The Thinnest Air

by Minka Kent

  Pounding on the door, I hear the sound of her TV, the squawk of her prized cockatiels, and the sound of her husband yelling at her that he thought he heard someone knocking on the door.

  It takes a minute, but she finally answers.

  “Mrs. Conway,” I say, breathless. “Greer Ambrose. Apartment 3F.”

  She looks me up and down, the scent of stale cigarettes and bird shit encircling me like an invisible fog. “You still live here? Thought you and that boy broke up.”

  “We did,” I say. “And I don’t live here, but my name is still on the lease. I need in the apartment.”

  Her head leans to the side, like she can’t decide if I’m lying.

  “I can’t get hold of Harris,” I say. “His phone is off, and no one’s seen him at the shop for over a week.”

  “Have the police been notified?”

  “That’s my next step,” I lie. Kind of. I don’t know what my next step is; I just know I need to get inside his apartment as soon as possible, and only then will I be able to figure out my next move. “Do you have a master key or anything? I just need to take a peek inside, see if anything looks amiss. I don’t want to bother the police if it’s for nothing. Maybe he left a note?”

  Her eyes squint, and she exhales.

  “Legally, I’m allowed into that apartment, Mrs. Conway.” I try to be as polite as possible, though I know I’m speaking too fast and my eyes are twitching. I don’t blame her for being skeptical. After everything I’ve been through in the past week and now this, I’m not in a good place, and there’s nothing I can do to mask that.

  “It’s true, Edith,” her husband chimes in from his sunken-in spot on the living room sectional. “Give her a key so we can finish this damn show and clear it off the DVR.”

  Mrs. Conway places a finger in the air before closing the door. When she returns, she places a shiny gold key in my hand.

  “Here,” she says. “Bring it back to me as soon as you’re done, you got that? And don’t steal anything.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  With that, I’m gone. Heart pumping, cheeks flushed, vision dizzy and blurred, I run back to the apartment and jam the key in the lock so hard I worry I might have broken it off, but with a quick twist the lock pops.

  I’m in.

  A stale scent fills my lungs, like the place is void of fresh oxygen. The counters are clear of clutter and recently wiped down at some point, and the pillows on the sofa are fluffed. Whenever he left, it doesn’t appear that he did it in a hurry.

  His family photos still line the fireplace mantel.

  His shoes are neatly placed on a rug by the door, save for his favorite pair of leather Chucks and his black Doc Marten combat boots.

  The way he left the place makes it look like he’s out running errands, due back at any moment.

  Moving into the kitchen, I open a few cupboards, finding cans of Wolfgang Puck soups and unopened boxes of his favorite organic version of Frosted Flakes. I check the fridge next.

  It’s empty.

  No milk. No eggs. No butter.

  Nothing perishable. Nothing that would start to smell over a long period of time.

  In fact, the fridge isn’t even cold.

  He turned it off before he left, which tells me he planned to be gone for some time.

  Slamming the door, I check his bedroom next. His bed is made, the corners neatly tucked and the pillows standing upright against the headboard, and his laundry hamper is empty.

  Opening the closet doors with a clean jerk, I find it in a state of haphazard disarray.

  My heart sinks.

  A significant portion of his clothes is missing.

  Jeans, T-shirts—all the casual stuff is gone. Nothing hangs but a few old suits he never wore except for special occasions, a collection of skinny ties, and a bunch of old, pilling sweaters from college he’s been meaning to donate for years.

  I check his bathroom next.

  His cinnamon toothpaste. His argan oil shampoo. His triple-blade razors.

  All of it . . . gone.

  CHAPTER 31

  MEREDITH

  Eight Months Ago

  “You’re making a huge mistake.” Harris sounds particularly annoyed with me tonight.

  I’ve spent the better part of the last few months venting to him about Andrew, and tonight I’ve dropped a handful of bombshells.

  Couples counseling is going exceedingly well.

  I still love Andrew.

