by Minka Kent
“If I wasn’t married, would you . . . would you want to be more than friends?” I take a sip, coating my tongue in velvety liquid chocolate. My cheeks heat. Can’t remember the last time a man made me blush.
“If you weren’t married . . . yes. I’d snatch you up in a heartbeat.” He cruises over a hill, one hand resting at the bottom of his steering wheel as he turns and winks.
“We’re playing with fire.”
He doesn’t answer, but I know he knows.
It started last month, after I called him in the middle of the night. Two days after that, I called him again when I saw that same car driving up and down my street, almost intentionally slow, as if it were menacing me. Andrew was gone that night, out of town for work, and Ronan came over.
I didn’t want to be alone, not with that creep out there again. Of course, by the time Ronan showed up, the car was long gone. But I was able to confirm that it was a late model Honda Accord with Utah plates.
He did a perimeter check, inside and out, and then camped out in my living room—in the dark—for hours. When I woke up he was gone, but he left a note saying everything was clear and to call him if I needed anything.
A few days after that, I bumped into him while gassing up at the Kwick Starr on Bleu Street. We chatted between pumps eight and nine for nearly an hour, both of us ignoring the passing time, and when a waiting car honked at me to move, he asked if I wanted to grab lunch. Climbing inside my car, I started the engine, contemplated his invitation, and gave him a quick nod as I moved my car to an empty parking spot.
I don’t have a lot of friends here.
Andrew plucked me out of Denver and planted me here, among his friends and colleagues and neighbors he’d known for years, neighbors who treated me like an outsider, a novelty, gossip fodder.
Andrew doesn’t see it, but I’ll never forget our first dinner party. I slaved all day in the kitchen, preparing everything myself when I could’ve easily had it catered. Two of Andrew’s neighbors’ wives, Betsy and Luellen, were in the next room, discussing me.
“Poor Erica,” Betsy said. “How can she compete with that? The girl looks like . . . who’s that model . . . the one that was on that TV show with her mom . . . she hangs out with that Jenner girl . . . she’s got blonde hair . . .”
“Gigi Hadid,” Luellen said. “My daughter’s obsessed with her.”
“Yeah. She looks like freaking Gigi Hadid.” Betsy sighed, like it was a bad thing. “Erica’s beautiful, but she can’t compete with Gigi.”
Luellen clucked her tongue. “You think they’ll ever get back together? Andrew and Erica?”
“Who knows?” Betsy said without hesitation. “I feel like this is just a phase for him. She’s pretty and whatever, but there’s not much else to her. Honestly, she’s kind of boring. Must be the sex because it’s definitely not the personality. Men like ’em young these days. What I wouldn’t give for an ounce of that energy. And a perky ass.”
Luellen laughed. “You’re so bad.”
“Come on,” Betsy told her. “Dinner’s about to start. I want to watch her make a fool of herself trying to impress us. It’s so cute. She’s wearing an apron and everything. I know she’s just trying to look the part, but she looks like a little girl playing dress-up.”
But then there’s Allison. She’s the only neighbor who waves when I pass by. Then again, she and her husband only recently moved in. They didn’t know Andrew when he was still shackled to Erica.
“My one-year anniversary is next month,” I say to Ronan, peering over the dash and wishing he would keep driving.
“Doing anything special?”
“Andrew wants to take me somewhere. Says it’s a surprise. Told me to pack a swimsuit,” I say, shrugging. I’m guessing it’s Fiji or the Virgin Islands. Definitely a place he can brag about to his friends as he shows off pictures from our trip.
I know Andrew loves me, but he also loves to show off his earthly possessions . . . his Maserati, his limited-edition diamond Rolex, me.
“You don’t sound too excited.”
“I don’t?” I hadn’t realized. “I am. I just . . . I think I’m in a funk or something.”
“How so?”
I’ve yet to ask myself that question, afraid of what the answer might be if I dig deep enough.
“Are you unhappy?” he asks.
“Not at all,” I lie. I lie so hard.
A year ago, I was walking on a breeze, a smile permanently etched on my carefree face, counting down the minutes until my husband walked in the door at the end of the night and barely containing myself the second we crawled into bed.
But then I met Ronan.
And my life took an unexpected detour.
And it’s not Ronan. It’s not Andrew. It’s all me. I know that. I blame no one but myself.
“Actually. I don’t know.” I sigh, feeling the pressure of the words as they congest in my throat. I’ve held all this in, not telling a single soul, and I don’t know how long I can do it anymore. “When I’m with Andrew, I feel a certain way. Grateful? Fortunate? Loved?”
I pick at a loose thread on his seat.
“But when I’m with you, I feel something else entirely,” I say. “And I don’t know what that is. I just know it makes me feel alive in a way that Andrew doesn’t.”
I muster the courage to glance in his direction, watching for his reaction. His brows are angled in, his gaze focused on the road. He’s listening. Which is more than Andrew can say lately.
When we first met, Andrew would listen to me drone on and on about everything. He seemed fascinated by my eclectic childhood, my rebellious teenage years, my college shenanigans, and everything in between. He actually listened. We had real conversations with real dialogue that volleyed back and forth.
