Making Home with You

by Claire Raye

  Sarah moves faster than I expect and before I can say anything more, she’s hooking her right leg behind my knees, one hand on my shoulder, the other arm across my chest as she lifts me up and down so I find myself lying flat on my back on the mat. Sarah ends up straddling my hips, each hand pressed flat into the mat on either side of my head.

  “Fuck,” I grunt.

  “Not bad, huh, Chief?” she says hovering over me.

  “I’m impressed,” I say staring up at her.

  Sarah licks her lips, sucking the bottom one between her teeth. “So, now we’ve established I can defend myself,” she says, eyes sparkling. “Wanna try another form of cardio?”

  I grin up at her, hands moving to her wrists before flipping us quickly so it’s now her lying beneath me. Leaning down, I press my mouth to her ear. “Naked wrestling, maybe?” I whisper, before nibbling her neck.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sarah

  My next day at work is bogged down with an insane amount of meetings, and unfortunately most of them involve Andrew. I’ve been lucky enough that’s he’s not only completely unprofessional when it comes to the company’s sexual harassment policy but also in everything he does. He is now refusing to speak to me, literally emailing me from across the room, from the room next door.

  I couldn’t give a shit about his childish behavior; actually I welcome it because it means I don’t have to speak to him either.

  I wonder if he thinks he’s playing hard to get and that will somehow draw me to him. I can’t believe he’s so delusional to believe that his appalling actions are attractive. He’s disgusting, and I’ve made that quite clear.

  I’m about to leave for the day, and since the incident with Joe, I no longer tell Andrew I’m leaving. I arrive at my required time of seven-thirty, put in my nine hours with an hour lunch break and then bail. Any additional work I haven’t finished I now do at home just to avoid any additional time spent with Andrew.

  Just as I’m packing up my things, the door to my office is flung open, loud and swiftly as it bangs against the wall. I jump, always on edge now, but when I look up, there’s a tall middle-aged woman standing in the doorway.

  Her ombré brown and blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun and she’s wearing a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt with a Boston College logo on it. She’s disheveled but pretty, and I wonder if she’s a former conquest of Andrew’s.

  I watch her clench her fists at her sides and my heart starts hammering in my chest. What the hell is going on?

  “Where the fuck is he?” she shouts, her dark brown eyes set firmly on me. She raises a perfectly arched brown and without waiting for me to answer, she whips open the door to Andrew’s office and shrieks out loud when she finds it empty.

  She storms back into mine, and I have yet to leave my desk, stunned into silence wondering what exactly this woman is doing here.

  “Where’s my husband?” she demands. “And don’t tell me you don’t fucking know because you know. We all know. Everyone fucking knows!” To say she’s angry would be an understatement, and now that I know who she is, her rage is warranted.

  I watch angry tears streak her face, leaving lines through her makeup and she loudly stomps toward my desk.

  “And you,” she hisses, pointing a neatly manicured finger at me, “how long have you been sleeping with my husband?”

  “I’m not!” I spit out loudly, my hands up in defense. “It’s the opposite, I promise you. I want him to leave me alone, but…” I stop myself, not certain why I’m even telling her this. I don’t want her to think I’m sleeping with her husband, but the last thing I should be doing is giving her the details of his depravity. I want to be as far removed from all this as possible, especially now that I know he has an irate wife.

  “Bullshit,” she snorts, letting out a low chuckle, her arms now crossed over her chest. “Look at you, there’s no way he didn’t come on to you, put his hands on you.” She flips a hand at me now and again laughs.

  “He did, but I said no.” I’m trying to reassure her that I’m not the enemy, and I should tell her it’s her husband she should to be after. Not the innocent women he preys on. Why are some women like this? Why does the blame fall on the one being harassed?

  She can leave him. She doesn’t have to tolerate this, but maybe she does. I don’t know her situation; I only know that her husband is a horrible person.

  She pulls a piece of paper from her pocket and waves it in front of my face. Her neck and face are now bright red, and she’s stepping closer to my desk.

  “Is this you?” she asks, seething and slamming the paper she was just holding down on my desk.

  I glance down at it but I don’t really look at what it is, and I look back up at her.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have any idea what you’re talking about.” I’m hoping my confusion and the look I imagine is plastered on my face gives her the indication that I’m telling the truth.

  My phone starts ringing and I look down at my purse, but I don’t dare answer it. I don’t want this woman thinking I’m not taking this conversation seriously.

  I look a second time at the paper she put on my desk and it’s a bank statement with a gigantic red circle around a withdrawal in the amount of a nine hundred thousand dollars.

  That’s a lot of fucking money, not the kind you take out for a weekend trip or to hit the bar with some friends. That’s the kind of money you use to buy someone, to pay them off for something horrible you did.

  But before I can respond, Andrew’s door opens and his wife’s head spins toward the sound. I manage to get out, “Give him hell,” before she smiles at me and storms into his office.

  I breathe a sigh of relief and silently thank her for that smile she ended with. She knows it’s not me.

  I stick around long enough to catch bits and pieces of their conversation, where Andrews shouts that the money shouldn’t have been taken out of their joint account, and that his lawyer fucked up.