  And now he wants a baby.

  “This is your fork in the road,” he says. “This is your chance to get out while you still can. I don’t get it, Mer. What the fuck changed?”

  Over the past few months, Harris has been steering me in the direction of divorce despite my insistence that Andrew’s been treating me better than he ever has.

  When I first solicited Harris’s advice, it was because I knew he would be unbiased. Somewhere along the line, I guess he decided he liked me as a human after all, and he wouldn’t stop pushing for me to leave my husband. He’s just like Greer, and now I don’t even know if I want to talk to Harris anymore. All we do is have the same conversations fifty different ways because he refuses to accept the fact that things between Andrew and myself have improved.

  “Maybe I don’t want to get out anymore,” I say.

  “That’s not what you said a week ago.” His tone is terse, and I imagine his jaw is clenched tight. “God, every other week it’s something else. Make up your fucking mind, Meredith. Stop waffling.”

  After a while, I got tired of Harris’s lectures, so I’d let him yammer on while saying, “Yeah” and “Mm, hm” and “Okay” to show I was still listening, which in retrospect wasn’t a good idea because he actually thought I was agreeing to do all the things he said . . . which in a nutshell was leave Andrew, move back to the city, and start fresh as soon as I could access my trust fund.

  “Why are you being like this?” I ask. “We’re friends. Support me. Support my decision. Be happy for me.”

  “We’re not friends.” His words sting. “I’m your voice of reason. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “Look, I don’t expect you to understand,” I say. “But I still love him. And neither of us is perfect. And I’m not ready to throw in the towel yet.”

  “But a week ago you were,” he says. “You caught him flirting with your waitress when you came back from the bathroom.”

  “Yes, and we discussed that in couples counseling,” I say. “It turns out he knew her. She was the daughter of one of his clients. They were laughing because he’d made a joke about her father. When I saw them, I just assumed they were flirting.”

  “I can’t fucking believe this.” In other words, he thinks I’m an idiot.

  “I don’t know why you care so much. The only reason I started talking to you about any of this was because I thought you didn’t care.” I pace my living room. Andrew’s going to be home any minute. “I wanted your objective opinion, but it seems like you can’t even give me that anymore.”

  He’s quiet.

  I’ve struck a nerve.

  He knows I’m right.

  He knows it.

  “My objective opinion has nothing to do with this,” he says. “I’m trying to guide you in the right direction. Prevent you from making the second biggest mistake of your life.”

  “Second biggest? What was the first?”

  “Marrying him.”

  Rolling my eyes, I check the street, watching for his car. I need to wrap this up.

  “Don’t call me again,” he says.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. I’m tired of the hemming and hawing,” he says. “Get a fucking diary. I’m done.”

  “Harris.”

  “You know what, Mer? You’re just as flaky as your mother. But at least she had enough sense to get out before she was up to her elbows in someone else’s bullshit.”

  “Now that’s just mean. I’m nothing like her.”


  “You’re exactly like her.” His voice is a low sneer laced with revulsion and darkness.

  My skin is hot, my heart firing away. Comparing me to my mother is a line Harris knows better than to cross.

  Before I have a chance to offer my rebuttal, the line goes dead.

  Sliding my phone across a nearby table, I head to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine.

  It’s Friday. It’s almost five o’clock. It’s Andrew’s weekend, and we’re supposed to pick up the kids from Erica’s later.

  I need to unwind, but the second I uncork my favorite dry red, the doorbell chimes. Abandoning my liquid Xanax, I get the door, only the person standing on the other side is the last person I expect to see on my steps.

  “Ronan.” My face wants to smile, my heart dropping to my fluttering stomach when I see him.

  He looks good, even better than the last time I saw him.

  His hair’s a bit longer, his skin a bit tanner. Recent vacation maybe? And he’s dressed in plain clothes, though his shield hangs on a chain around his neck. Over his shoulder, I notice his unmarked car parked in the street.

