For the past month, my husband has been coming home late every day. I secretly followed him for a whole month afterward, and on the 25th day, I discovered the address of the house. It turned out my husband had bought the house for his mistress, and I knew it all along — but when I went there to confront him, the person who opened the door shattered my hopes…
Heavy snow was falling on I-35, the highway leading out of Minneapolis. My SUV’s wipers were working at full power, but they couldn’t extinguish the raging anger in my chest.
I’m Claire, 34, a pharmacist who prides herself on her composure. But tonight, that composure has been shattered.
In my handbag, lying haphazardly on the passenger seat, was the file I’d hired a private investigator to gather over the past two weeks. Blurry photos of my husband, Michael, entering and leaving a secluded cabin near Lake Minnetonka. Receipts for groceries for two. And most painfully, a picture of him helping a young woman, her hood pulled low, into that cabin at midnight.
Michael – my exemplary husband, the father of my two children – was having an affair.
I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. I lied to him, saying I was on night duty at the hospital. But actually, I was driving to his “love nest” to catch him red-handed. I wanted to see his horrified face. I wanted to throw the wedding ring in that woman’s face.
The car turned onto the small dirt road leading to the wooden house. The house was lit, smoke rising from the chimney, looking so cozy and romantic. That scene was like salt in my wounds.
I turned off the engine, took a deep, icy breath, and jumped out of the car. The snow and wind lashed against my face, but I didn’t feel cold. Anger had heated my blood.
I didn’t knock. I slammed against the oak door.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Open the door, Michael! I know you’re in there! Don’t hide anymore!”
There was no answer. Only the howling wind.
“Open! Or I’ll smash the window and call the police!”
Hasty footsteps echoed inside. The door creaked open.
I took a deep breath, preparing to unleash the most venomous words I’d prepared in my head. The door burst open.
“Michael, you bastard…”
My words choked in my throat.
Michael stood there, blocking the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his loose bathrobe. He was wearing jeans, a thick sweater, and a first-aid kit in his hand.
His face showed no sign of the guilt or shame of an adulterer caught red-handed. Instead, he stared at me with wide, terrified eyes.
“Claire? What the hell are you doing here?” His voice trembled, but not because of me. He looked behind me, his gaze sweeping through the pitch-black night as if searching for a monster. “Are you being followed?”
“Don’t change the subject!” I pushed him aside and stormed into the house. “Where is she? Where is that bitch?”
“Claire, stop! It’s not what you think!” Michael tried to hold my hand, but I lunged into the living room.
And then, I froze.
On the old sofa, huddled in a corner, was a woman.
She wasn’t the seductive “vixen” I’d imagined. She looked like a small, wounded animal that had just escaped a trap.
Her blonde hair was matted with dried blood. One eye was swollen and bruised to the point of being unable to open. Her lower lip was torn. Her arm was crudely bandaged, and on her neck… on her neck were the distinct bruises of fingers. The marks of strangulation.
She looked at me with her remaining eye, trembling, recoiling as if I were about to attack her.
“Oh God…” I whispered, my anger subsiding, giving way to my medical instincts. “What’s wrong with her?”
Michael slammed the door shut, locking it with three bolts. He pulled the curtains shut and turned back, his voice hoarse.
“Claire, this is Sarah. She’s not my girlfriend.”
I looked at Sarah, then at Michael. “So… what’s going on? Why are you hiding her here? Why didn’t you take her to the hospital? She needs a CT scan; she might have a brain hemorrhage!”
“No!” Sarah cried, her voice breaking with pain. “No hospital. No police. He’ll find me. He’ll kill me.”
“Who is he?” I asked, stepping closer and gently examining the wound on her hand. “Who did this to you?”
Michael came to my side and placed his hand on my shoulder. His hand was ice cold.
“Claire, you have to calm down and listen to me,” Michael whispered. “The reason I couldn’t call the police, the reason I had to secretly bring her here… is because the person who did this is someone the police would never dare touch.”
“Who is it?”
Michael swallowed hard. “It’s Sarah’s husband.”
I frowned. “So what? Who is her husband that he’s so formidable?”