  His wife keeps demanding to know who the money went to and I try to catch what he says but everything is now muffled; the adjoining door closed.

  My phone rings out again, cutting into their conversation and they both fall silent as if they remember I’m in the next room. Not wanting to be any more a part of this than I already am, I silence my phone and hightail it to the elevators.

  When the elevator doors close, I fall back against the wall and suck in a deep breath. Maybe now that Andrew’s wife is involved this whole thing will go away quietly on its own.

  As I’m exiting the elevator the security guard from the building is entering, but he’s in a hurry, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s been called to my floor to deal with Andrew and his furious wife.

  But I don’t give it a ton of thought, because right now I can’t wait to get home and tell Ryan and Finn what just happened. The former detective in Ryan will be thrilled to hear about an attempted cover up, and with Finn, he’ll be just as thrilled to know that the heat is hopefully off me for a bit.

  I check my phone as I take my seat on the train, remembering it was going off during the standoff, and I notice Joe called twice. I move to the next train car so I can give him a call back.

  I generally sit in the silent car so I can work on things for my side job without distractions, but today, this call is probably more important. I’m even excited to tell him what just happened.

  Joe’s phone rings once and goes straight to voicemail, something I recall as commonplace when Ryan was in Joe’s role. I’m sure he’s out working on a case, in a debriefing or interviewing a witness.

  I leave him a short message just asking him to call when he gets a chance, because hearing what Joe found out doesn’t seem to be as pressing of an issue as it was before.

  I finish up my plans for the pub on the rest of my ride home and by the time I reach the Rockport station, I still haven’t heard from Joe. I
exit the train, and just as I’m about to start my walk home, Ryan’s car pulls up.

  He rolls down the window and shouts to me, “Get in!” He’s smiling and I know it’s because he wants me to thank him for being such an awesome big brother. He’s all about boosting his ego and giving me a hard time.

  “I usually walk home,” I call back, but walk over to his car. The weather is finally getting nice enough that I can walk home from the station, but Finn still usually drives me over in the morning.

  When I reach the car door, opening it and climbing in to Ryan’s SUV, he says, “Yeah I know, but Finn told me what happened with Carla last night and neither of us are taking any chances.”

  “Thanks. I guess I didn’t really think about that. It was super creepy.”

  I’m pretty glad he picked me up because I can tell him all about the office drama that went down today and what he thinks about it.

  “So, something crazy happened at work today,” I start and Ryan immediately turns to look at me.

  And before I can continue he shoots, “It better not involve you and your douchebag boss.”

  I smile at him, “Oh, it’s way better.”

  I tell Ryan all about my run-in with Andrew’s scorned wife and how she came in brandishing a print out of their bank statement with nearly a million dollars missing. I run the overheard conversation by him trying to gage if he’s thinking the same thing I am.

  “Are you thinking he paid off that Eliza chick you’re looking for?”

  “I do!” I answer back with far too much enthusiasm. I shouldn’t be this excited about it because it means she went to the authorities and the whole thing was covered up.

  When you have money, you can make anything or anyone is this case disappear. That’s what’s wrong with Andrew. He grew up this way, and he doesn’t understand that not everyone can be bought.

  “What does Joe think? You hear back from yet?”

  “I did, but we’ve been playing phone tag. He called twice today, but I missed the call. Left no voicemails. I called him back and got his voicemail.”

  I understand his job well, so I don’t make too much of the fact that he hasn’t gotten back to me, and Ryan adds, “That job is a real bitch. I’m sure he’s busy, but he’ll get back to you.”

  I have dinner with Erin and Ryan, and I still haven’t heard back from Joe, and I assume it’s because he hasn’t been able to find anything out.

  We chat about Erin’s due date being moved again, with her stressing out about possibly standing up in Beck and Kelsey’s wedding literally nine months pregnant. Their wedding is July fourth and Erin’s due date is now the first week in June.

  “I think you’ll be alright,” I assure her. “I can’t imagine the doctor would let you go four weeks after your due date.” Emphasizing the fact that being four weeks past due is a bigger concern than being pregnant at your best friend’s wedding.

  “This baby is part Connelly,” Ryan says patting Erin’s cheek, “Stubbornness runs in the family.”

  “You realize you’re just as bad, right?” I say to Ryan, giving Erin a smile knowing we both love to gang up on Ryan. “You think you’re ready for this?” I ask, my question bypassing Erin because she’s not the one I’m worried about. “You know you could have a girl and someday she’ll have a boyfriend and you’ll have to deal with all her drama. All the drama you hated growing up with three sisters.” I’m rubbing it in and Erin is laughing and pinching Ryan’s side.

  “I know exactly what I’m in for,” Ryan replies. “You two have prepared me for the worst. Bring it on, kid,” Ryan jokes, his hand now on Erin’s belly and she leans in and kisses him.

  Every time I see them together it makes me miss Finn, makes me miss just being close to him, having a person who is there no matter what. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been away from him, a day, a week, an hour, I miss him.

  I get up from the table and thank them for dinner once again.