  “Was on my way home,” he said. “Wanted to stop by and let you know we finally caught that stalker.”

  The stalker.

  God, that seems like forever ago, and now it’s all coming full circle, bringing Ronan into my life all over again.

  “Come in.” I pull the door wide.

  “It’s okay. I’m not staying long.” There’s a bittersweet longing in his eyes, and his hands are shoved in his pockets. He looks at me the way you look at the flickering glow of a candle, knowing it’s beautiful and tempting but it’ll hurt if you touch it.

  The stalker hasn’t messed with me in forever, well over a year. In the back of my mind, I always assumed maybe Erica hired someone to have me followed just to mess with me. That’s something she’d do out of sheer spite.

  “Apparently this guy was targeting random women in Glacier Park,” he says. “Just some mentally unstable local. Lived in a log cabin outside the city limits. Bit of a recluse. Anyway, someone caught him in the act, and we got a description of him as he fled, along with his plates. That’s how we nailed him. He confessed to following you, and he claims he picked you at random. Just thought you’d like to know.”

  It’s sweet of him to come all this way to give me peace of mind when he owes me nothing. What we had may have been a fling, but I still hurt him. There’s pain in his eyes when he looks at me, sending a sympathetic ache to my chest.

  How I wish we could’ve met under different circumstances, in another lifetime.

  “Thank you,” I say, resting my hand over my heart, wishing I could hug him but knowing it’d be completely inappropriate in our current states. “How have you been? I think about you often . . .”

  His face lights. He doesn’t say it, but I know he thinks of me, too. “Good. I’ve been good.”

  “Anything new?” I wish he could come in. I wish we could catch up. I could talk to him for hours, always could.

  “Just been working,” he says. “Going on some dates.”

  His gaze softens, and he smiles. I think he wants me to be happy for him. Deep down, it feels as though I’ve been punched in the gut.

  “Really? Dates?” I lift my brows, forcing a smile, though I’m sure my voice gives away my disappointment. Despite the fact that Ronan’s not mine and never will be, I’m jealous of those faceless girls who get to ride shotgun in his truck, bask in his perfect, brilliant smile, and experience the toe-curling kisses I’ll never have the pleasure of knowing again.

  “Yeah.” He smiles.

  “Anything promising?”

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Anyone I’d know?” I doubt it, but I’m dying to hear a name, something, anything. Is this what jealousy feels like? Nausea, stinging eyes, a crushing heaviness like I’m staring at the one who got away, knowing he can never be mine again?

  Silently scolding myself, I shake it off. I have no right to care about who he dates. I have no right to miss him, to envy the woman he’ll someday fall in love with and marry and start a family with. He’ll take one look at her, and he’ll know it was always supposed to be her, and in that moment, he won’t be thinking of me.

  I bet he’ll be a good dad.

  He’ll be home for dinner each night, teach his kids how to throw a football, carry them on his shoulders at theme parks, and hop in the pool with them in the summer, teaching them how to dive and letting them ride on his back.

  Andrew’s a good father to Isabeau and Calder, but in his own way.

  It’s not fair to compare the two.

  The flash of headlights veering into the driveway steals my attention.

  My husband’s home.

  “So what was the stalker’s name?” I ask. “Just so I know.”

  And so I can tell Andrew, so he doesn’t grow suspicious of this unexpected house call.

  “Perry Davis,” he says without missing a beat.

  My lips jut forward. “Oh, okay. Never heard of him.”

  “He’s currently awaiting sentencing. Rest assured we’ll be watching his every move,” he says. “He won’t be able to so much as fill up his gas tank without one of us knowing.”

  I imagine the old-moneyed husbands of Glacier Park would have a conniption if their little police department did nothing to thwart some deranged lunatic harassing their pampered wives.

  The chink of keys on the counter and the beeping of the security system echo through the foyer, and our eyes meet.

  “Mer?” Andrew calls. “I phoned you six times on my way home. Why didn’t you answer?”

