The Delivery

By L.A. Detwiler

From USA Today Bestselling author L.A. Detwiler comes a dark domestic thriller that will hook you from the first page.

 

Evette Harding's world of maternal bliss is perfect except for one thing: there's something wrong with her husband.

 

John is a lawyer and loving husband by day. However, ever since the baby came, his dark habits from the past are re-emerging. Once, she was fine with playing Bonnie to his Clyde. Now, with the baby to think about, it terrifies her.

 

As she delves into his hidden life and dangerous lies, she begins to fear for her safety. But when maternal instincts creep over the line of paranoia, will she go too far to protect her child? And in a house full of dark secrets, will she solve the most important one before it is too late?

 

The Delivery is a twisted domestic thriller with a jaw-dropping twist at the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.A. Detwiler
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201034566

L.A. Detwiler

L.A. Detwiler is an author and high school English teacher from Hollidaysburg, Pennsylvania. During her final year at Mount Aloysius College, she started writing her first fiction novel, which was published in 2015. She has also written articles that have appeared in several women’s publications and websites. L.A. Detwiler lives in her hometown with her husband, Chad. They have five cats and a mastiff named Henry.

Book preview

Chapter One

I carefully rock the baby in my arms as I stare out the antique window over the kitchen sink. John hated that window since we moved in. He always said it was too drafty and lacked practicality to validate its worth.  I was always a sucker for the antiquated, however, and begged to keep the charming accent. Now, I look through the filthy glass and watch the man I’ve loved for so many years. My husband. My everything. My savior.

A stranger.

The baby coos, as if validating my fears and the fact so much has changed. Because now, I don’t see my world outside of that grimy architectural attribute. My everything grips my finger as she studies the big, bad world with bright eyes. I need to protect her at all costs.

I continue to observe John as if he’s a museum exhibit. He’s cutting the grass, a stern look plastered on his face. I imagine a life where I saunter out on our deck, bouncing the baby and waving to him. He wipes the sweat from his brow and smiles back, making a funny face to make her laugh. That familiar look of love I’ve seen for all these years would reassure me, and his signature wink would ascertain I’m his. Still his. Always his. And after he finished his chore, I’d be standing there waiting, the perfect wife and mother, with a glass of sweet tea—Nana’s recipe. A picture-perfect, matching outfits and Sunday afternoon picnic kind of family the world would revel at.

This is real life, though, and the picture-perfect families in portraits aren’t my truth. John hits a rock with the mower. It launches across the yard, and he shouts an expletive. His cuss word is so loud, we can hear it over the machine’s grinding noise. I flinch, even though it shouldn't shock me. He’s often shouting these days. I sigh, the baby now crying. I turn away from the window and the sight of the man in my yard. I return my attention back to where it needs to be. I bounce her up and down and talk to her in a soothing voice. Eventually, she quiets. Success.

I knew things would shift once she came. A baby changes everything. That’s what everyone says.  Still, my heart longed for this change. I craved the all-consuming affection between mother and child because I’d wanted it for so, so long. I figured John and I would be different than those other couples. We would weather the transition to parenthood with graceful ease. We’d remain the team we’ve always been. We would cling to the passion and connection that were hallmarks of our relationship. They'd subsisted even after all we’d been through before. We were different, I told myself. We wouldn’t change. We could never change. It became a prayerful chant I whispered to myself as I fell asleep on my side of the bed for the few hours of rest. The words reverberated between dishes and bottles, between the days that passed, morphing into one another like a drifting cloud.

I was ridiculously naïve then.

How could things stay the same? I’m different than the woman I used to be. I’ve traded my climb up the corporate ladder for a domestic life. I’m now completely dependent on John, an ideal I would’ve considered perverse in my early twenties. My body is now a squishy, forgotten pile of mush. Showers are a luxury I barely have time for. I can’t even manage to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich let alone the gourmet meals I used to spoil John with. Sex is rare to the point of embarrassment. Our entire relationship mutated overnight. I don’t think there’s any going back now.

I walk into the living room to plant myself in the rocking chair and peer out the big bay window into the front yard. John has pushed the mower around to this side of the house. I look at him from this new vantage point, rocking our child as I eye his careful prancing, his stoic movements. Of course things would change.

But deep within my weary bones, rattling in my resistant chest, another thought strikes a chord. Things change with a baby—but this is a different kind of change. This isn’t just the less passion, different body, exhausted kind of change most couples go through when they have their first child. This transformation rooted itself within John, a dark tumbleweed rattling about in his slender frame.

It is a sinister change reeking of hatred and danger. A metamorphosis that has produced a dangerous monster instead of a beautiful, soft butterfly. I am terrified of what it could mean for us, Margot and me. For ever since the delivery of the baby, John has been—what’s the word?—withdrawn. Troublesome.

