“I got your text.” His face is very pale.
Travis removes his arm slowly and stands, motioning for Michael to take his place beside me. “Hungry? I’m sure I can find someone to bring us another menu.”
“I’m happy you came,” I say, looking up at him. “I’m—”
Michael bends and kisses my cheek. His lips are ice-cold. “How’s the salad?”
“Good.”
He sits, but doesn’t take off his coat or look at me. Tension flows off him in steely waves, and without him saying a word I know I was right. He’s furious at me. I shouldn’t have come here.
“It’s like our waitress has disappeared,” Travis mumbles to fill the silence, craning around in his chair. “How far could she have gone?”
“You’ll never believe what happened,” I say to Michael. “I felt our baby move. Just a second ago. It was magical.”
“I bet it was.”
He doesn’t place a hand on my stomach. He doesn’t even smile. His gaze never wavers from Travis. It hurts that he isn’t eager to join in the excitement.
“Ah, there’s the manager,” Travis says, grinning broadly, and then, “Patrick, good to see you. Could you bring another place setting? And a menu?”
“Of course, Mr. Martin,” Patrick says as he stops at our table. “It’s great to have you back, after so long a hiatus.” Patrick nods at Travis, and then glances over Michael. When his gaze reaches mine, he sucks in a clipped breath. “Oh, it’s been too long! We’re happy to see you two back together, miss.” He snaps for the waitress. “I’ll have her bring over your usual bottle of red.”
“Excuse me?” I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. “Have we met?”
“Wrong—it’s not—it’s the wrong girl,” Travis interjects with a stutter, then stops abruptly, as though he’s just said something he shouldn’t have.
Patrick shakes his head with a nervous laugh. “Oh, my apologies! I was so sure—what an uncanny resemblance to your Joanna.”
“You’re mistaken,” Travis bites out again, harsher this time.
But the damage has already been done. Michael sits stoic as a statue, both of us stunned.
Your Joanna.
Not Michael’s, but Travis’s.
They were lovers.
“Yes, of course. Of course.” Patrick squints theatrically. “I left my glasses in the back. That should teach me. Forgive me, miss. Let me find your waitress.”
And then he’s gone, retreating into the kitchen. Michael and Travis jolt to their feet in some kind of nonverbal standoff. I tug on the sleeve of Michael’s coat, but he bats my hand away. His breath rasps as if he’s having trouble getting air.
“You son of a bitch,” Michael seethes, hands clenched into fists. “All this time…”
Every eye in the restaurant turns our way. My cheeks burn with shock and embarrassment as I motion for help from the waitress, who has frozen to a stop. Letting out a groan, Travis removes his wallet, flings out a wad of twenties.
“Time for me to go,” he says. “This should cover your lunch. Stay and enjoy. It’s on me.”
“Arrogant bastard—”
“Colleen,” Travis says, ignoring Michael, “it was a pleasure.” But his eyes won’t meet mine.
Michael twitches, clutches the edge of the table, then tips it over. Glass shatters everywhere. His face is flushed red, and fat veins throb in his neck.
I’ve never seen him this way.
Without another word, Travis charges out of the restaurant. Patrick tries to speak to him at the door, but Travis pushes past, leaving everyone gaping in his wake.
The waitress and a busboy are there, gathering up shards of glass and china. But I’m watching Michael, terrified at the hard clench of his jaw and the fire in his eyes. He looks possessed, a man consumed by rage. He looks—I hate to think it—like he could kill. Michael really is capable of snapping, isn’t he? No, I correct my thoughts. He’d never do anything that extreme. I know the kind of man he is.
But I don’t know what to say to calm him down. There’ll be no bringing him back from this ledge.
“Grab your coat,” he snarls. “We’re leaving.”
He leaves me in the booth and storms out of the restaurant.
I sit for a moment and then I stand. I apologize for him, avoid eye contact, take my coat from Patrick at the exit, and slip into the chilly afternoon air.
Michael stands waiting for me. “There’s something you should know,” he says. He’s walking so fast, I can barely keep up. He doesn’t seem to care. “I’ve been waiting for a good time to tell you this, Coll, but there hasn’t been one. I suppose this afternoon couldn’t get much worse. Might as well get it all out now.”
I jog to catch up. “Can we slow down?”
“Do you remember when we first got together, and I told you that Joanna broke up with me by texting? I was telling the truth. But I lied about what she said.” He crosses the street without looking, earning a honk from a taxi turning at the light. I wave apologetically, stumbling after him. “She didn’t go to stay with her sister in Los Angeles. I told you that because I didn’t want to admit the truth—not to anyone.”
Anxiety pinballs through my gut. “What’d the message say?”
He stops at the door to his building. “She said the baby wasn’t mine. She was leaving me for her lover, so they could start their family together. She never told me who she was sleeping with, but now it’s clear—it was Travis. The baby was his.”
“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my hand. I can’t stop shivering. “Michael, I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know whether to run to him, wrap him in my arms, and tell him everything’s going to be all right, or give him space to blow off steam. I’ve never seen him so angry.
