by Sara Shepard
“You were with his wife tonight, too. Don’t try and deny it. And you weren’t home when I got back from the benefit. Where did you go?”
“I-I told you.” His eyes search my face. He looks trapped. “I was getting Pepto. For my stomach.”
I cross my arms. He’s not a good liar. “I could tell them you have motive. I could tell them you were missing when I got back. I could put you away for life.”
“What the fuck, Lynn?” Patrick’s voice is a string held taut. “Why are you doing this?”
“Or I could keep this all to myself. But only if you stop seeing her. She’s not a good person, Patrick. She arranged with Greg to kill her first husband on the operating table. Did you know that?”
Patrick’s eyes roll back in his head, revealing slick, white membrane. In a blink, he’s advancing toward me, his steps long, his nostrils flaring. I reel back, surprised by his sudden movements, my fingers grappling around the knife’s shaft. “Don’t you say that about her,” he growls. His breath smells like wine. “Don’t ever.”
Rage floods me. So that’s how I get a rise out of him, then, by insulting Kit.
“You gave Kit a diamond bracelet,” I hiss in his face. “I found it in your car—I thought it was for me. But she showed up to work with it on today, plain as day, the moron.” He steps back. The blood has drained from his face. “I can track down the receipt from the jewelers to prove it. I’ve heard the police like proof.”
“Stop talking about the police!” Patrick cries. His jaw is twitching.
“Did you kill Greg to get him out of the way? Or did Kit tell you to do it?”
“For all I know, you killed Greg!” Patrick stabs a finger at me. “You’re crazy enough to! You fucking drugged her at that event—I could tell the police that! Who’s to say you didn’t rush back to her house and stab him to frame her? Maybe you wanted her out of the way!”
I scoff. “What?” I’m astonished Patrick has come to such a crazy conclusion. Has he been mulling this over since I told him about drugging Kit? “Good try, but I have witnesses putting me at the benefit the whole night. Don’t try and pass this onto me.”
“But I didn’t do it, either.” His eyes are pleading, suddenly. “I swear, Lynn. I swear. Please don’t talk to the cops.”
“Stop seeing her, and I won’t.”
I give him a level gaze. I hate that, so far, he hasn’t denied that he’s seeing Kit. Maybe he doesn’t see the point. And maybe I don’t even really care. I just want the upper hand. I want Patrick under my spell again. Like things used to be. He thrives under my spell. He soars.
It gives me a perverse rush just thinking about it. Before I know what I’m doing, I drop the knife, lurch toward him, grab the sides of his face, and kiss him hard. I feel his body resist at first, but then he lets me in, cupping the back of my head, pushing his groin into mine. I dig my fingers into his upper arms. I’m kissing him with the passion of someone who has the control but also as a relieved wife. He’s mine.
I’m the first to push away. Patrick pants lightly, his eyes searching mine. But where he is flustered, overwrought, our kiss has steadied me. Sex has always done that.
“I’m your wife,” I say evenly. “I’ll keep it a secret. But I need you to stop seeing her. Otherwise, I’ll ruin you—in ways you don’t even know.”
Patrick nods weakly. His posture has even changed from a few minutes before—his face is more open, and he stands erect, like an eager dog waiting for his next command. Here he is, I think. The man I married. The man I know.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I ask, my voice a coo.
Sadness flickers across Patrick’s features. “I-I don’t want to break up our family. I don’t want to lose our kids.”
“You don’t have to, darling. As long as we have a deal.”
He gives a head bob and falls into me. I wrap him in my arms. “It’s okay,” I coo, stroking his hair. “I know you didn’t mean to do it. You’re just confused. You’ve just lost your way.”
“I did.” Patrick has his head in his hands. “I guess I did.”
There’s a confession in there for sure. I catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room and give my reflection a victorious smile. Actually, take away a few faint wrinkles around my eyes, and I look young, badass, and in charge. Some things never change.