Shady.

I told myself he was just tired. I convinced myself it was just to be expected. I pondered that perhaps it was a form of male postpartum or even a touch of jealousy. He’s not an envious man. He’s a good man who is respected in his career and our community. He’s always been a loyal husband, even when things got difficult early on. He is a man you can count on. But ever since the delivery of our child—something has been off with John. 

I never used to be afraid of him, even when I saw his darkest edges. I used to trust him with my life. But as I said, things have definitively shifted.

He turns and looks at our house now, the mower’s buzzing locked in place. For a moment, I think I detect him shaking his head. Then, as quickly as he stops, he marches on. I think about all that’s transpired. My mind fumbles with all the pieces, all of the eerie words, all of the elusive happenings that have brought us to this point. 

He cuts down the lawn, his familiar pattern I’ve come to memorize from all of our years of domestic bliss. But rocking and watching him, I admit something to myself I haven’t wanted to face until recently. He isn’t the man I married. Not anymore. But the question now has become: is it worse than that? Is he a monster deep down?

I think about those chilling words he uttered just the other night, and my skin crawls with the phrase that’s been repeating itself over and over in my head, my subconscious trying to whip some reason into my brain. Or perhaps, I think, the voice I hear is Mama, still trying to guide me after all that’s happened. The words are clear, the phrase succinct. They stir in my brain at all hours of the day.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

The words echo on repeat in my head, in my heart, in the hallways of our once loving home. Still, it’s hard to just listen, especially in my condition. It’s not as easy as making a run for the door—not with Margot, not with my past, not with everything I have to lose if I abandon John. I shiver but restrain myself. The baby is finally quiet, sleeping peacefully. It wouldn’t do to disturb her. I can’t disturb her.

I can’t let him disturb her, though, either. My precious baby girl.

Chapter Two

I decide to try the next morning. Really try to take control of my destiny like one of the overly simplified quotes I would’ve loved on social media years ago said to do or a speech from that blonde motivational speaker I listened to religiously. I get up early despite having been up half the night—John always swears he didn’t hear her crying and sleeps right through it. But it’s okay. He has work, and I don’t anymore. I’m fine with the domestic responsibilities falling on my shoulders. I shower and put on some actual clothes from the back section of my closet instead of the sweats from my dresser. I manage to scratch together breakfast all while keeping an eye on Margot. When I hear his alarm bleeping through the house, nervous energy bubbles deep within, as if it’s our first date or the first morning on our honeymoon. I don’t know why I’ve got the jitters. Maybe because I know things need to be fixed.

When I was little, Mama used to say you should never work too hard to impress a man. I used to admire her independence—until I got older and realized just how crazy she was at times. She didn’t work to impress her man, didn’t go out on a limb for him, and she died alone. Certainly, no one can completely blame her after all that happened with Daddy. No one except me.

I don’t want to be Mama, even though I think a lot of her advice is sound. I don’t mind working a little to win over John. It has been hard lately. With the baby and spit-ups and exhaustion clouding my mind like a heavy blanket, it’s no wonder he’s feeling neglected. And certainly, all of the craziness going on is just paranoia from my exhaustion. The overworked, overstressed weariness that accompanies regular life does something to a person. Weariness from an infant, nevertheless, is a whole new level. Two months into this motherhood thing, and I’m inarguably maladjusted. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to return to who I was before her. To the Evette who went to brunch on Sundays with her friends, who loved painting, who enjoyed crime show marathons on the weekends with John and a bottle of wine. The Evette who would go dancing and belt out songs in the shower and plan secret, romantic trips to wineries for her husband. The Evette who wanted a million dollars by fifty and who sought titles and advancements in her career.  These days, I feel like it’s all I can do to make a piece of toast and sometimes wash my hair.

Guilt creeps in for the inner monologue of complaints. I love what I do. I love my life with Margot. This is what I always wanted. What I needed. I don’t regret anything. Motherhood requires sacrifices, but what you gain makes it all worthwhile, even on the hard days.

This baby is what we both wanted, our shared dream.  All of those failed infertility treatments, the shots, the appointments. We lost hope, we lost faith, and we lost ourselves. And then, just when all seemed impossible, she came into our lives and made me believe in our perfect future again. Our miracle baby finally arrived, just in the nick of time. I’ll give up sleep and my career for that feeling every day of the week.

So even when my eyes threaten to shut midday or my body physically aches from stress, I can’t help but smile. This is what I wanted. She is all I want.

The steps creak, announcing John’s arrival on the first floor. The plates are perfectly arranged on our table with his favorite omelet, toast, and a cup of coffee. I even managed to pick a few roses from outside. Romance. Concern. These are the things he needs. This aloofness I’m experiencing is getting to me, but I can fix it. I can fix us. Margot is in her bassinet in the living room, back to sleep, by the time John claims his seat.

