A trusted husband, p.1
A Trusted Husband, page 1
A
T R U S T E D
H U S B A N D
(An Emily Just Psychological Thriller —Book 3)
Ella Swift
Ella Swift
Ella Swift is author of the VIVIAN FOX suspense thriller series, comprising five books (and counting); PEYTON RISK mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); of the new COOPER TRACE mystery series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the EMILY JUST psychological thriller series, comprising five books (and counting).
An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Ella loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit ellaswiftauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.
Copyright © 2024 by Ella Swift. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BOOKS BY ELLA SWIFT
PEYTON RISK MYSTERY SERIES
WHAT’S HIS (Book #1)
WHAT’S LEFT (Book #2)
WHAT’S WISHED (Book #3)
WHAT’S GONE (Book #4)
WHAT’S MINE (Book #5)
COOPER TRACE MYSTERY SERIES
SHATTERED MIND (Book #1)
SHATTERED LIFE (Book #2)
SHATTERED HOPE (Book #3)
SHATTERED DREAM (Book #4)
SHATTERED FATE (Book #5)
VIVIAN FOX MYSTERY SERIES
ALL HE TAKES (Book #1)
ALL HE HIDES (Book #2)
ALL HE COVETS (Book #3)
ALL HE NEEDS (Book #4)
ALL HE DESTROYS (Book #5)
EMILY JUST PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE SERIES
A TRUSTED WIFE (Book #1)
A TRUSTED STRANGER (Book #2)
A TRUSTED HUSBAND (Book #3)
A TRUSTED FRIEND (Book #4)
A TRUSTED NEIGHBOR (Book #5)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
I can’t believe I’m here again, I think.
I’m staring up at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars my mother pressed to the ceiling of my bedroom when I was just six years old. It’s morning, the fifth morning since I came back to my mom’s house in Ohio after the job in Oregon fell through, and it feels as if with every passing day here I’m a little closer to the girl I used to be. And I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.
After all, I left for a reason. I wanted to pursue my master’s in psychology, devote myself to the study of the human mind in the hope that maybe, just maybe, it would help me understand myself. But degrees cost money, which is what led me to listing my services online as a home aide—with mixed results. The money’s been good, but the jobs so far haven’t been stable enough to support me for long, and I find myself wondering if it was a mistake to leave at all.
Maybe this is where I’ve always belonged. Maybe I need to know my own limits.
The floor creaks behind me, and I tense, breaking away from the faded starlight ceiling. It's Mom, peering sideways in through the half-open door. She's got a cup of tea in her hands, steam coiling up and disappearing somewhere near her weary eyes.
"Morning, Emily." Her voice is soft as she shuffles into my room, the worn carpet under her bunny slippers whispering secrets of yesteryears. She’s only forty-five, but she carries the weight of double that. The grooves etched around her eyes, her tired movements...they all speak of long work hours and little sleep. For as long as I can remember, she’s always maintained at least two jobs, sometimes three. All without a whisper of complaint.
I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand. It glows neon blue, displaying the ungodly hour of 5:37am.
“Getting ready for work?” I ask.
She nods, sinking onto the edge of my bed. The tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim of her cup but doesn’t spill. She’s always had a knack for balance—a souvenir of her years as a waitress, I imagine. Recently her jobs have been less physical, but no less demanding. She’s been working from home, juggling data entry and customer service for a handful of companies. It’s no coincidence that her office chair groans under her weight the same way she sighs when she thinks I’m not listening.
“Thought you could use this.” She hands me the cup of tea, her fingers trembling slightly against the hot ceramic. “You’ve got another job fair today, right?”
I nod, accepting the warm mug into my hands. The scent of chamomile spikes through the chilly morning air, threading its calming promise through my thoughts. “Yeah,” I say. “Opens at eight.”
“What kind of work are you hoping for?”
"Keeping my options open," I murmur, my gaze falling to the swirling steam above my mug.
She presses her lips in a thin line. "You should consider applying at the hospital. They’ve got a number of open positions."
I shake my head. The hospital gigs I qualify for probably wouldn't pay a lot, and more importantly it's a reminder of Dillon, of what happened to Sadie—that car accident so long ago, back when we were kids in adult bodies. Sadie was my best friend, and if Dillon—my boyfriend at the time—hadn’t had so much to drink, or if I’d thought to take the keys…
It’s useless thinking about it. I’ve gone over it a thousand times, and it never changes the past. But I don’t need to remind myself about it by working at the very place my best friend breathed her last.
“I’m not sure that’s the right place for me,” I say.
Mom nods, scrutinizing me with her knowing gaze. I’ve no doubt she understands my reasoning, but she doesn’t bring it up.