* * *
A creak startles me awake. I look around the bedroom and wait for my eyes to adjust. The fan whirs in the corner. There’s a rustling sound off to the left. “Patrick?” I call out.
I hear swishes of fabrics, cracks of joints. Then I see Patrick’s shape looming on the other side of the room, watching me. Startled, I sit up in bed. “What are you doing?” I ask groggily, pushing aside our mountain of pillows.
His dark form twists away. “I can’t sleep. I’m going for a run.”
His voice is cold, empty. I check the clock on the nightstand. “It’s almost eleven at night.”
“I got water,” Patrick says. “You want some?”
He thrusts a glass under my nose. There’s not much I can do but take it and drink. The water is cold and refreshing for my cottony mouth. I swallow three gulps, four. I offer it back to him, but he waves his hand, already heading for the door.
“Patrick.” I leap up to follow him. “Don’t go.” Intuition tugs at me. The killer might be out there. Ready to jump someone else. “Stay here. Run on the treadmill. We have a whole home gym downstairs.”
“I need fresh air. I’ll be fine. See you in a bit.”
And then he’s gone. I stand in the dim hallway light, rubbing my eyes. Out the window, I catch sight of Patrick cutting across the lawn, hands on his hips, the reflectors on his sneakers glowing. But he doesn’t head toward the pavement. Instead, he circles around to the side yard, like he’s going around back. That certainly isn’t his normal running route.
For a long minute, nothing happens. But then, what seems like a year later, the lights of his car flash on. I watch as his SUV backs out of our driveway and rolls quietly around our circle.
My skin prickles. Of course he isn’t going for a run.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter. He has no intention of stopping things with Kit. He’s going to do something rash tonight. Steal Kit out of town. My wife is onto me. We have to go, now.
Or maybe he’s snuck out to do something worse.
All at once, my throat feels like I’ve swallowed knives. I reach for the doorknob to the side yard—do I risk following him? Will my kids be okay alone for a few minutes? But there’s something wrong with my depth perception, and I swipe only air. I try again, this time turning the knob, but as I walk over the threshold, my legs feel like they’re filled with sand. It feels like I’ve stood up too fast, too, so I lean against the wall and wait for the feeling to pass.
Except it doesn’t pass. Stars whirl. The dizziness is nauseating. Deep breaths, I tell myself. Is this a panic attack? But that’s ridiculous. I’m not the panic attack type. My kids’ faces pass through my mind. Am I dying? Is this a stroke?
But then I think of the water I’ve just drunk. My mind halts at even thinking such a thing, but then I cross the bridge anyway, letting the idea in. Of course he did. It was his only way to escape. An eye for an eye. Patrick dissolved an Ambien in a glass of water just like I’d plopped one into Kit’s martini.
I feel my eyelids drooping, but I fight against it as hard as I can. I’m so angry I want to wail, except I’m also so exhausted I can barely manage a whimper. But if Patrick thinks I’m going to give up without a fight, he clearly doesn’t know me very well. I’m not going to descend into oblivion. I run to the powder room, shove my fingers down my throat, and watch as bile and liquid come back up. It will erase some of the medicine from my bloodstream. I need to be the smarter one here.
I need to stop the murderer from getting away.
<
br /> 33
LAURA
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017
I’ve drifted off just as my alarm buzzes. I shoot up, silencing it quickly, not wanting to alert Ollie. My eyes adjust to the darkness. I’m lying in our king-size bed. Ollie let me back into the bedroom, I suspect, because it’s easier to keep track of me if we’re sharing a room.
But as I turn, I realize that Ollie’s side is cold. My heart jolts. I spring out of bed and run to the baby’s room, my heart in my throat. Freddie is snoozing away, his lips parted, his eyelids fluttering. I place my hand over my heart as if to slow it down.
I creep downstairs, knowing that at any moment, Ollie could step out of the shadows. He could ambush me in the living room and strangle me to death. I pad through the foyer, past the couch, into the kitchen, my body on high alert. No lights are on. Outside, nothing stirs.
