Betrayal

by Dwayne S. Joseph

Genres: African American Urban; African American Mystery & Detective

Synopsis

Zeke has just received an anonymous package that will turn his world upside down: intimate photographs of his wife with another man.

Brokenhearted and trying to figure out how to cope with the revelation, Zeke goes to the office to be alone and think. Unbeknownst to him, his son-in-law, Sam, is at the office too—only Sam’s not alone. Zeke, already torn apart by betrayal he never anticipated, is shocked to walk in on Sam having sex with the company’s young intern.

Sam, who was once headed for a long prison sentence or worse, owes everything he has to the one person that cared enough to give him a chance to walk on the right side of the tracks. Determined not to lose it all, Sam vows to do whatever it takes to keep his infidelity between him and his father-in-law. Whatever it takes.

Zeke, with anger and hatred blackening his heart, thinks it over and then tells Sam exactly what it will take: “I want you to kill my wife.”

Bestselling author Dwayne S. Joseph takes readers on a dark and dangerous ride that asks the question, How far would you be willing to go for revenge?

Release date: April 1, 2013

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“I want you to kill my wife.” Ezekiel hadn’t expected the words to have flown so freely from his mouth. Smooth. No hesitation. Silk, the way it had come out.

I want you to kill my wife.

He sat back in his chair and watched his son-in-law, Sam, digest the seven fluid words he’d spoken.

I want you to kill my wife.

Air sighed evenly through his nostrils and down to his lungs, where it swirled around momentarily before rising back up and passing out through his nasal passages. For the first time in a week, breathing didn’t hurt his chest. For the first time in eleven days, the weight that had been bearing down on his shoulders lessened. It wasn’t much, but it was just enough. He wanted his wife killed. Dead. Gone. Extinct. He intertwined his fingers in his lap.

Sam stared at him, his forehead knotted up. Zeke saw the struggle. The confusion did the jitterbug with disbelief and fear in his eyes.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Sam stared at his father-in-law as his father-in-law stared back at him, a chill creeping up from the base of his spine to the back of his neck. Ezekiel had yet to respond, but in his eyes Sam saw an answer that made his throat dry. He cleared it and said again, “Zeke, you’re . . . you’re kidding, right?”

Zeke looked at Sam and still wouldn’t respond. He just stared and read Sam’s thoughts through the pleading in his eyes. He wanted him to smile and break out in laughter. He wanted him to say that he was indeed kidding.

Ten days ago, that would have been the case. Ten days ago, the earth hadn’t rotated off of its axis yet. The stars hadn’t fallen out of the sky. A cow hadn’t jumped over the moon. Pigs hadn’t yet learned to fly.

Eleven days ago, his world hadn’t been turned upside down.

It was a Thursday. It had been cold. The March wind had been brutal and unkind. But it had been sunny and bright, and there had been no snow on the ground.

But then came Friday.

Snow still hadn’t fallen, but the sun had been taken hostage by black clouds moving ominously in the sky. The wind was gone, but the air’s vicious bite remained.

Zeke said, “Do you know me to kid around, Sam?”

Sam clenched his jaws, squinted his eyes a bit. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious, Sam.”

Sam shook his head. “Come on, Zeke. This shit’s not funny.”

“I told you, I’m not making any jokes.”

“No way,” Sam said, cracking his knuckles. “No way at all that you’re not fucking with me.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Is there a . . .” Sam paused and shook his head again. “You’re talking about killing your wife. Shit, you’re talking about me killing your wife. For real . . . Have you lost your fucking mind? Because this shit is crazy, Zeke. The shit coming out of your mouth right now is crazy.”

Zeke locked his eyes on Sam’s. His back remained flat against the leather of his chair. His breathing remained steady. “I’m not crazy,” he said. “And this isn’t crazy. This is what it’s going to take to keep me from ruining your life.”

Sam looked at Zeke intensely, looking for madness in his father-in-law’s eyes. He cracked a few more knuckles, cleared his throat, said, “Zeke . . . come on . . .”

Zeke cut him off. “I walked in on you fucking our intern, Sam.”