“Emily,” she says, staring at the floor, “you know how much I love seeing you and how happy I was when you said you were coming to visit.”
I wait, troubled by the implicit promise in these words.
“But I wonder if staying here is really what’s best for you.”
I sit up, surprised. “I’m not planning to live with you forever, Mom. I’ll get my own place.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not talking about this house. I’m talking about here in Townsville, where you grew up. Remember when you were planning to leave? Remember what you said to me?
“I said a lot of things, Mom,” I reply, avoiding the question.
“You said you wanted to make a difference,” she reminds me. “You weren’t just trying to make money to get by—you were passionate about understanding people’s minds.”
“And I still want to do that. I’ll save up money and get that degree.”
“How? By pet-sitting, working the cashier at the grocery store? By all means, save up for that degree, but make a difference in the meantime, too. You’re good with people, Emily. You understand them. No matter where you go, you always end up helping someone. "
"Mom—" I try to interrupt, but she forges on.
"Emily," she says, "you've been given a gift. And yes, I know it's tied to pain and hurt. I know every time you look into someone else's eyes, you see your own suffering mirrored back. But that doesn't mean it has to be your curse. It can be a bridge. A bridge between you and them, a bridge over all that pain."
“Mom,” I reply, my voice catching in my throat. “You don’t know what it’s like—what I’ve been through. The families I’ve stayed with, the problems they’ve had…” I swallow hard and take a moment to compose myself. “If you knew, you wouldn’t want me doing it again.
She studies me for a moment, then reaches out to touch my hand with her worn fingers. The warmth and familiarity is grounding, despite the knot beginning to form in my stomach.
"I do know," she says gently, her grip tightening. "I may not have been there with you, but you've shared enough for me to understand."
The glimmer of sympathy in her eyes stings worse than any verbal rebuke. I turn my gaze away, letting it fall on the hope chest in the corner, the reliquary of all my childhood toys.
“And I also see,” she continues, “how strong you 've become because of what you’ve gone through."
The room falls silent. Outside, songbirds chirp.
“They called again,” Mom says.
I frown at her. “Who?”
“The Beaumonts. You know, it’s not far from here to Chicago—you could come back and visit on weekends, if you wanted.”
The Beaumonts. At the end of my last job, the housekeeper for the family I was working for in Oregon offered to put me in touch with the Beaumonts, thought I’d be a good fit for them since they were in need of a home aide. As I rule, I try not to answer my phone if I don’t recognize the number, so I don’t know how many times they might’ve called me about the job. But the fact that they’ve called my mother—well, that certainly shows determination.
Or desperation.
“I don’t know, Mom.”
Mom sighs patiently. “Emily Just, you’re my daughter and I know you better than anyone else in the world. It’s your life to live and I won’t try to make your decisions for you, but I believe with all my heart that this could be the opportunity you need to really start fresh, define your own future."
She lets go of my hand, standing and smoothing her skirt. "You're not seventeen anymore, Emily. You can't hide here forever.”
"I'm not hiding," I protest, but there’s no conviction in my voice.
Mom doesn't respond to my denial. Instead, she crosses the room and opens the curtains, letting the soft morning light flood in. For a moment, she stands there, silhouetted against the window, her profile softened by the glow.
"It's not about what you've done or where you've been," she says. "It's about where you're going. Don't let your past define your future." There's a thoughtful, introspective tone to her voice now, and I can't help wondering if she is speaking to herself as much as she is to me. What would she do to go back to the young woman she was before she met my father, the man who abandoned us when I was only six?
Mom drifts to the doorway, then pauses. “Whatever you choose to do,” she says, “you’ll always be my daughter and I’ll always love you. I just want to make sure you’ll still love yourself.” With that, she walks out.
As my mother’s footsteps fade, I sigh and lie back again. There’s a temptation to go back to sleep, let the whole day just slip past me. I’ve always loved sleep—it’s the only true escape. But when I imagine Mom returning home from work to find I’ve done nothing with the day…
Throwing the sheet back, I sit up and grab my phone from the dresser. It’s not difficult to search the call log: I don’t talk with many people on the phone. I soon find what I’m looking for: a number of missed calls from a Chicago-based number I don’t know.
Seven calls, actually.
Seven.
What would make them so desperate to hire me, a home aide with limited experience? That job in California received plenty of media attention, so maybe they know me from that, but do they think I’m some kind of savant?
Staring at the phone, my curiosity builds and builds. Just make the call and talk to them, I think. Figure out why they’re so desperate to hire you, then say no. Easy.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just satisfy my curiosity, then decline the offer and ask them to stop contacting me. Surely I can find something better at the job fair, something that won’t be as messy as involving myself in the lives of another family.
