been home all weekend."

"But you have no witnesses, Tom," he countered. "You're telling me your car was in the driveway, but you didn't go anywhere at all the entire weekend. That sounds awfully convenient to me. Further, when we come to search your home, we find a bloody knife in your car and your bags packed. When forensics comes back, I'm betting that the murders occurred during the time when you were still at the cabin. I think the district attorney will agree. The easy way out of this for you is to just tell the truth. Now, why don't you tell me what really happened?"

"I think I need an attorney, Detective."

My call was to Bob Voss. "Jesus, Tom. What's going on? We all saw on the news. Where are you?"

"Bob, I need help," I said in a raspy voice. "I'm at the precinct, arrested. They think I killed Molly... and her lover. Some other people that were at the cabin covering for them... so they could... I need help, Bob."

"Tom, you need a criminal defense attorney and I'm a corporate lawyer. I can recommend someone that I know well." He was silent for a moment. "Tom, you're going to have trouble here at work. I had a meeting with old man Winters and Skyped the board members in from New York this morning."

"I'm sure, Bob," I answered dryly. "Guilty until proven innocent, eh?" Then I dropped it, because I still needed his help. "Listen, can you please call your friend and explain my situation? I'm at the station on 4

th

Street. I'm innocent, Bob. Please believe that. Tell old man Winters I plan to fight these bogus charges and be out of here shortly. I didn't kill anyone, Bob. You have to believe that!" I broke down sobbing into the phone. It was all too much.

"Okay, Tom. Let me make the call, and I'll do what I can here. It's a sticky situation, but it is fluid. You getting in front of this will help me when I talk to them. I'll remind them of our obligations to our employees, but remember, Tom, you're management, so they can easily just freeze or demote you out of existence."

Can you come with your...friend?" I almost begged. "So you can hear my side? If that would help, then please do."

"I can't do that Tom," Bill stated emphatically. "Conflict of interest for the corporation and all that. My friend is Alvin Flint, Al for short. I'll speak to him off the record after he finishes with you there. He can bring me up to speed. Hang in there, Tom."

Mr. Whitmore..."

"Call me Tom, please," I interrupted. "And may I call you Al or Alvin? I can't take all this formality."

"Sure, Tom, like I said, you're in a pickle here," he mumbled flipping through a stack of papers. "That's a nice way to say it. Let's see...

"They have you as the last person to see all the deceased alive. Mrs. Decker...um - Gail found the bodies on Saturday night, about ten-thirty. And due to you having the alleged murder weapon in your possession, no witnesses to put you anywhere but the scene up to and including Sunday morning, they plan to charge you. You will be arraigned Tuesday morning. It's going to be up to us to defend and refute circumstantial evidence. Now, are you sure you went nowhere over the weekend? Gas, liquor store, any place?"

"No," I replied, defeated, "I told you I came home Friday after midnight, got dead drunk, and Saturday I did pretty much the same thing. Who would want to kill them? Was the cabin broken into?"

"No Tom. No signs of forced entry." Alvin looked up from his paperwork to meet my eyes. "We don't have a lot to work with here, initially, until we get the results from the knife. That doesn't mean we can't prove your innocence. My team will start looking at security footage along your return home route. I'll need that tonight, please. Also, can you please take off your shirt?"

Alvin saw my immediate look of confusion. "Sorry Tom, but I need to be thorough. Did they check you for defensive wounds?"

I just shook my head, as I started to remove my shirt.

"Tom," he said it in a way that forced me to look at him. "We have some things on our side. I don't see any cuts or bruises, and that's definitely in our favor. There are still two other potential suspects besides you. This... Janet - the security man's wife - and of course Mrs. Decker herself. We also have yet to see the forensics and let our own people analyze it. Tell me about the events leading up to this weekend again. Try not to leave anything out."

I was exhausted, but realized I was in a fight for my life. If I were the cops, I'd have myself as the number one suspect too. Crazed husband goes after wife and lover, leaves no witnesses. I'm sure that's how the papers and news media would spin it. Hell, they'd probably already started. I related the whole sad situation once more, trying to be as exact as possible.

"Where did the knife come from?" he asked nonchalantly.

