The Devil You Know
by Freida McFadden
The Devil You Know
© 2017 by Freida McFadden. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination, and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
For all the mothers who have children who are nearly four years old and still not toilet trained.
For all the mothers who can’t figure out how their husbands manage to use so much toilet paper.
For all the mothers who have grown to hate glitter. And play-doh. And Frozen.
For all the mothers.
Prologue
Eight years earlier
“You’re dumping me? You’re really dumping me?”
Ryan Reilly, my on-again off-again boyfriend of the last few years, is pacing the length of the living room of his spacious one-bedroom apartment on the upper west side. He’s alternatingly furious and astonished. Guys who look like Ryan aren’t used to getting dumped. He’s used to being the one to hand out the “it’s not you, it’s me” line. He relishes it.
“I’m not dumping you,” I protest.
Except, of course, I am. I most definitely am.
“Yes, you are,” he insists. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Jane.”
Ryan’s not stupid—I’ll give him that. He’s got a laundry list of bad qualities, but that isn’t one of them. He’s arrogant, he’s obnoxious, and he’s got a terrible temper, but he’s not stupid. He’s a surgeon, actually, and he’s really good at it. He’s one of the most skilled and dedicated surgeons I’ve ever met. It’s one of the things I love about him.
Loved, actually. Now that this is ending, I should get used to thinking about us in the past tense.
Ryan stops pacing and sinks down onto his leather sofa. I was with him when he bought this sofa, and he got a kick out of the fact that the number of digits in the price tag made me gasp out loud. (I can’t afford a sofa like this—I’ll probably never be able to afford a sofa like this.) Ryan tugs at the collar of his green scrub top—he’s been in the hospital operating all day since five in the morning, so I’d imagine he’s exhausted. But he still sounded excited when I told him I wanted to come over. I’ve never known anyone who looked so bright-eyed at the end of a thirty-hour shift. How does he do it? He’s almost superhuman.
Ryan stares up at me with his blue eyes. Those eyes were the first thing I saw the day I met him three years ago, when the rest of his face was covered by a surgical mask. He has really nice eyes. Clear blue like the sky or a bluebird or a raspberry Jolly Rancher. If I keep looking at them, I’m going to lose my resolve.
Don’t look directly at the sexy surgeon, Jane.
“Come on,” he pleads with me, running his hand anxiously through his blond hair, “don’t do this. You know I’m crazy about you.”
I stay on my feet, looking down at him. “Gee, I thought we were keeping things casual.”
“Guh!” Ryan punches his fist into the back of the sofa, creating a knuckle-shaped indentation. That’s his infamous temper flaring up. A guy like Ryan always keeps lots of minions around to scream at during surgeries. I’ve seen him do it—it’s brutal. He’s made nurses cry. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”
I’m a terrible liar and he knows it, so I’m not even going to try. “Yeah.”
“So… just do what you need to do with him.” Ryan nods his head like he’s just come upon a brilliant solution. “Then come back to me.”
I shake my head. The two of us haven’t exactly been exclusive—he’s taken advantage of our open relationship far more than I have—but I’m not coming back to him. Not this time.
“What’s his name?”
I hesitate. “Ben.”
Let me tell you about this guy Ben.
He’s really cute. Boy next door sort of cute. Okay, he doesn’t make women clutch their chest and murmur “oh my” the way Ryan does, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s a plus.
Ben always holds my hand when we’re together. He doesn’t pull away and pretend like he doesn’t know me when he spots a cute blonde at the concession stand at the movies.
Ben shows up to our dates with flowers. Every freaking time. I want to say to him, “Okay, Ben, enough with the flowers.” Except I don’t because it’s so sweet that it makes me almost tear up. Ryan’s never bought me flowers once.
Ben and I have gone out nearly every night for the last week, and last night we stayed awake talking at my apartment until the sun came up. We didn’t even notice until Ben remarked, “Holy crap, I need to be at work in two hours.”
I really, really like him. I don’t quite love him yet, but something firmly in the middle between “really, really like” and “love.” I loke him. I lovike him.
And Ben would definitely not be okay with my hooking up with Ryan on the side.
“Ben!” Ryan punches the sofa again. He probably would rather punch something with less give than a leather sofa, but he’s smart enough not to break his hand on a wall. “What a stupid name! I can’t believe you’re dumping me for a guy named Ben.”
“What’s wrong with the name Ben?” There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the name Ben. It’s a perfectly nice, normal name.
“People with one syllable names are notoriously boring,” he says.
I squint at him. “Jane is a one syllable name, you know.”
“Exactly!” he says. “That’s why you need me.”
I can’t help but laugh at that one. Even when Ryan is being a jerk, he always manages to make me laugh. No matter how awful I’ve been feeling at various times over the last few years—and there have been some truly awful moments—he could always get me to smile.