Sarah looked up at me, tears streaming down her bruised cheeks. She moved her lips, uttering a name that made my blood run cold.
“It’s Derek. Derek Vance.”
I took a step back, bumping into the edge of the table. “No way. You’re lying.”
Derek Vance.
My cousin.
The captain of the Minneapolis Major Crimes Unit. The family hero. The man who always showed up at weekend barbecues with a gentle smile, always doting on his wife and children, always celebrated in the press for solving major cases.
“Derek… Derek hit you?” I stammered.
“Not just beating her,” Michael said, his voice hardening. “He tortured her, Claire. For the past two years. He knew how to beat her without leaving any scars.”
“He caused severe internal injuries, but it was excruciating pain. He controlled her phone, her car, her bank account. Last night… he almost killed her because she dared to talk to her mother for more than five minutes.”
Sarah pulled her collar down lower. On her chest were old cigarette scars.
“He said if I left, he would kill my parents and make it look like an accident,” Sarah sobbed. “He’s a cop. He knows how to do it. Nobody believes me. Last time I called 911, his colleagues came. They greeted him, laughed, and left. Then… he locked me in the basement for three days.”
I looked at Michael. “And you…”
“I happened to run into Sarah in the supermarket parking lot last week, when she was trying to buy bandages,” Michael explained. “I saw the wounds. I pressured her to tell me. She begged me for help. I couldn’t tell you because… Claire, you idolize Derek.” “You won’t believe it. And I’m afraid if Derek finds out you know, he’ll target you.”
I collapsed to the floor. My world had turned upside down. My respected cousin, the one I’d invited to my son’s birthday party last week, was a monster.
“What do we do?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“I’ve contacted a private witness protection organization in Canada,” Michael said quickly. “They’ll pick her up tomorrow morning. We just need to keep her safe tonight.”
Suddenly, my phone rang in the silence.
I jumped, pulling out my phone. The screen lit up.
Caller ID: Derek.
My heart stopped. I looked at Michael. He gestured for me to be quiet.
“Answer it,” Michael whispered. “Act normal.” “He might be checking in.”
I trembled as I slid my finger across the screen. “Hello?”
“Hi Claire,” Derek’s voice rang out, warm and steady as always. “Sorry to call you so late. Are you home? I stopped by to deliver a late birthday present for the little one; I forgot the other day.”
“I… I’m on duty at the hospital,” I lied, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Michael’s home with the kids.”
“Oh, really?” Derek’s voice suddenly changed. There was a hint of coldness and mockery in it. “That’s strange. Because I just called your home landline, and no one answered. And I saw your car’s location tracking was in the Minnetonka Lake area.”
I froze. I’d forgotten. We had set up family location sharing back when we went camping last year.
“Uh… I… I switched shifts.” “I’m going to the suburbs for a bit,” I stammered.
“A bit?” Derek chuckled softly. His laughter sent shivers down my spine. “Claire, have you seen Sarah? His wife. She left this afternoon, she’s a bit upset. She forgot her medication again. I’m worried she might do something reckless.”
“No… I haven’t seen her,” I said, my eyes fixed on Sarah, who was huddled in her seat.
“Okay. If you see her, let me know. She’s very good at making things up when she’s having a fit. Don’t believe anything she says.”
“Yes. Bye.”
I hung up, my hands shaking so much I almost dropped the phone. “He knows. He knows I’m here.”
Michael rushed to the window, peeking through the curtains.
“Damn it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“There are car headlights.” “Just turned off at the end of the street.”
He was here.
Chapter 4: The Confrontation
“Claire, take Sarah down to the cellar!” Michael ordered, grabbing a baseball bat from the corner of the room. “Hurry!”
I pulled Sarah up. We had just reached the cellar door when a loud bang echoed.
CRASH!
The oak door, which hadn’t been unlocked, was flung open by a powerful kick. Snow and wind rushed into the house.
Derek entered.
He was still wearing his police uniform, his badge gleaming in the light. But his usual gentle face was gone. Instead, there was a cold, ruthless expression, his eyes bloodshot like a wild beast.
