After she’s gone, Phoebe stares in a daze at the remains of their sugar binge, telling herself it would be best to start walking home now to avoid the temptation of finishing it. But she doesn’t go very far down that particular path of common sense. She picks up the fork and lays waste to it all. And then, in a final farewell to the interests of good health, she summons an Uber to take her home.
■■■
INTERLUDE
I’VE MESSED UP, Phoebe. Bad. It won’t be more than a day, maybe two, before they connect all the dots between the dead guy in the stockroom and the female employee who got him fired yesterday, and who’s now mysteriously absent. I guess I don’t have to tell you what I ultimately decided to do with those pictures I took in Bachmann’s apartment. I did sit on them for a bit, waiting to see if conditions would improve, but the messages haven’t stopped. I even warned him to back off. He thought I was being cute.
In light of what’s happened, part of me wonders if I should have found another way to deal with him, but I can’t help feeling something else would have triggered him, leading to the same outcome. Guys like Bachmann operate on rails, usually toward disaster.
My phone has been ringing all morning. Theresa, my manager and unwitting sister-in-arms, probably hadn’t figured out right away who’d left the blank envelope on her desk yesterday morning containing copies of the pictures, along with a brief note explaining whose they were. Going the anonymous route was the best way to handle things. I couldn’t very well tell her I’d broken into his place. She likely would have fired us both.
I never heard a word from her as I worked my shift. A few employees noticed Bachmann’s absence from his regular post, with some hoping aloud that he’d either quit or been canned. I happened to notice Theresa looking a bit pale and quiet, despite her professional façade, and I knew the answer.
On the voicemails, she sounds almost like a worried friend. She probably knows now who put that envelope on her desk, and I would bet everything she’s turned it over to the police by now. It’s equally easy to imagine a detective standing over her shoulder, feeding her lines encouraging me to come to the store so we can talk. Why wouldn’t she cooperate fully? She was only doing her job. And now she has the Lake Forest police department, yards of yellow tape, and a looming slew of bad press blocking townsfolk from buying their overpriced produce and supplements.
Bachmann might have taken it better if Theresa were a Tom. Being fired by a woman was just one hit too many to Bachmann’s straw-house ego. We’re lucky he didn’t come into the store and start shooting it up. Instead, he decided to just go after me.
Given that things were quiet until about six this morning, I have a feeling it was Andy Dailey, the dock manager, who found him behind the towering pallets of soda where I’d left him, since he’s usually the first person back there in the early-morning hours. Sorry, Andy. You’re a nice guy who doesn’t deserve the lifetime of nightmares you’re likely to have from all this. That’s my fault.
At first, I thought I could show up to work at the normal time and play off my shock like any other innocent employee, but the second I got a look at all those red and blue lights and uniformed men crowding the store entrance, I knew I had no chance of walking away from this clean. So I kept driving, and I haven’t really stopped moving all day. I know I should get as far away from this town as I can. That would be the smart move. But every time I start thinking of a new destination and how I will have to start my life all over, I remember why I came here in the first place. My business isn’t done. You can help me.
I just wish I could scrub the memory of it away.
I don’t think he left the store after Theresa canned him. He must have gathered his things and then holed up in the stockroom. It’s not hard to do. It’s a dim and dingy cave stacked to the ceiling with product, and it’s far less monitored than one might think. And since we had no scheduled deliveries that day, the room stayed more or less unattended. We do have outside vendors coming and going back there throughout the day, but they wouldn’t have thought twice about seeing Bachmann.
That none of this occurred to me as I headed back there to dispose of my trash near closing time is precisely why Bachmann is dead right now. My mind was more focused on a potential ambush on the way to my car, but in hindsight, that shouldn’t have concerned me nearly as much. The parking lot is well lit and has cameras. This is not the case in the stockroom, where there are no cameras at all. It’s the first time in my life I regret not being caught on surveillance.
If there was tape, the police would know without question it was self-defense. Without it, there is just my word. There were some red marks on my throat, where he grabbed me. Sadly, they’ve since faded. My scalp still hurts where he yanked my hair, but pain isn’t visible. Also invisible are the memories of the fishy stench of his breath as he pressed himself against me, whispering, “You owe me, bitch. Now hold still or I’ll snap your fucking neck.”
He had been trespassing back there, though, and the cops have likely sifted through everything in his garage apartment by now. But even with those elements in my favor, the cops would wonder how I managed to hit his femoral artery so squarely with my knife while he was attacking me. They don’t care for answers like “luck” or “coincidence” even when they’re true. They would also ask why I didn’t run out into the store when I saw him slither out from around the wall of soda pallets closest to me. My answer would be equally dissatisfying and cliché: I froze. By the time I realized it was Bachmann, he’d grabbed me. He was stronger than I expected him to be, like either he’d done this sort of thing before, or he’d been fantasizing about it so long it amounted to years of practice.
The police may very well accept all of these answers, but then the matter of the text messages we exchanged a few hours before the attack would come up. They would see that he made a very specific threat (“I’m coming for you whore”). And my flippant response (“I’d like to see you try”) might read as egging him on.