And then I see it: Ollie’s car isn’t in the driveway. I blink, dumbfounded. He’s . . . gone?
I stand stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, opening and closing my fists. What does this mean? Has Ollie left? Hope fills me. Maybe he took off for good. But in the next breath, I doubt this is true—after all of Ollie’s threats to keep me here, it makes no sense that he’d randomly give up.
But still, he’s given me a window. This is my chance. I need to get out of here before he comes back.
Stealthily—I still don’t trust what’s happening—I tiptoe back into Freddie’s room. His crib mobile spins gently, emitting soft, tinkling bedtime music. My heart pounds as I carefully lift him from his crib. “Shh, shhh,” I whisper as he stirs and grumbles.
Freddie is a heavy lump against my chest, but he remains asleep. Trembling, I creep out of his room and maneuver down the stairs. Before I went to bed, I left my purse and keys by the door, where I could easily find them—and miraculously, they are still here. I peek out the front window again. Ollie’s side of the driveway is still empty. Is this truly happening? Am I going to get to slip out of here?
The baby snores as I loop the purse and baby bag over my wrist and silently undo the front bolt. The door opens soundlessly, as though greased. Cold air assaults my face and I wince, pressing Freddie tighter to me, willing him not to react to the change in temperature. His eyes remain closed. His breathing is steady.
Only a few more steps. First down the front porch, and then across the walk, and then unlocking the Subaru. The sky above me is the color of ink, and all the stars are out. A streetlamp casts my long shadow across the grass. I glance down the street, but Ollie’s SUV doesn’t appear through the darkness, ready to catch me out. Hurriedly, I place the baby in his car seat and strap him in. Freddie smacks his lips and stirs for a moment, but then drifts back to sleep. I slide into the driver’s seat and jam the key into the ignition.
I pull away from the house. Pause at the stop sign at the end of the street and look both ways, though it’s asinine to think anyone would be out at this time of night. I turn two more times, and then I’m on the highway going north. At this rate, we’ll get to my parents’ house at about 1:00 A.M.
I breathe out, feeling the tears drip down my cheeks. The tension I’ve been holding in for days explodes from me, and I let out a few wrenched, wretched sobs. But I’m happy, too. Relieved. Because I’ve done it. I’ve escaped.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m safe.
34
RAINA
FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017
A driver drops me at a house in Blue Hill with a long, sloped, unkempt front yard littered with wildflowers, weeds, and political candidate signs of races long past. The driveway has dandelions growing through the asphalt cracks. A dim light glows from the porch, but otherwise, the house looks shut and dark.
I knock tentatively on the door, my skin crawling. Alexis—and I’ve decided to call her that in my mind, despite the fact that it isn’t her real name—opens it right away, her long blond hair cascading over her shoulder. “Does he live here?” I splutter. “Or is this place abandoned?” The last thing I want is to get arrested for trespassing.
Alexis shrugs. “He said it belongs to a bunch of the people in the kinky community. You pay a fee to play here. Think of it as a co-op.”
“More like a gross-op,” I murmur as she opens the door.
The hallway is empty and smells like feet. The living room is also empty save a ratty couch in the middle of the room. The kitchen faucet drips noisily. I walk to the back of the house and look out the window to the overgrown yard. We are only one street away from the Strasser-Manning house . . . where the murder went down. I think of Sienna. I can’t recall the last time I heard from her. Is that on purpose, or is she just busy? All at once, my friendship with Sienna seems so uncomplicated and safe. I regret not putting more effort into it. Maybe we’ll be able to start over, once I collect this money and repair my life.
“I might be having second thoughts, Alexis,” I murmur, my throat tight.
Alexis’s mouth pinches. “Don’t call me that.”
“I should call you Jane, then?”
“Don’t call me anything.”
She turns and struts up the stairs. I try not to stare at her butt, but it’s difficult. She’s wearing a skirt so short that I keep seeing snatches of her ass. Her shoulders are bare, too; I can see the delicate knobs of her spine. Her skin glows. I want to bite into it.