  He’s been doing this more and more lately, getting worried if I don’t answer, if I don’t text him back within minutes. Ever since I mentioned in one of our counseling sessions that it bothers me how he never seems to worry about my safety, he’s been going overboard trying to make up for it.

  “Ringer was off,” I call out. “Sorry.”

  Ronan forces a breath through his flared nostrils, his lips flat as he bites his tongue. He doesn’t have to say anything. He knows I know exactly what he’s thinking.

  “Had me worried. Thought something happened to—” Andrew appears from around the corner, stopping short the second he sees Ronan. “What’s this?”

  “Detective McCormack stopped by to tell me they found my stalker,” I say.

  “About damn time,” Andrew says, resting his hands on my hips and kissing the side of my neck, just below my ear. He lingers, his grip laying claim to my body as if he feels threatened by the sheer presence of Ronan.

  Does he know?

  The two of them loiter, all hard stares and broad shoulders, a couple of bucks fighting over a prized doe. Ronan studies us, his gaze fixated on Andrew’s hands at my hips.

  “I should go,” he says after a moment. “Just wanted to let you know.”

  “Thank you so much,” I say, wishing I could walk him to the car, dying for just a few more innocent moments with him.

  Just being in his company gives me the tiniest hint of a rush—a sliver of what I felt with him before.

  I miss the rush.

  I miss him.

  But I made my bed. I married Andrew for better or for worse. This is the life I chose.

  Giving him a small wave and ignoring the upsurges of melancholy washing over me, I stand, watching as he leaves, until Andrew slams the door shut.

  “That was random,” he says. “You haven’t been bothered by that stalker in a couple of years, right?”

  “Apparently he was messing with other women in the area,” I say. “He must have moved on from me. Ronan—Detective McCormack—was just following up with me as a courtesy.”

  “Ronan?”

  Shit.

  I’d hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  “First-name basis, eh?” Andrew’s expression darkens as he pushes past me and heads to the kitchen. I follow him, watching as he helps himself to the bottle I’d u
ncorked, taking my glass for himself.

  Folding my arms, I shoot him a look. “What are you getting at?”

  His gaze skims to mine. “You tell me.”

  “Remember what Dr. Connelly said about confronting each other like adults and being clear and direct in our communication? If you need to ask me a question, just ask me,” I say, trying to de-escalate this conversation before it reaches the point of no return. “Playing these little games is detrimental to our relationship.”

  My husband clears his throat.

  “Fine.” Andrew tosses back the remainder of the wine. “I know you were fucking him.”

  I can’t breathe. The wind has been knocked from my lungs, but I muster the courage to present myself with unruffled feathers.

  “How did you find out?” No sense in denying anything at this point. I’m a big girl. I can own this. Harris says there are consequences to every decision, and I’m seconds from finally discovering what my foolishness is going to cost me.

  “I have my ways,” he says with an arrogant snort, topping off his wineglass.

  “How long have you known?”

  “Long enough.” He makes his way around the island. “Remember when I fucked you like the whore you are?”

  I swallow the hard knot lodged in my throat, but it’s still there.

  I knew it.

  That morning in the hotel . . . he was punishing me.

  “You wrote on my windshield, didn’t you? It wasn’t the stalker that time.” I squint in his direction, recalling the giant, ugly letters spelling out the word “Whore” when I’d come out of Ronan’s the night I ended things.

  I hadn’t mentioned that to him. I didn’t want him to suggest we track down parking lot surveillance footage from the pharmacy I’d claimed to have been at.

  His lips pull into a knowing smirk, and the dangerous glint in his eyes is one I’ve never seen before.

  “I don’t understand. Why would you not tell me? Why would you act like you didn’t know? Weren’t you angry?”

  “Of course I was angry. Still am,” he says, taking a slow sip of Merlot. “But you came home to me, and when you stopped spending time with him, I figured you finally came to your senses and realized this is where you belong. Here. With me.”