They’d also have questions about the butterfly knife I used, like where I got it and why the engraved monogram on it doesn’t match my initials. Someone might even recognize it as stolen from the dresser drawer of a local accountant, if said accountant filed a police report. Then the real probing would be under way. They’d corral me into a dank, dingy room and use every weapon in their arsenal to break me down over several hours. Even if I got rid of my whole collection of stolen trinkets, the courier disguise, and the robbery tools, somehow they’d find a way to get me to confess to every sin I’d ever committed, along with several I didn’t. I’ve seen enough true crime shows to know how that works.
So for now, I’m cowering like a scared animal during a bad storm. And yes, I’m using that word. “Scared.” It feels more appropriate now. Every time I think I’ve found a quiet enough place to take a breath and close my eyes for a minute, I feel him grabbing me all over again, crushing me against the wall as he clumsily worked on the button of my jeans with one hand while he kept his other wrapped around my throat; the cold steel of the knife handle as I ease it out of my pocket; the warm gush of his blood on my hand when in the blind fury I began stabbing his thigh wildly and quickly; I see his lips going white, his eyes glazing over, locking the hatred in place forever. And finally, I see the naive plans that brought me to Lake Forest ripped apart.
But as dire as all this sounds, the game isn’t over yet. Interestingly enough, I think you might have given me a new card to play the other morning without even realizing it. I wouldn’t have realized it either until circumstances forced me to start considering all my options. And the thing is, I might actually be doing you a favor, since you’re in a bit of a pickle too.
Don’t worry, I’m not judging you for sleeping with your teenage neighbor, even if his mother is your BFF. That’s none of my business, and since I just killed a guy, I have no room to talk about bad decisions. But you might have thought to put some c
lothes on before he opened the door to storm out. I’m guessing there wasn’t any time. Judging by how upset he looked, it must have been one hell of a lovers’ quarrel. Did you happen to notice me sitting out here? Given how quickly you slammed that door, I’d bet on yes. Don’t worry. I didn’t see a lot. But I did see enough.
It would be a real shame if anyone else were to find out. His daddy already has anger issues, and Mommy Dearest seems to care a whole lot about her new friend next door. And then there’s your husband, of course, dutifully leaving for work every morning, probably clueless about what, or who, his wife is doing. Again, not judging, but it really is a delicate web you’re weaving. It’s in such a vulnerable spot too, easily snagged by any old passerby.
I guess you can see where I’m headed with this. It doesn’t make me proud, but I’m running out of options. It’s time to give you a little nudge.
CHAPTER 9
AS A WAY to further smooth over the bumps of their recent spat, Phoebe surprises Jake with a belated birthday celebration in bed. After sharing gourmet chocolates and a bottle of champagne, she gives him a small present. It took some effort to think of something right. It couldn’t be too extravagant, or it might raise suspicions if either of his parents happened upon it. Most important, it needed to have personal meaning, something he could always look at and be reminded of her, no matter where he ended up in life.
She settled on a framed original print of Daniel’s Ferrari’s concept art, which had arrived along with the car itself, and had been sitting in a guest room closet ever since. On the back, she wrote a little note (Your other favorite ride . . . ). No signature necessary. Even though he still hasn’t been able to drive it, she has let him sit in it and start the engine a few times. They’ve also christened it in other ways, which felt like a satisfying middle finger to Daniel for dumping the car on her in the first place. It’s nice to see the print go to someone who will actually appreciate it, but even better to have one more piece of her father out of her life. Since unwrapping the gift, Jake has demonstrated his immense gratitude a few times. Phoebe plans to stick this day into a mental time capsule and visit it regularly.
Since their fight, she hasn’t asked him if he’s had any further thoughts on his college plans. Her mind keeps turning back to Vicki in the bakery yesterday, speaking with tears in her eyes about how Jake’s future is her one remaining hope. The conversation can’t remain on pause forever, but Phoebe has decided not to fight him if he chooses to stay. She doesn’t want to repeat what happened two days ago. They’ll figure things out together.
She hasn’t seen Vicki since their strange shopping trip, though Vicki did send a text last night letting her know everything was okay, and thanking her again for the money. Phoebe has been debating the wisdom of that gift ever since, wondering if this might be the start of Vicki’s tapping her like she’s an ATM. And does Phoebe have any right to refuse more requests for help, given what she’s been doing with Jake? What if they already know and are just waiting for a chance to blackmail her if she tries? The thought turns her guts to jelly, but she quickly shoots it down as ridiculous. Phoebe freely offered the money to her; Vicki didn’t ask for it, and probably would have died at the thought. And she especially doesn’t seem like the sort of mother who would pimp her son out as a bargaining chip.
But everything is for sale at the right price, and everyone has a circumstance under which seemingly inalienable bonds and morals dissolve like superglue in acetone, especially when one’s very survival is thrown into question. How much money would Phoebe part with out of a desire to protect her vanity? She knows it’s higher than ten grand, but there has to be a limit, one where she’ll have to be ready to go all in on Jake and say he’s worth whatever humiliation might come from exposure. He certainly seems prepared to face that for her, but he has so much less to lose. If anything, he would come out of this something of a folk hero, the boy next door who nabbed the aging heiress. She could see him fielding offers for interviews or spots on third-rate reality shows. America would lap it up.