The bedroom she leads me to is generic and stripped down. In it is a bed with a mattress, sheets, and a comforter, though I wonder when they were last washed. Alexis flops down and glances at her watch. “He’ll be here soon. I’ve got everything set up.”
I look around. “Where are the cameras?”
“Hidden.” Alexis crosses her arms. Her eyeliner is thick today, and her lips are extra pink. “I’m not going to tell you where they are. You’ll stare at them and give everything away.”
I scoff. “I’m just as good at this as you are.”
“Says the girl who tried and failed twice in the past six months.”
Her eyes are gleaming. Is she flirting with me? But when I look again, she seems impassive, even annoyed. Like this is just a job to her, nothing more.
I smooth my hands on the comforter, then realize how dirty it probably is and pull away. “So what’s the plan?”
“We’re supposed to act like we’re at a sleepover. And then, I guess, he breaks in”—she makes quote marks with her fingers—“and pretends he’s robbing us. We need to act scared. He has to believe that we’re into this, too.”
I bite my lip. This is so weird. “What next?” I want to know when we reveal we’re blackmailing him.
“And then wait for my signal.” Alexis’s voice is businesslike. “Leave everything to me.”
I nod, though I don’t like putting my trust in someone else’s hands—I’ve always worked alone.
We kick off our shoes. I want to suggest that we watch something on my phone, but I don’t know if that’s allowed. I pick at my nails. Alexis rolls on more lipstick and presses her lips together with a smack. She gets up and paces around. She seems nervous, too. I wonder if she’s thinking about our proximity to the Strasser house, like I am.
“You really are acting like this is your first time,” I remark.
She shoots me daggers. “It’s not, don’t worry.”
“So what was your first time?” I lower my lashes. “Your first con . . . or your first time having sex. I’ll accept either answer.”
Alexis stops with her back to me, facing the window. “We’re not here to have a little chat. We’re not friends.”
“Okay, okay. Jesus.” I grit my teeth. “I’m just trying to act like we’re friends at a sleepover. I’m trying to get into character.”
But Alexis doesn’t buy it for a second. “Don’t you know the best way to succeed at this is to not actually become attached to people? That’s when mistakes get made. That’s when people get
hurt.”
“I guess that’s the difference between us.” I turn away, not wanting her to see the emotion on my face. “I’m not really cut out for this world. I want to make attachments.”
Alexis snorts.
But I don’t believe her. I can’t. So I position myself so we’re looking at each other again. “You mean to tell me you and I had absolutely no connection? When we were hanging out—when you thought I was different, and when I thought you were different—you felt absolutely nothing for me?”
The gooseneck lamp on the side table illuminates her sharp jawline. A muscle in her cheek twitches. She seems to be gnashing her teeth.
“What happened to you to make you like this?” I ask. “I mean, for me, it’s because I always went without. It’s not really my parents’ fault—they only did what they knew. They weren’t smart enough to climb out of their situation. But I wanted to change things. I wanted a better life. Is that what happened to you, too?”
Alexis’s mouth is pinched. “You really want to know?” she challenges.
“Yes. I really do.”
“Okay. Fine.” She turns to me, and her eyes shine in warning. “I didn’t have parents, Raina. I never had a father. I found my mom’s dead body when I was fourteen. Suicide. Pills. She was always a mess. After that, I was in foster care—which means I was abused, picked on, and sexually assaulted. I did whatever I could to survive. I cheated. I stole. I fucked people over. And I learned that you should never trust anybody. The worst thing you can do is make friends, because no one has your best interests in mind.”
Her tone is taunting as she tells me this, like she knows just how uncomfortable it will make me, though when she raises her head, her eyes are shiny, maybe with stress, maybe with tears. “You happy now?” she spits, her teeth clamped together. “Is this bonding enough for you?”
My jaw trembles. “I . . . I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know.”