What’s all this? he asks, looking genuinely surprised.

I shrug, tucking a piece of frizzy hair back. I know things have been tough lately. Just wanted to do something to remind you that I love you.

And just like that, he’s back. His soft, boyish grin plasters itself on his face. Those blue eyes peruse me like they have for all these years. That admiration mixed with appreciation I’ve been craving reappears like the prodigal son’s triumphant entrance. I squirm a little under his gaze. It’s been so long since he’s looked at me like this. I almost feel bad for everything.

Busy day today? I ask, turning to glance at the bassinet and make sure Margot isn’t fussing. I resist the urge to walk across the room and peer in at her perfect face. I love to watch her sleep. I turn my attention back to John.

He eyes me over a piece of toast. A little bit. I have some files to review for that upcoming contract suit we have going.

John proceeds to fill me in on his day’s work. He talks animatedly about all sorts of law terms I don’t understand. I realize I’ve missed this, all of it. The conversations, the mindless chatter. The hustle and bustle of us. The way he invests himself in his work and shares every single detail when he tells me a story.

And Susan, well, you know how she is. She’s been parading around like some hot shot, he adds, shaking his head with a smile.

I giggle. Is she still wearing that godawful orange suit around the office? I ask, picturing it and remembering all of the nicknames I used to make up with Olivia behind her back.

You better believe it. He scrunches his nose up at me playfully, and I return the gesture. 

John rambles on about some other topics. I let him go, but in my mind, I’m thinking about the days before Margot, before last year. The days when I’d be getting on my own suit, the days John would blare Aerosmith as we commuted to work together. Once we got there, he’d be off to the legal department, and I’d march off to communications. We’d part at the door with a kiss under the Anderson’s Corporation sign. Lunches in the office, morning coffee breaks. We had it all together. We were climbing the ladder simultaneously, we cheered each other on. Our co-workers used to call us the power couple.

Until one day they didn’t.

Sometimes, on days when Margot is sleeping deeply and the house is silent, I think I might miss those days. The days of having somewhere to be, having a corner office, having work to do. The days when I was stomping forward in my stilettos and commanding respect. Now, I often sport sweatpants that are almost too tight and a T-shirt with a stain on it. I’m unrecognizable as the powerful woman I always was determined to be.

Nevertheless, then I remember the other parts of the painting. I think about those bitchy, snooty women flaunting themselves all the time. I remember the pitiful stares when it all went down as my cheeks burn in anger. I think about the stress and about how the corner office is a good place to cry most days. I can never go back there. I don’t want to go back there. I’m needed elsewhere now. Change is good. Change is necessary. I’m where I belong. Success always costs something, and I’m no longer willing to pay the admittance fee.

As if needing to assert my stance, I rise from the table to walk over and check on the baby. I rock the bassinet gently as she glances up at me. She has John’s eyes. I’ve told him so over and over. He insists she doesn’t, but she definitely does. The shape is a perfect match. I smile. Our precious baby.

I’ve got to go, Evette, he murmurs from the kitchen. I turn to look at him. He stands so far away, but even from here, I admire his biceps, the way he wears his suit, the way he stands. He’s not looking at me with the same appraisal, though, like he used to. He’s not. My stomach sinks into the hardwood floor. This can’t be fixed with breakfast, with a simple gesture. The gap between us has been widening for months. It’s not that simple to fix, no matter how badly I want it to be.

There’s no mistaking it. I know him well enough. I’ve memorized his mannerisms. I know everything about him, and so I know this: It’s not in my head. It’s different. Shit, why didn’t anyone tell me it would be this different?

A part of me wants to stomp my feet and tell him he’s an asshole. I want to retreat into myself, into the past, into the darkness so I don’t have to face this. The only thing worse than being in the darkness is being in the light and then falling into the darkness. I used to be on top of the world with him—which makes the fall so much deadlier. I feel the heat rising in my chest as I simmer with resentment.  We finally have what we always wanted and he’s tainting it. I want so badly for him to be in this with me one hundred percent, to realize what he’s doing and come back to me. I want us to be that power couple in parenting. I want to get on my knees and beg for him to just be the husband, the father I know he can be. But another part of me, the stubbornly independent streak, doesn’t want to let him ruin this. I want to stay focused on what matters the most, which is being a mother. John always wanted kids, too, but his primary focus was always his career. He and I are different that way. Maybe I just need to accept that. If he wants to miss out on these precious days, that’s on him. I guess over time, we’ll figure it out.

I cross the kitchen and kiss him as I shove the inner monologue aside. His lips are cold and dry. We part ways within a second, the kiss a perfunctory chore and not a lingering temptation to languish in like it once