I dial the number and press the phone to my ear.
CHAPTER ONE
I chew my lip, nervously studying the fuel gauge.
Deep in the red. How much longer will my Pontiac Sunfire last? Ten miles? Five? If it stalls here, in the middle of Chicago traffic…
Despite my best intentions, I find myself on my way to the Beaumonts for an interview. I spoke on the phone with Harriet Winters, the sister-in-law of Alvin Beaumont, the man I’ll be taking care of if I decide to take the job. She explained how, about a month ago, Alvin Beaumont suffered a stroke while jogging through the neighborhood as part of his morning routine, and since then he has been wheelchair-bound and all-but-unresponsive. When I asked what they’ve been doing to take care of him for the past month, she told me it’s been a ‘group effort.’ I detected a note of distaste when she said it.
I tried to turn down the job offer, but Harriet was insistent, offering me a far higher rate than I ever would have asked for. And so I agreed to the interview. When I asked why they wanted me, she explained that I had been given a glowing review from someone the Beaumonts knew and trusted.
Thanks, Lauren.
I sigh, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. Glowing review or not, it won’t matter if I never make it to the Beaumonts’ house. The traffic around me crawls, inching toward the towering buildings that make up the Chicago skyline. I’m going to be late, no doubt about it. Oh, well. I don’t need to take the job, right?
My mother’s words echo in my mind, but I try to ignore them. Instead, while waiting for traffic to move, I pull out my phone and look up Alvin Beaumont’s name. Apparently, he's the head of an agency called Pulse Advertising Co. His photo shows a man with sharp, piercing eyes, the kind that can see right through your pretenses. I think about the stroke that wrecked his life and how he now relies on others for basic needs. How does it feel to be trapped in your own body, your mind still sharp but the body unwilling to respond?
Continuing my search, I come across an article that speculates on the future of the agency, which is apparently worth nine figures. The headline reads, Pulse Advertising up for grabs? The article begins, ‘With the recent stroke of Alvin Beaumont, founder and chairman of Pulse Advertising Co., one of the largest and most influential ad agencies in the Midwest, the question of who will inherit the throne has become a point of speculation for everyone in the industry...'
Scrolling further, I find mention of his children, Cassandra and Alexander Beaumont, tagged as the most likely contenders for their father’s empire. Both of them are posed in sharp suits: Cassandra with a practiced smile, Alexander with an air of nonchalance. The article also mentions Alvin’s wife, Margaret, who was with Alvin when he founded the agency. Could she throw her hat in the ring, too, the author wonders?
All of this seems to presume Alvin won’t recover from the stroke. Is it worse than I realized? Is there no chance he’ll regain his faculties?
Suddenly, the honk of a car jolts me out of my reverie. The traffic seems to have eased up, and the car behind me is impatient. Sighing with relief, I put my phone away and drive on, searching for a gas station.
Driving through the bustling city feels almost claustrophobic compared to the small-town charm of Townville, Ohio. I'm used to open skies and sprawling greenery, not steel towers that kiss the clouds, not the ceaseless hum of traffic noises. I find relief in a shabby gas station tucked in between two imposing structures.
Breathing in the smell of gasoline and oil mixed with stale coffee wafting from the nearby vending machine, I deposit a twenty into the fuel pump and watch forlornly as it drinks up my money. Not much more where that came from. I get back into my car, biting my lip as I calculate the remaining cash in my account and the bills I'll need to pay. It's going to be thin, too thin, unless I accept this job.
Maybe so, I think. But isn’t that tradeoff worth it? Wouldn’t you rather scrape by and have your peace of mind than live in constant stress, regardless of how much money you make?
That’s certainly an interesting argument, but the reality is that, despite how stressful working as a home aide has been, it’s also been rewarding in its own way. The prospect of helping someone in need, of being there for them during their most vulnerable moments—it’s a gratifying feeling, a sense of purpose I could never get from waiting tables or sitting at a desk or working a cashier.
The pump clicks, jolting me out of my thoughts. I replace the nozzle, fully aware that I don’t have enough gas in the tank to return to Townsville, should I turn down the job or fail the interview. Still, that’s a problem for another day.
Or perhaps another hour.
I pull out of the station, merging back into the relentless Chicago traffic. My phone buzzes with a reminder—the interview at the Beaumonts' is supposed to start right now. Picking up my phone, I call Harriet Winters’ number, but there’s no response. Oh, well. I’ll get there when I get there, and if they decide not to hire me because I was late for an interview…