And she hasn’t even thought about what Wyatt might do if he found out. She imagines he would be upset in his typical half-repressed way. But what if she’s taking that for granted? Recent events have eroded what little mutual respect is left between them to nearly nothing. He could decide to hire a pit bull for a divorce lawyer and drag things out in court, or possibly even find some other way to cash in on both his victim status and the debacle with her father. How about an exclusive interview with a media luminary, or a shocking tell-all book about life with the daughter of the infamous Daniel Noble? They could call it Like Father, Like Daughter.
She squeezes her eyes shut and shoves all those thoughts away, pressing herself against Jake’s chest, absorbing the comforting and steady thump of his heartbeat, timing her breaths with his. Whenever reality or karma finally does come calling and she needs an escape, this is the song she will always cue up. She’s just on the edge of sleep when the doorbell rings. They both sit up reflexively, like two people caught dead to rights in the middle of a terrible sin.
“Don’t answer it,” Jake says. “It’s probably just a salesman.” He doesn’t sound convinced of his own theory.
As if in response, the bell rings twice more in rapid succession, triggering an avalanche of all her worst-case-scenario thoughts. It’s Vicki. She’s figured out everything. Her vengeance will be swift as she fights with all the brutality of a lioness protecting her cub. Phoebe’s adrenaline surges, making her both hot and shivery, but she feels a trickle of calm when Jake places a hand on her shoulder. “It isn’t my mom. She’s at a dentist appointment. I saw her check in on Facebook fifteen minutes ago.”
She breathes a little easier. Thank goodness for the modern need to share every mundane detail with the public. The bell rings again as she gets out of bed and wraps herself in a robe. “Stay put. Whoever it is, they’ll have no reason to come up here.”
Closing the door, she makes her way down the stairs and gazes through the peephole. Her stomach gives a little lurch when she sees Ron standing there. It isn’t her worst nightmare come true, but she has no reason to think he’s here bearing good tidings, or that he’ll give up and leave if she doesn’t answer. He’s already rung three times, and he doesn’t look like he’s moving yet. She takes a deep breath and opens the door, glancing over his shoulder to check for the blue car. It was here for a bit this morning, but it’s gone now.
Ron doesn’t appear to have slept or eaten in the last week, judging by the dark luggage under his eyes and the way his clothes hang from his body as if on a rack. The sour-sweet stench of beer wafts off him, troubling for someone who is supposed to be a brain surgeon.
Phoebe has always sensed that Ron doesn’t care much for her, but today his contempt is as plain as the alcohol on his breath. Then she glances down at his feet and sees a white Williams-Sonoma shopping bag, and the picture is starting to come a bit more into focus. He’s here about yesterday. She should have known.
“Phoebe. I must have caught you at a bad time.” He glances at her robe, silently judging, as if he has any room.
“Not really. What’s up?” She gives herself an invisible pat on the back for sounding so light and friendly.
“I need to speak with you. Can I come in?”
The thought of his being in her house with Jake hiding so close by fills her with churning dread, but she can’t think of a reason to say no that wouldn’t come off as hostile, and it seems unwise to provoke hostility in Ron right now, or ever, really. She stands aside to let him through and then leads him to the living room, her back stiff, as if bracing for him to lay a hand on her. In the living room, she tells him to have a seat anywhere and offers him a drink.
“Scotch and soda if you have it.”
She pours without comment. “Need ice?”
“No, it’s fine.”
She pours generously and hands the glass to h
im. He doesn’t guzzle it down in a single gulp, but the faint tremor in his hands says he wants very much to do so. It suddenly occurs to her that he might be drinking like this because he’s more anxious than he is angry. This settles her stomach, but only a little. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“You’re aware of our predicament.” It isn’t a question. Just a statement of fact.
“What predicament?”
He gives her a deadpan stare and pulls a slip of folded paper out of his breast pocket. Phoebe immediately recognizes it as the check she wrote Vicki yesterday. The princess kittens stare back at her, mocking her with their sweet innocence.
“Why are you trying to be coy?” Ron asks.
She sighs. “Okay, fine. I helped your crying wife, all right? She told me you’ve been struggling and I offered some short-term assistance. Is this some kind of wounded-masculinity thing?”
A frown crosses his face. He seems confused. “She didn’t ask you for this? Tell me the truth.”
“Of course not! Why would you think that?”
He bows his head for a long moment, as if in deep prayer. When he looks back up at her, it’s like he’s added another ten years to an already ancient and crumbling façade. “You know, it really doesn’t matter. I’m giving it back, regardless. It’s time for me to put an end to this madness once and for all. We don’t need your help. I’m doing just fine taking care of my family. Maybe you forget, but I am a doctor.”
“No, I didn’t forget. Vicki told me you were having a . . . professional crisis.” She specifically remembers Vicki using the word “quack.” Phoebe might not know the specifics of what went down, but if any doctor walked into the room looking like Ron does right now, she would run for the hills.
The Other Mrs. Miller Page 10