Sam dragged his hand down over his face, leaned forward in the chair he’d been sitting in, and rested his elbows on his knees. “Come on, Zeke. It was a mistake. It didn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t give a shit whether it meant anything or not, Sam. You fucked around on my little girl!”

Sam sat back uncomfortably in the chair. He exhaled. “I . . . I know, and I’m sorry, Zeke. Believe me when I say I regret it.”

Zeke flared his nostrils. He could feel the control slipping away. Bruce Banner was threatening to disappear and leave Sam alone with the Incredible Hulk, who wanted nothing more than to reach across the desk, wrap his thick fingers around Sam’s throat, and squeeze until Sam, too, was extinct.

Eleven days ago.

A Friday.

Zeke had received an anonymous package at his office.

A manila envelope with photographs of his wife fucking another man.

She was straddled atop her partner, her back to him. The photographer had skill and one hell of a camera. The divine, fulfilled ecstasy plastered on Zeke’s wife’s face had been captured beautifully. The way she’d bitten down on her bottom lip. The way her eyes had been rolling into the back of her head. The way she’d been grabbing her breasts and squeezing her nipples.

Zeke had always had a voyeuristic nature about him, and had it been anyone else in the photo he would have unzipped his pants, pulled out his dick, and stroked until he exploded all over the expensive photo paper, imagining that his cum were actually being spilled on her breasts, her ass, in her mouth.

But it hadn’t been anyone else.

It had been his wife.

And she was enjoying another man’s dick.

After looking at the photographs, he threw up whatever food he’d eaten that day. He dry heaved when he had nothing left.

He looked at the pictures again. Maybe his eyes had been playing tricks on him. He had been working longer hours preparing for another opening. Maybe the fatigue had fucked with his head and helped create an image that hadn’t been real. The sickest kind of mirage.

He stared at the pictures. Waited for the image to change as he rifled through them. Waited for the image to fade, the way a pool of fresh water in the middle of the desert did when the sun was at its unbearably highest point.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Then he gagged, dry heaved again.

Unlike the water that disappeared just before you ate sand, the image of his wife on top of another man had no disappearing act.

Zeke looked over the manila envelope for a name, an address . . . something to let him know who had sent the pictures. He looked at the back of each 8x11 glossed copy.

No name.

No insignia.

No coded message viewable under the light or in the dark.

For hours he sat with the photographs spread out before him, his mind working, wondering, questioning.

Why?

He thought back to the last time they’d made love. Loving words were spoken, tender caresses and gentle kisses given. All had seemed right with the world, despite their sparse sex life. Had that been the reason for his wife’s infidelity? Had his hectic work schedule pushed her into another man’s arms?

Hours passed. Zeke just sat. Unmoving. Barely breathing. Just staring.

His wife.

The woman he loved more than life itself.

He stared at her long and hard. He would have been staring at the man, too, but his face hadn’t been captured in any of the photos. Unless the photographer was the man himself, which Zeke doubted, then the photographer was sending a clear message that the man didn’t matter. It could have been any man.

Zeke stared.

At his wife.

At the pleasure in her beautiful face, which had instantaneously become as ugly as sin to him. His temples throbbed with a sharp pain as questions ran through his mind.

Who had sent the pictures?

More importantly—why?

Were they trying to punish him? Punish her? Punish them both?

What was their motive?

Was another package on the way?

Would it be worse?

Hell, could it possibly have been any worse than what he had already received?

It was nearly one in the morning before he slid the photos back into the envelope and then put the envelope in his briefcase and headed home, his head and heart aching. During the entire forty-five minute drive, he kept asking himself what the hell he was going to do when he got home. Would he throw the photos in his wife’s face and demand to know who the fuck she’d been riding? Would he threaten her and throw her out of the house? Would he lose it, say to hell with the threat, and just put his hands on her? He didn’t know.

He was pissed.

Heartbroken.

Felt damn near homicidal.

He strangled his steering wheel and drove at speeds above ninety miles an hour on the sparse New Jersey Turnpike. Fortunately for him and his wife, he was pulled over by the finest in highway patrol. The twenty-minute delay had given his common sense just enough of a chance to catch up to the rage that had him rocketing toward an OJ Simpson–like home arrival.