In his hand was his service pistol.
“Oh, quite a party,” Derek said, closing the door behind him. He pointed the gun at Michael. “Put the bat down, Mike.” “Don’t play the hero.”
“Derek, you’re crazy,” I stepped forward, shielding Sarah. “Put the gun down! Are you going to shoot your own cousin?”
Derek looked at me, shaking his head in feigned disappointment. “Claire, innocent Claire. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to take my wife home. She’s sick, you know.”
“I’m not sick!” Sarah yelled from behind me. “You’re a devil!”
“See?” Derek chuckled. “Severely delusional. Claire, get out of the way. Let me take her, and we’ll forget about tonight. I promise.”
“No,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. The sweet childhood memories of my cousin vanished, replaced by disgust. “I saw the wounds on her. I saw the cigarette scars. You’ll kill her if I let you take her.”
Derek’s face hardened. He sighed.
“Too bad. I really liked you, Claire.” “But you’re committing the crimes of harboring a criminal and obstructing a law enforcement officer.”
He cocked his gun. Click.
“And in tomorrow’s report, I’ll write that Michael had an affair with my wife. You got jealous, came here, shot both of them dead, and then killed yourself. A family tragedy. Simple, clean.”
“You dare!” Michael roared, about to lunge.
Bang!
The bullet lodged in Michael’s shoulder. He fell backward, blood splattering everywhere.
“MICHAEL!” I screamed.
“The next one will be in your head,” Derek said coldly, the barrel of his gun pointed.
Turning to Sarah, he said, “Come here, Sarah. Right now.”
Sarah trembled as she stepped forward. She looked at me, her eyes filled with despair. “Don’t hurt them… I’ll go with you.”
“Good girl,” Derek smirked triumphantly. He lowered the gun slightly, reaching out with his other hand to grab Sarah’s hair.
At that very moment…
I remembered what was in my bag. Not the detective files. But the thing I always carried when I was on night duty in dangerous areas.
As Derek grabbed Sarah’s hair, he momentarily distracted me.
I pulled my Taser from my jacket pocket.
“DEREK!” I yelled.
He turned.
I pulled the trigger.
Two needles shot out, embedding themselves in Derek’s neck. A 50,000-volt current coursed through his body.
His massive body convulsed violently, his eyes rolling back. The gun in his hand fell to the floor. He collapsed like a felled tree.
“Get his gun! Sarah! Get the gun!” I yelled.
Sarah, with a surge of survival instinct, lunged forward, kicked the gun away, and grabbed Michael’s baseball bat.
Derek was still convulsing on the floor, struggling to get up. He snarled, reaching for his ankle – where he’d hidden his spare knife.
But Sarah didn’t give him the chance. She raised the baseball bat. All the pain, resentment, and torture of the past two years poured into that thin arm.
Bang!
The blow landed squarely on Derek’s knee. He screamed in pain.
“Claire! Call 911! Call the State Police! Don’t call the local police!” Michael groaned, clutching his bloodied shoulder.
I trembled as I dialed the number.
The next morning.
The State Police and FBI sealed off the scene. Derek Vance was arrested. With Sarah’s testimony, my wife and I’s testimony, and especially the auto-recorded security camera footage that Michael had secretly played (recording Derek’s entire confession and threats to stage the scene), the career and life of the “police hero” was officially over.
I sat in the ambulance, watching the paramedics bandage Michael. He’ll be alright.
Michael looked at me, smiling weakly. “I’m sorry for hiding it from you. I didn’t want you in danger.”
I took his hand, tears welling up. I had come here to catch an adulterer. But I had found a real hero. Not the kind of hero with a badge and celebrated in the newspapers like Derek. But a silent hero, willing to take a bullet to protect a stranger.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, kissing his forehead. “I doubted you.”
Sarah was led to the FBI car. She stopped, watching us. One eye was still swollen, but the other shone with a light I had never seen before. The light of freedom.
She nodded to us, then got into the car. The snowstorm had passed. Dawn was breaking over Lake Minnetonka, painting the pristine white snow a rosy hue.