“When Joanna first told me she was pregnant, I traced back the date of conception. I was in London on business. Gone for twenty days. I confronted her, asked how that was possible. She said doctors can never know the dates exactly—they must’ve misjudged the timeline. She told me it happens all the time.” His tone was brittle with rage. “Travis might not even know the baby was his. All this time, he never said a goddamn word. Invited us to his home for dinner, walked into this office every damn day…”
Relief surges through me, followed swiftly by guilt. Joanna wasn’t the perfect wife Michael believed her to be, and now he knows the truth. Part of me is thrilled at the idea that her pristine image has been tarnished. But that’s wrong of me. Michael loved Joanna once, and loved her passionately, and deep down he might have unresolved feelings. Especially considering all that’s happened. Isn’t that the reason he’s kept the nursery as some kind of shrine—because a part of him is desperately clinging to the good memories he had of Joanna? Was he lying to me when he said Samara was the one pushing him to leave the rooms alone?
“Michael…”
“I don’t want you seeing Travis ever again.”
I swallow a nervous chuckle. “But he lives next door. How are we supposed to—”
“I don’t want you seeing him!” Michael explodes, turning on me. He charges a few steps closer, his face twisted with fury. “Do you understand? I forbid you to see him!”
“I—I’m sorry, I won’t—” I flinch instinctively, backing away, hands up. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
As if a switch flips, his shoulders slump, and the features of his handsome face soften. He scans the people staring at us on the sidewalk and seems to check himself. “Damn it, don’t look at me like that. Come here.”
He draws me into his arms and hugs me. He’s burning up, the heat from his chest radiating into my cheek. I’m holding my breath, waiting for the fury to surge again. Somewhere in the distance, cars honk, wind rustles the trees and the trash, and business carries on a
s usual.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” he says, tipping my chin up so that my eyes meet his, every trace of anger erased from his tone. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, sweetheart. Please don’t look at me that way, like I broke you.”
I don’t know what to say, so I keep my mouth shut.
“Look at me.” His fingertip brushes my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay….”
“No, it’s unforgivable.”
“It is,” I agree. “But I forgive you anyway.”
He kisses me, hard, and as he pulls back, he ghosts his fingers over my hair. “I still don’t want you seeing him anymore.”
“Then I won’t. I’ll do anything to make you happy.”
“Did he say anything to you before I got there?” He takes my hand in his and leads me into the lobby. “About me…or Joanna?”
“Only that she planned the company party this weekend.” It’s a bit of a jab, and I know it. “But you haven’t mentioned it, so I assume we’re not going.”
“I’m sorry, it’s been crazy lately, and I haven’t felt like myself.”
“I know what you mean. I haven’t felt like myself either. And we haven’t felt like us.”
“No,” he whispers as he punches the elevator button. “We haven’t. I think once they figure out who killed her, and this whole investigation goes away, we can finally get back to normal.”
Normal.
I’m not sure what that looks like anymore.
“Did you ever make an appointment with the doctor?” he asks.
I nod. “They were able to squeeze me in tomorrow at ten. Will you be able to make it?”
“Honey, you know I can’t take off work,” he says, stepping into the elevator.
For a crazy moment, I wish I were back in the restaurant, tucked against someone who truly cared about the baby fluttering around in my stomach.
The elevator doors close in front of us, and I’m left staring at a glossy reflection of me and Michael, this man I’ve loved more than life itself. I’d do anything for him. But side by side this way, we don’t look like we fit. He’s handsome in his pinstripe suit. The figurehead of the company. My complexion is ashen, my eyes are sunken from lack of sleep, and my hair is a mess. The woman I see in that reflection, in her dress and heels, looks like an imposter.
“The party is six o’clock Saturday night at the distillery, Coll. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I’ve been debating canceling the whole thing. Under the circumstances, that might be best.”
“No, don’t cancel.” I look up at him until he meets my eyes. I can’t help but wonder if he sees me—really sees me—or if he’s like Dean, and Rachael and Travis, and everyone else. If he compares me to Joanna every second of every day and is keenly aware that I fall short. “It’ll be nice to have a night out.”
“If you’re sure it’s not too much.”
No, the party’s not too much. It’s everything—and everyone—else. Most of all, it’s Joanna. She’s too much, even in death.
But I can’t say that, so I kiss her widower instead.
RACHAEL
I pull into the driveway a little after three o’clock, and fight through waves of reporters to get to my front door. The news crews have been relentless, constantly firing questions about our relationships with Joanna, Michael, and Colleen. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve waved and smiled, turned my cheek to the ideal angle.
But not today.
He texted Joanna from February through July.
If Travis lied to me about that, who knows how long they were having an affair? It might’ve been—heaven help me—years.
Fuming, I charge up the steps, unlock my door, and practically fall inside before the reporters can formulate a single question. I can’t think about makeup or proper answers now. Not at a time like this, when I’m bursting out of my skin.
He lied.