  “Sorry, but I’m going back to Finn’s tonight. I guess I’m preparing you for your kid’s teenage years where they use you for food and vanish.”

  “It’s all good, Sarah. You have no idea how long I’ve wished that Finn would find someone and to have it be you, is the best case scenario ever,” Erin says, beaming and I’m glad that everyone seems to be happy.

  I pull into Finn’s driveway and before I even exit my car, I text him letting him know I’m here. I don’t want another run-in with Carla and he comes out the front door to meet me.

  As I’m walking up to him my phone interrupts our reunion and I scramble to fish it out of my purse.

  “Hold on a second,” I tell Finn as I walk through the front door, pecking him quickly on the lips.

  And when I answer my phone, it’s Joe and he sounds panicked.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Finn

  I impatiently wait for Sarah to finish her phone call. Needing something to do, I head into the kitchen and grab a beer while she wanders down to my bedroom for some privacy. I have no idea who she’s talking to but it’s clearly important.

  By the time I finish though, she’s still on the phone, so I start hunting through the fridge in a bid to find something to make us for dinner. Eventually, she wanders into the kitchen, off the phone and now changed out of her work clothes.

  “Hey, everything alright?” I ask as she slips her arms around my waist.

  “Mm hmm,” she murmurs, against my back.

  I turn so I can look at her. “You sure?”

  Sarah stares up at me, an unreadable look on her face. “Yeah,” she says, almost hesitantly. “Just work stuff.”

  “Wanna talk about it?” I ask, because it’s clearly bothering her, whatever it is.

  She tries for a smile, but I can tell it’s forced. “It’s good, seriously. I don’t want to ruin our night with my work drama.”

  “You’re not,” I tell her. “I want you to talk to me.” I tuck her hair behind her ear, offering a smile of reassurance. “Seriously.”

  Sarah takes a deep breath. “I know, Finn,” she starts. “Just like I want you to talk to me,” she continues, as though she somehow knows I’m hiding something; that I haven’t told her everything that Carla’s said or done.

  And she’d be right too, but not because I don’t want to tell her, but because I don’t want to burden her with this shit. To have her worry about stuff that I know is beyond her control.

  “I know, babe,” I say, kissing her forehead. “And just so you know, I did report the incident with Carla confronting you. They may want you make a statement if that’s okay?”

  “Of course,” she says immediately. “Anything I can do.”

  I smile. “Thank you,” I say. “Now, are you sure there isn’t anything I can do about your work situation? That wasn’t your boss on the phone was it?”

  Sarah shakes her head.

  “And he hasn’t done anything to you still, right?”

  She shakes her head again. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “But you’re still reporting him, aren’t you?”

  She stares up at me now, almost as if she’s trying to work out what to say. Just as I’m about to repeat my question, stress the importance of what she needs to do, she says, “Yeah I am. I’m going in tomorrow to do that.”

  I feel my body sag in relief as I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Good, I’m really glad,” I tell her, kissing her lips this time.

  She offers me a sad smile and for some reason it makes that uneasy feeling return, as though there’s something more she isn’t telling me. Just as I’m about to ask her what it is, she glances around the kitchen, laughing a little before saying, “Think you might need some help with dinner here, Chief?”

  And even though I know I should push her to tell me what’s obviously still on her mind, I don’t. Instead I let it go as we start trying to pull something together for dinner.

  The next
day at work, I fire off an email to Detective Greenwood letting him know that Sarah is happy to talk to him and make a statement about what happened with Carla outside my house two nights ago. He replies quickly, just a single line to say thanks and he’ll be in touch.

  Figuring there’s no point in telling him I can take Sarah’s statement myself because he’ll only tell me to stay out of it, I don’t reply and instead focus on my own work.

  The day passes relatively quickly and by five, I’m packing up and heading home, grateful that it’s been a day without drama, especially of the Carla variety.

  My good mood quickly disappears however, when I get home.

  From the outside, my house appears normal, exactly as I left it this morning when I dropped Sarah at the train station before heading into work. But the second I walk inside, I notice it, the overpowering stench of perfume. Perfume that I know Sarah doesn’t wear.

  “Fuck’s sake,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor.

  My hand automatically goes to the gun on my hip, although I don’t remove it. It’s been a long time since I fired my weapon and although I have no idea who or what is in my house right now, I’m trying to avoid doing anything stupid.

  Without making a sound, I move through the house, systematically checking the living room, the kitchen and adjoining laundry before making my way toward the back. The two spare bedrooms and bathroom are also clear and it’s not until I reach the master bedroom that I see what she’s done.

  My bed, which I know Sarah made this morning after we got up, is now a mess, as though someone has thrown back the covers and rolled all over it.

  The duvet is on the floor, along with a couple of pillows, but the sheets, which are crumpled on the mattress still, are covered in Polaroids. There must be hundreds of them, thrown all over the bed.

  Stepping closer, I take a look at what they’re of, my stomach turning when I see photo after photo of every room in my house, from all angles, as though she’s walked through and photographed everything. There’s no one in the photos, though, like they’ve been taken today when Sarah and I were both at work.