Is this a mistake?
Ryan notices my hesitation. “What do I have to do?” he presses me. “What can I do to get you to stay? Tell me what I have to do.”
I don’t want what most women want. I don’t want a proposal or an invitation to move in with him or even a drawer set aside for me in his bedroom. Not that I wouldn’t like those things, but it’s not what I want most from him. What I want most is something that he’ll never, ever be able to give me.
I stare down at him. “You know what you have to do.”
He knows what I’m talking about right away. I watch him cringe—he probably wishes I’d demanded a ring. “Please don’t ask me that, Jane.” His blu
e eyes plead with me. “You know I can’t do that. Please. This is my whole life we’re talking about.”
“Well…” I shrug my shoulders. “That’s what I want.”
Ryan falls back against the couch, the fight taken out of him. He doesn’t look angry anymore—only sad. I suspect I’m the only person who gets to see Ryan when he’s sad. He can be the biggest asshole in the world, but whenever he loses a patient, he lies down on his bed, shuts the door to his bedroom, and stares at the ceiling for hours. I can’t talk to him when he’s like that, but he’ll let me lie down beside him.
Nobody sees that side of Ryan but me. And after I leave, I’m not sure anyone else will. Not for a long time. Maybe never.
But it doesn’t change a thing.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“No, it’s fine.” Ryan waves his hand in my direction. “Go ahead and leave me for Ben.” He sits up a little straighter. “But that guy better watch out, because the second he messes up, I’m going to swoop in and get you back.”
Yeah, right. In a year from now, Ryan won’t even remember my name.
Chapter 1
“Jane?”
Where am I?
I’m not in my bed. This is not my room. How did I get here?
Oh. It’s Leah’s room.
I rub my eyes as the events of the last several hours return to me. At circa three in the morning, my three-year-old daughter Leah burst into my room, informing me that she was unable to sleep. I was forced to join her in her bed, where she’s inched her way in my direction over the course of the night. I’m now smooshed against the wall, Leah holding a fistful of my hair in her chubby hand, which makes any movement very tricky (and painful).
“Jane!”
I disentangle my hair enough that I can sit up in the bed. My husband Ben is standing in front of us, his brown eyes slightly bloodshot, holding up my cell phone with an accusing look on his face.
“Your alarm went off,” he informs me.
“Huh?” I’m still half asleep. Leah kicked me awake roughly every twenty minutes last night.
“Your cell phone alarm was going off,” Ben clarifies. “I had to get up and turn it off.”
“Oh.” I rub my eyes until I can see clearly enough to notice that my husband’s hair is smooshed against his skull on the left side, fanning out in a lopsided Sleep Mohawk. Ben is adorable when he first wakes up, even though he’s crabby. “Sorry.”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Well, are you getting up or what?”
I’d give up my pinky finger for another hour of sleep. Hell, twenty minutes. But I’ve got my first patient at half past eight. “Any chance you could drive Leah to school?”
Ben frowns. “Jane…”
“Never mind,” I say before an argument can break out. “I’m getting up. I’ll do it.”
I look down at Leah, whose mouth is hanging open with a bit of baby drool dripping out the side. Her red curls are shooting out in every direction like a three-year-old mad scientist. I never love my daughter more than when she’s completely passed out. I hate to wake her.
“Any chance you could help her get ready for school?” I ask Ben, before he can hustle back to our warm bed.
He sighs. “Like what do you need me to do?”
I don’t get it. Ben has gotten Leah ready for school before on multiple occasions, yet whenever I ask for his help, he seems completely baffled. It’s not that complicated, really. She’s going to preschool, not preparing for a business meeting.
“Just get her dressed,” I tell him. “And change her diaper.”
Ben shakes his head dolefully at the package of pull-ups in the corner of the room. “When is she going to get toilet trained anyway?”
“Soon.”
“You know I think we should just put her in underwear for a whole weekend.”
“Would you clean up the pee on our carpet?”
“I’d help clean up the pee. I’d clean up at least fifty percent of the pee.”
I highly doubt he would clean up fifty percent of the pee. I’d be lucky if he’d clean up five percent of the pee. And after working all week, the last thing I want to do is be scrubbing ninety-five percent of the pee out of the carpet all weekend.
“Do we have to discuss this now?” I say.
He sighs again. “Fine. Go take your shower. I’ll take care of Leah.”
I climb over my sleeping daughter so that I can escape her room. This is no easy task, because Leah’s room is not exactly tidy. Her room looks like a Frozen tornado hit. In case you live in a soundproof booth and have never heard of Frozen, it’s this popular musical for kids about a girl named Elsa who has ice powers. Leah is obsessed with everything Frozen. She has a Frozen bedspread, Frozen dolls (Anna, Elsa, Olaf, and Kristoff), a Frozen lunchbox for school, and Frozen posters all over her wall. Right now, the floor is littered with Frozen figurines, playing cards, and other paraphernalia. This room looks like it’s one Frozen play-doh set away from being condemned by the Board of Health.