He was seeing Joanna. All that time. Right up until she was killed. He didn’t slip up and make a mistake. They weren’t merely having fun. A few trysts. This wasn’t uncontrollable lust. Oh no. This was an everyday, emotional affair. She seduced him, lured him away from me.
At least Joanna got what was coming to her in the end. Stupid bitch.
Now, I have to deal with Travis.
The house is still pristinely clean, just the way we left it this morning. But as I fling my purse onto the counter, a blotchy yellow stain on the granite catches my eye. My heart starts to thud as I stare at it.
That wasn’t there before, was it?
After a frantic search through the kitchen cabinets, I’m armed with rubber gloves, a steel bristle pad, and three bottles of cleaners. I get to work fast, spraying the whole counter down. Then I clutch the scrub pad and scour until my fingers burn and my hand aches. That stupid stain won’t go away. It’s blemishing the flawless swirls of colors in the granite. For the life of me, I can’t get it out. I press down harder, scrub faster and faster, putting all my strength behind it.
He texted her frequently. I know what else they did frequently.
On a wild impulse, I jerk open the oven door and wipe the whole thing down. Top to bottom. It looks clean at a glance, but there, near the light, I find a discoloration. It’s slight, barely noticeable, but I see it. That means Travis will too. And at the bottom, something must’ve spilled. It was probably from dinner the other night when Colleen used the oven to keep the catering trays warm.
She was so eager—borderline twitchy, even, jumping at the chance to help me with something—and now look what she’s done.
I clean furiously, scouring until no trace is left.
He kissed me before bed every night…after kissing her.
Every night over dinner, Travis and I talk about our day. He never mentioned texting Joanna. He would’ve if they were innocent business messages.
It was only a few times. I won’t see her again. It’s over, Rachael. Stop overreacting.
I can’t believe anything he says.
I scrub every last corner of the oven, lashing the sides with the pad. I scrub so violently the oven shakes. My eyes blur with tears.
“Rachael?”
I jerk upright, swiping at my eyes with the back of my wrist. The scent of bleach stings my nose, and I blink back more tears. Travis is standing there, briefcase in hand, his eyes wide. His hair looks windblown, as if he drove back from the city with the windows down. I can’t remember the last time I felt carefree enough to roll the windows down.
Did Joanna do those things with him? Did she make him feel that way?
I never used to be this person—the jealous one who doubts everything. I used to be confident and self-reliant. I was never jealous of Joanna or in need of reassurance. My friend was gorgeous and whip-smart, but I wasn’t threatened by her.
Then she decided she wanted my husband.
“What are you doing?” Half laughing, Travis sets his briefcase on the counter and bends to peer into the oven. “Did you…clean?”
Biting back a sarcastic remark, I peel the wet gloves from my hands and toss them into the sink. I really can’t be irritated at his surprise. I’ve never cleaned the oven before, but I had to do something or I was going to splinter apart. Now I’m out of breath and sweating, and no more prepared for this confrontation than I was when I slammed through the door.
“How was your day?” I fire back, leaning back against the counter as I fold my arms over my chest. “Did you meet with the detectives?”
“Not yet. Detective Shaw called and rescheduled. They must’ve gotten tied up somewhere.”
I search the angles of his face, the square line of his jaw, the sculpted edge of his cheekbones, for signs of deception. Because now I can’t trus
t even the smallest of statements.
“They stopped by to see me late this morning,” I say, my tone sharp.
“So you were free for lunch then?” He moves around the island and pours himself a gin and tonic. He doesn’t offer me one. “Why didn’t you call?”
“The afternoon filled up with appointments.”
But it doesn’t matter. Even if I were free during his break, I wouldn’t have called the way I usually do when I’m working out of the office. I couldn’t have been in public with him, sitting across a table in some swanky restaurant, chatting as if nothing had gone wrong. I couldn’t fake wedded bliss. Not today.
“That’s too bad,” he says, tipping back his drink. “Would’ve been nice to see you.”
“Really?” I hear the bitterness in my voice.
“Of course. Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m not sure I can believe anything that comes out of your mouth anymore.”
He sets his glass down with such force, I worry it’ll shatter on the granite. “Jesus! What the hell’s the matter with you today?”
“They have the phone records, Travis.” I swallow down the fear rising inside me. “They know you texted her, and she texted you, for months, right up until the time she was killed.”
“Rachael…” He takes a step toward me.
“No, don’t come any closer.” Hands out, I slide along the counter to put space between us. I’m not afraid of him hurting me. I’m afraid of the weakness I’ll feel if he gets too close. I’m terrified of losing my reserve, of giving in and letting him win before he’s been wounded from battle. I want him to hurt the way I’ve been hurt, to feel like he, too, is shriveling inside. “You were seeing her behind my back for months. How could you do that to me?”
“Rachael, you always knew what was going on—”
“With the others, yes. But not with her.” My voice trembles, betraying me. “Did I complain when you slept with anyone else? No. I didn’t say a word. I let you have your fun, and—”
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