"I have no idea." I said with a shrugged, I honestly didn't know. "That's the honest truth. The detective said they found it in my car. But that can't be right because I didn't take the knife, and they were all alive when I left. If I had taken it, there wouldn't be anything on it."

Al seemed pleased with this development for some reason. "The forensics on the knife should be completed in the morning. We'll have to see what they come back with. How well did you personally know Mr. and Mrs. Decker?"

"Not well," I said. "I mean I know... knew, John, probably a little better. Whenever my wife had to travel with John, I had both of them followed on and off for four years..."

"Wait, you had them followed how?" Alvin asked as he sat straight up. "Did you say four years?"

"Yeah, four different PI firms," I said. "None of them found anything going on."

Al thought for a moment, and then asked, "What was discussed in the interview with the detectives?"

"I don't remember," I replied. "I was in shock - honestly, I still am. They were certainly pushing hard for a confession, from my recollection. They made it sound like they had their man."

An officer stuck his head in the door and told us it was time for them to transfer me to county lock-up. Al started gathering his paperwork to close out our meeting.

"Alright, give me the names of your PI firms," he requested. "I'll see if I can find anything they missed. I'll also want a look at their interview with you."

A thought struck me as my lawyer started talking about investigating. "Hey, can I get a copy of what they have on me? Not my background or anything like that, just what they found at the house, what kind of evidence they have?"

"Of course," Al replied. "I'll go over all that with you, right after arraignment. This is the part where I politely ask if you're sure you want to see all the gory details."

"I'm not looking forward to it, but I need to see everything."

Al nodded curtly. "Exactly right. Whether you end up taking the stand or not, you're the best witness we've got right now. Hopefully those PI's will give us something else. I'm not throwing the prosecutors under the bus or making wild accusations, but it is an election year, and they have four dead bodies - brutally murdered - and one person still missing. They look at motive and opportunity, and you have both, so it's going to be a dogfight. Even the most minute detail can and will make a difference here.

"Stay vigilant in jail. Some of these macho assholes try to start marking their territory right away, especially if they know for sure they're headed to the big house."

I knew what he was trying to warn me about, and needed no further explanation. We said our goodbyes. Minutes later I was shackled, hands and feet, taking a ride to my new home at County. Being alone in the back of that squad car, and finally coming down from the non-stop adrenaline, I wanted to cry as I thought about Molly. I was pretty good at holding it back; I thought my best bet in the short term would be to focus on the anger that someone had killed her.

Tuesday morning I pled not guilty and was held over without bail. Seems the DA saw me as a flight risk. Al told me that murder charges almost never get bails regardless. Alvin asked if I was in the frame of mind to go over the evidence as we made our way back through the hallway between the courtroom and lockup. I never thought I'd ever be seeing this part of the building.

"Tom, these photos are graphic and this whole thing is gruesome," Al warned me. "You're going to want to puke as soon as you see them. I left the very graphic ones of Molly out. Oh, and one more thing, the blood found on that knife belongs to all four deceased, but most of it to Janet."

He let that sink in as he studied my face intently. "So now, that's going to be their theory. You murdered everyone, and for some reason you took Janet with you. They've already towed your car to the crime lab."

My attorney had been right. As soon as I saw the first picture of John and Molly, I turned my head towards the stainless bowl that had been placed on the table and barfed up everything in my stomach. Everything. Later, in my cell, my guts churned again and I barely made it to the commode. My bunkmate was actually a pretty good guy, for a criminal, and quite chatty too. He watched me wretch without saying or doing anything. After I returned to my bed, though, he went from expressing sympathy to telling me his own tale of woe, in about two minutes flat. He didn't seem to mind that I was reading through my case file.

Finally he asked, "So, what's your story?"

"I don't really want to talk about it," I replied, trying to act more manly than I felt at the moment.

"It'll probably help," he went on, "you know, talking it out and all."

What the fuck, right? A therapist, prisoner, and roommate all in one; what are the odds?

So I did. He listened patiently, not saying much as I told him everything that led up to the weekend at the cabin.

"So this chick Janet is missing?" He didn't wait for my response. "She's involved, you know. Man, in my experience these types of crimes are all about the jack. Figure out who got the biggest payday or stood to benefit the most, and there's your killer."