The second I get out of Leah’s bed, I step on a Lego from her Frozen Lego set. I scream in pain and grab my foot. There is nothing more painful than stepping on a Lego with your bare foot. I’d rather be giving birth—at least then I had an epidural.
Ben crinkles his brow. “Are you okay?”
“I stepped on a Lego,” I explain, still gripping my throbbing foot.
“Oh, that’s the worst,” Ben agrees. If there’s one thing you can share with your spouse, it’s the pain of accidentally stepping on your child’s various toys. Last week, Ben’s foot was impaled by a Barbie doll’s plastic arm.
When I get back downstairs after I dress and shower, I’m pleased to find that my daughter is shod and clothed, although Ben is still wrestling Leah into her hated winter coat. I don’t know what she hates about it—it’s neon pink with light pink fur on the hood. It has the maximum and requisite amount of pink. This coat should be a hit.
“Ben!” I say as walk closer and my daughter comes into focus. “Is Leah still wearing her nightgown?”
Ben struggles to his feet like he’s an eighty-year-old man. It always hits me with a jolt of surprise to remember that my husband is now thirty-nine years old—less than one year away from the big four-oh. When we met, he was barely thirty. But in many ways, he doesn’t look all that different. He’s got a little gray threaded into the temples of his short brown hair and some new lines around his eyes that have actually made him several degrees sexier. But he still mostly looks the same to me. I wonder if when we actually are eighty years old, he’ll still seem like he’s not yet thirty. Or will I look at my husband and think to myself, Oh my God, how did I end up married to this old man?
Ben glances at Leah’s Frozen nightgown and gives me a pained look. “She wanted to wear it to school.”
“She can’t wear her nightgown to school!”
“For Christ’s sake, what’s the difference, Jane?” He shakes his head. “She’s three. Does she really have to live up to some sort of fashion code at preschool?”
The truth is, I could care less if Leah wears her nightgown to school. For all I care, she could wear that same exact nightgown every single day for the rest of her life. But I know Leah’s teacher Mila is going to yell at me if she shows up like this. So I’ve got to choose: do I fight with Ben and Leah now or get yelled at by Mila the Preschool Nazi later?
“Fine,” I say wearily. “Just get her coat on.”
Ben kneels down to resume his struggle. Every time he gets the second of Leah’s arms into the sleeve, she pulls the other one out. It would be funny if I weren’t running late.
“By the way,” I say to Ben, “don’t forget that tomorrow is Leah’s winter concert.”
He looks at me blankly. Ben has always had a horrible memory. I have reminded him about this winter concert at least a dozen times, but he looks at me like this is the first he’s hearing about it.
“What’s that?” he asks.
I sigh. I sho
uld start tape-recording our conversations to save energy. “It’s a concert they’re doing at the preschool,” I explain to him. “It’s tomorrow at three.” And because I can’t help giving him a jab, I add, “I told you about this.”
“Oh, right.” He scratches at his hair, which makes it stand up more. “Well, I’m working from home tomorrow, so I guess it’s okay.”
Ben works for a large start-up company in Manhattan, but since we’ve been living out here on Long Island, they’ve been mostly letting him work from home. It’s a good deal, since the commute is hell and housing costs a fortune in the city. But even though he won’t admit it, Ben goes stir-crazy when he’s at home all day. That also probably explains why he’s packed on a good fifteen pounds since we moved out here.
“What kind of thing are they doing?” he asks. “Like, singing?”
“Well, it’s a concert,” I say. “So yeah, I’d imagine they’re singing.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “You know what I meant. Is there more to it than that? Like, a play or something?”
I look down at Leah. How could she participate in a play? We can’t even get her to use the toilet. “I think it’s just singing.”
“Okay, well…” Ben shrugs. He doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about this concert. I know that he adores Leah, but he doesn’t get too excited about most of her endeavors. I mean, I think the idea of a bunch of three year olds belting out songs in unison is unbearably cute, but he doesn’t. It’s a guy thing.
“Anyway,” I say, “don’t get there at the last minute. The parking is going to be a nightmare because of all the snow on the ground.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters as he finally manages to get Leah’s coat zipped up. The coat is so puffy that her arms stick out at right angles to her body.
“All right, Leah, let’s go to school,” I say, holding out my hand to her.
“Mommy!” Leah cries. “I don’t have my lunchbox!”
Oh crap. How did I forget Leah’s lunch? I give Ben an accusing look, but he holds up his hands. “You never said to pack lunch, Jane.”
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