Now I can’t recall the last time we actually conversed for longer than five minutes about anything meaningful. Lately it’s “How was your day?” and “What are we having for dinner?” and “Did you want to see that play this weekend?”
“If you’re not happy, Meredith, then by all means, get the fuck out,” Ronan says. “There’s a reason the divorce rate in this country is so high. People make mistakes every day. Love makes us do stupid things.”
“Do you know how many people told me not to marry Andrew?” I ask. “All my friends. My coworkers. My sister practically launched an all-out campaign against him. But I loved him. And I didn’t want to believe them. I wanted to prove them wrong.”
“So you’re going to stay miserable just to prove a point?” he scoffs, shaking his head, the first time I’ve ever seen him annoyed with me.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I say, resting my forehead against the chilled glass window. “I don’t have a single penny to my name. My sister lives in a studio apartment, and living with my mother and her boyfriend-of-the-month is completely out of the question.”
“So get a job. Save some money.”
I don’t tell him about the trust fund. It’s none of his business.
“Andrew doesn’t want me to work.” I place my palm over my mouth. “God, do you hear how I sound right now?”
Ronan turns to me, his lips half frowning. “Yep.”
“He’d question it. He’d know something was up.” I close my eyes, wishing I’d never agreed to that stupid prenup that ensured that if the marriage couldn’t make it past year five, I’d walk away penniless.
I signed the prenup because I loved him. And at the time, I wanted to prove I wasn’t marrying him for his money. And it was true. I didn’t need his money. I had my own just a few short years away.
Ronan reaches across the cab of the truck, pulling my hand from my knee and holding it in his.
“Life’s too damn short to be this damn miserable,” he says. “If you want out, we’ll figure it out. Together. I’ll help you find a way. I’m here for you, Mer.”
CHAPTER 18
GREER
Day Four
“How could you
not know?” My mother’s voice trails through the foyer when I return that afternoon, though I’m not immediately sure who’s on the receiving end of her question. “How long has this been going on?”
“They’re still looking into the details,” Andrew says. “They took him off the case, though. That’s the important thing. They assured me they’re looking extra closely at him.”
I follow the sound.
“What are you guys talking about?” I play dumb when I interrupt, standing between them at the kitchen island. “Who’s off the case?”
“Did you know your sister was having . . . having an affair?” My mother whispers the last half of her question, as if having an affair is something she deems shameful.
The woman practically wrote the book on the topic, never ditching a boyfriend until she had another lined up and ready to go, and you can’t do that without straying, but if you ask her, those weren’t “affairs” because she was never married.
Denial is a strange beast, and I’m fortunate to have never known it the way she has.
“I didn’t know that,” I lie, feigning shock, gasp and all. “With whom?”
“That detective,” Mom says, making a gurgling noise in her throat as if she’s disgusted. “Can you believe that? Makes me wonder if he was tampering with evidence when he was here.”
“Kind of hard to do when there’s literally no evidence,” I say.
“You know what I mean. Maybe . . . maybe there was a secret notebook or diary or something?” She shrugs.
My fingers tap against the marble counter in quick succession, an old nervous habit. “Nobody writes in diaries, Mom.”
“I think Brenda’s point is that it was highly unethical for Ronan to work on the case.” Andrew’s voice grows louder, drowning us out before silencing us altogether. “And I agree. The fact that he didn’t come forward about the relationship is a red flag that the police are taking very seriously. And I encourage them to do so.”
Great.
Andrew’s blaming Ronan.
Ronan’s blaming Andrew.
Both of them have valid points.
And we still don’t have a goddamn clue what happened to my sister.
“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s dangerous to point fingers before you have all the facts.”
“Exactly,” Andrew says. “And right now, the fact of the matter is that Ronan McCormack deliberately neglected to inform the police that he was romantically involved with the missing woman whose case he was investigating.”
Much to my chagrin, I’m unable to argue with his statement. He might be a smug, old-moneyed know-it-all, but he isn’t wrong. Ronan lied by omission, a mistake that could prove to have dire consequences for him if he is, in fact, innocent.
I just hope he was telling me the truth.
My mother places her hand over her heart, staring ahead with tired eyes. There’s a silver filigree ring on her left ring finger. It’s not a typical engagement ring, more like the kind you buy from a beachside gift shop. A gift from Wade, I’m sure. Poor guy. If only I could warn him she’s a mere eight months away from getting the urge to move on to the next sad sack.
Mom repositions herself closer to Andrew than to me, which doesn’t bother me, but it tells me where I stand with her. It’s nothing new. Our relationship has always been strained, distant. Silly me for expecting her to step up to the plate and actually be there for me when tragedy strikes our family.
“Have you eaten yet, Andrew?” my mother asks, her mascara-caked lashes fluttering. She loves this. She loves to feel needed by a man. It’s not enough to have Wade’s affections; she has to soak up every ounce she can get from any penis-wielding human willing to give it. “Let me fix you a sandwich. Have a seat.”
“I’m not hungry, Bren,” Andrew says, shortening her name like they’re a couple of good pals who go way back. “Thank you, though.”