Sitting with red and blue flashing lights spiraling behind him, he calmed down enough to rationalize that, first of all, he didn’t want to go to jail, and secondly, ending his marriage meant splitting his money with a lying, cheating bitch.

It wasn’t easy, but with the $300 ticket thrown beside him, he went home that night and somehow managed to pretend as though he’d never received the anonymous package.

The next day was incredibly difficult for him, as he flip-flopped emotionally throughout the day, going from sadness to hate to rage, and then back to sadness, back to hate, back to rage. Only by staying away from the house for sixteen of the twenty-four hours each day, and then sleeping in his home office for the final eight, had he been able to make it to Sunday. On Sunday, after a hypocritical appearance at church, he went to the office to be alone. Sadness had disappeared; hate and rage were the only emotions coursing through him.

He had to get away. He couldn’t handle being close to her. He couldn’t look at her anymore. He couldn’t take the sound of her voice, the phoniness in it. He couldn’t handle the smell of her Victoria Secret perfume, the perfume he’d bought for her. Sunday he avoided committing murder by going to the office to be alone to think.

Thirty-four years.

For how many of them had she been living a lie?

For how many of them had he been played for a fool?

Damn those photos. Damn whoever had sent them.

She’d been his everything. His first, and what would be his last, true love. She had betrayed him. Betrayed his trust. His devotion. Before the photos, he had loved and respected her. After the photos . . . After the photos, love resigned and hate took its place in his heart, beside a small section occupied by a longing ache.

He needed to figure out what his next move would be. They had a life together. They’d raised a daughter. They’d created memories. Memories that he wished he could forget. He had to have her out of his life, because there just was no forgiving her.

But how?

Sunday.

At the office alone.

He’d been hoping for some sort of an answer that day. A way to remain latched on by the fingertips of one hand to the edge of the cliff. That day he found, in Sam’s office, the answer he needed to help him grab hold of the cliff with his other hand. Five days later, he was halfway to pulling himself back to salvation. Or losing his sanity. It all depended on which mirror in the spectrum one was looking through.

“It’s too late for regrets, Sam. Too late to turn back the clock.”

Sam clenched his jaws. Shook his head. Exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “What the hell happened, man? What the hell did Sapphire do?”

“Does it really matter, Sam?”

“Does it . . . You’re talking about murder! Of course it matters.”

Zeke shook his head. “The only thing that matters right now, Sam, is your life. The past you’ve outlived. The name and reputation you’ve established. Everything you have. That’s all that matters right now.”

Sam put both of his hands on top of his bald head. He wanted to be cool, calm. He hadn’t come outright and said what he’d do, but Sam knew what Zeke was threatening and that gave him a dull ache in his temples. “Shit, Zeke. What the fuck?”

“Your life matters to you, doesn’t it, Sam?”

“I . . . I can’t, Zeke. I can’t kill your wife. I can’t kill Sapph.”

Zeke frowned. “You’re breaking my heart, Sam.”

“Zeke . . .”

“You were the son I never had.”

“Zeke . . .”

“Ruining your life . . . doing that . . . it hurts me.”

“Zeke . . . please, man . . .”

“This is going to break Jewell’s heart, too. Once she knows what you’ve done. She’s going to be devastated.”

“Zeke . . . man . . . come on.”

Zeke sighed. “I hate that I have to be the one to tell her.”

“Zeke . . . it was just a mistake. I’m a man. I’m fucking imperfect. Come on. I know you can relate.”

“Thirty-four years, Sam. Thirty-four years and I never once stepped out on my marriage. Thirty-four years. Through good times and bad. Through times when frustration and temptation reared their ugly heads. Thirty-four fucking years. I can’t relate to you, Sam. I can’t relate to being a man that way.”

“Zeke, man . . . I was weak, I know. But, I love Jewell. You’ve gotta believe me. I love her the way you love Sapphire.”

“Sapphire is a fucking unfaithful, lying bitch!” Zeke yelled out suddenly, slamming down his fist on his desktop.

The outburst made Sam jump. He tensed up, stared hard at his father-in-law. He’d be. . .