“Nonsense. Sit. Eat.” She pulls a chair from the table and points. How she has the energy to wait hand and foot on someone while her daughter is missing is beyond me. She never was good at showing emotions. I’d never seen her so much as shed a single tear at a funeral or get the tiniest bit weepy after a bad breakup. That woman, I’m convinced, is half robot. “Someone’s got to take care of you until my daughter is back. Might as well be me. I’m good at taking care of people. It’s what I do.”
My childhood begs to differ.
“Is turkey all right? Do you take mustard and mayo?” she asks, rifling through the fridge. “And do you want your bread toasted?”
Since the moment Andrew waltzed into Meredith’s life, my mother was absolutely taken with him. And I’ll admit, at first glance, Andrew Price is charming and generous and has a way of making you feel like you’re the most important person in the room when he talks to you.
The only thing is, I’m not naive enough to fall for it.
I only wish I could say the same for my sister.
“You’re up.” I climb into bed that night, my phone pressed to my cheek as I check in with Harris. There’s a fullness in my chest that wasn’t there before, like coming home after a long absence. The last time we spoke, he said he wanted to be together again, and while a week ago I’d have drowned myself in such a sweet sentiment, I only have enough energy now to focus on finding Mer.
“Was wondering if I was going to hear from you today,” he says.
Sinking back into the pillow, I press my palm over my forehead and close my eyes. My head is pounding and has been all week. Stress and lack of sleep have done a number on me, and last time I checked my reflection in the mirror, it seemed that my complexion had decided to join in on the fun.
“I have so much to tell you.” I exhale. “How much time do you have?”
“For you? All night. Lay it on me.”
I tell him about Ronan and Meredith, about the department placing him on administrative leave, and then I bring up the stalker and the pregnancies, laying it all on him and barely taking a breath between stories.
“Shit,” he says once I’m done.
“I know.” I roll to my side, pulling the blankets up to my chin and settling in for a long talk with my best friend. I realize now that most people lie. Hidden lives are more common than I thought. And Harris is the only person on this earth that I can trust to give me his honest, unabashed opinion.
“I don’t know what to say.” Harris sighs. “This is all so . . . unexpected.”
“It doesn’t feel real. None of this does.” I gnaw the inside of my lower lip, where it’s starting to callous and protrude, rubbing against my teeth when I speak. “Maybe she was too proud to tell me I was right? I gave her such a hard time before the wedding. She knew I hated him. God, I should’ve just—”
“Don’t.” He cuts me off.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t wallow in the past. Don’t beat yourself up for things you did or didn’t do years ago,” he says. “You do this, and then you reach this point of no return. Not going to let you go down that road. Let’s focus on the present.”
Exhaling, I say, “You’re right. You know me well.”
“So what do you think about all of this?” he asks. “Do you think that detective had something to do with it?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m on the fence,” I say, eyes growing heavy. “I feel like there are all these crumbs leading to these red flags, but none of them are leading to her.”
“Where do we go from here?” he asks. I love that he uses the word “we.” He may be thousands of miles from me, but knowing I have his full support is the only shred of comfort I have right now.
“I’m just going to watch them,” I say. “Andrew and Ronan. I’ll play both sides. What choice do I have?”
“Greer.” He says my name in one giant exhalation.
“Yes?”
“Just be careful.” He pauses. “If one of those men did something to Meredith, they’re capable of doing something to you, too.”
CHAP
TER 19
MEREDITH
Twenty-Four Months Ago
I tried to enjoy it.
But what began with a hard and fast pull of my zipper and the trail of his fingertips along my inner thigh ended with my husband screwing me like he was on a time crunch, neglecting to so much as look me in the eye or press his lips into mine.
The entire thing was a jarring experience, one that left a lingering soreness between my legs.
He’s never fucked me like that.
How everything could flip on its back after a short twelve months is beyond me, but as I lie in the middle of a king-size bed in the presidential suite of a luxury resort in Phuket, I’m at a loss for words.
The door to the bathroom is cracked open a few inches, steam escaping from the shower that Andrew insisted on taking the second he was finished, like he couldn’t wait to wash me off him.
Mustering the strength to forge on like everything’s fine, I peel myself up and make my way to our hotel en suite to clean up and change into a bikini. Though we landed in Thailand a couple of hours ago, it’s late morning here and a balmy eighty-four degrees.
“I’m going to the pool,” I tell him a few minutes later, tugging a cover-up over my shoulders.
Andrew’s wet, matted head emerges from behind the fogged glass door. “Why are you wearing that?”
“The cover-up?”
“Yeah.” He smirks, like everything is normal and he didn’t just fuck me like I was a coke-addicted hooker. “That thing.”
I get it.
He likes attention. He likes knowing that he has something he thinks everyone else wants. I’m realizing this now.
I can’t count how many times I’ve been hit on at the grocery store or the gym or on my way to the ladies’ room at a restaurant, and any time I mentioned it to Andrew, his face would light, proud and gratified, and he’d tell me I should be flattered.
Now I know it was never about me—it was always about him.