His eyes glitter and narrow. There’s the anger. It only took a little prodding to draw it out. “You really need to be careful here. You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”
“You’re right. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to. But I’ve seen enough to know you’re a bully. You put a stop on your wife’s credit cards when she went to do a little shopping. And I’ve also seen the bruises on her arms.”
She’s prepared for him to explode, and she has her phone at the ready just in case. But he only stares at her for a second, and then drops his head again, shaking it. “My God, it’s amazing how she’s got your mind all twisted around. I really have to hand it to her. You think she’s the only one with marks?” He unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt and exposes his shoulder and a series of scratch marks scabbed over.
A floodgate opens in her head, spilling out all kinds of questions. Did Vicki really leave those scratches? What else might he be implying about her? But it’s pointless to ask him, because he’s probably lying too. The truth lies somewhere between the two of them, and Phoebe doesn’t have the energy to go digging for it. She’d rather they both left her alone. It’s like that saying about circuses and monkeys. They aren’t hers.
“You know what? I’m done here. All I did was try to help. She was grateful for that help. You’re the only one who seems to have a problem with it. I’m not the bad guy here!”
“Drop the act, sweetheart. The apple rarely falls far from the tree, and yours is pretty fucking rotten. I smelled it on you from the beginning. I told my wife the last thing we needed was to try and make friends with a Noble, but she never listens.”
She flinches at being called out. Of course he knows who she is, because Vicki knew. They probably talked about it over breakfast one morning, swapping idle gossip the way she and Wyatt would sometimes do when they were still speaking. She suddenly feels cold and transparent under Ron’s gaze. They’re doctor’s eyes, peering at an MRI of her soul and seeing a malignant mass even she didn’t know existed.
“I want you to leave now,” she says. If he doesn’t get up, she’ll call the police. If he comes at her, she’s only one good lunge away from the kitchen island, where she keeps her knife block.
For a moment, it looks like he might adhere to her expectations and refuse. His expression says no one tells him to leave; he tells you when he’s ready. But somewhere in the turbulent froth of his mind, he snatches a piece of good sense, and the fight gradually fades from him, wilting his posture. He empties his glass and sets it on the end table before standing up. “You’re right. It’s best I leave before this gets even more out of hand.” He trudges toward the door. When he gets there, he stops and turns around. “I think this goes without saying, but you need to stay away from my wife. And my son. Especially him. Do you understand me?”
She opens her mouth, but only silence comes out. It seems to satisfy him. After he leaves, she closes the door and turns the dead bolt. The adrenaline that has been holding her upright for the last several minutes drains away, and she sags to the floor, bringing her knees to her chest to calm herself. She stops just short of putting her thumb in her mouth for additional comfort, like she did when she was a little girl. Wine is her thumb now, or a spoonful of ice cream. Or solitude and trashy books by the pool. The simple things had always been enough. Before Daniel’s death. Before the blue car. Before her marriage fell apart. Before the Napiers showed up.
She hears footsteps on the stairs and jumps. It’s Jake coming down; she forgot he was up there. “What just happened?” he asks. “That was my dad, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but it was nothing that concerns you.”
“Okay.” He clearly doesn’t think it’s okay. He’s confused, like someone who’s watched a play with the scenes out of order. “But it sounded bad.”
“Sure. Because that’s just my life these days. Bad seems to be seeking me out. I guess the universe decided it was my turn.”
He stares at her with visibly mounting concern. “What did he say to you? Does he . . . know about us?”
“No.” Or at least she doesn’t think he knows, though his warning to stay away from Jake especially had jumped out at her. She nearly tells him some of what happened, but it isn’t her place to fill him in on his parents’ problems. It was never her place, as Ron just reminded her. She should have kept her nose out of it, even if she hasn’t kept her hands off their son. “It doesn’t matter.”
He leans down to place his hands on her arms, but she goes rigid. “This really isn’t a good time to touch me.”
He pulls away, wounded, like his favorite puppy just nipped at him. “All right. Whatever you need. What can I do to fix this?”
She looks up at him, mentally rolling back the notion from their earlier postcoital cocoon that Jake could stay here and everything would still be okay. “You need to go to Stanford, Jake. Get away from this place. You don’t need to be here. Everything is too messy, and it will only get worse.”
He shakes his head. “My mind hasn’t changed on that. I’m staying here.”
“Jesus, Jake. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I love you.” He doesn’t hesitate even a little. His certainty is as strong and unwavering as gravity.
She puts her head back down on her knees. “Why did you have to say that?”
Jake kneels in front of her. “I know you feel the same way. You’re so afraid. Why can’t you just trust this? Whatever else is going on right now, we can face it together.”
She raises her head to look at him again. “How well do you think you know me?”
“I’d say I know you better than most.”
“Oh really? You know what shows I like and how I take my coffee. You know the preferred temperature of my shower water and my favorite sex positions.”
He sits up straight. “I also know how hard it was for you growing up with a father who hated women, and you weren’t surprised when so many of them started coming forward with stories. I know you felt trapped into starting a family, and this is why your marriage is ending. I know that you love cooking and writing. Your favorite artists are Dale Chihuly and Henri Matisse. You’ve thought a lot about starting a food blog.”
She’s impressed he’s paid so much attention, but he still doesn’t understand her point. “So you’ve memorized a few surface details. Good for you. But it’s impossible to know anyone completely.”
“You’re trying to push me away again. It’s not going to work.”
“My husband used to look at me the way you do. And it was mutual. Now we’re like a couple of cats circling each other in a dark alley. Have a chat with your parents. They probably felt like they were in a fairy tale once too, and if they’re even a little bit honest, they’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you now. It’s all bullshit. People fall in love with what they want to see, and eventually that illusion fades.”
His face is working as he gears up for another impassioned, romantic rebuttal, but if she hears one more time how the right person can change everything, she’s going to fly into a rage. All she wants now is the soothing, empty womb of her old life. “I need to be alone right now. Please give me that.”
“We promised we weren’t going to fight. That we weren’t going to let this sort of thing break us up again.”
She reaches out to him and takes his hand. “I’m not breaking up with you.” Though the desire to wash her hands of all this has never felt stronger. “My brain just needs a rest. I’ll call you later. I promise.”
He’s clearly not satisfied, but he nods. She admires this about him, his ability to pull back when asked, even when it’s difficult for him. “Okay. I’ll talk to you tonight, then?”
“Yes.”
“Promise me again.”
“I promise.” The words feel sour in her mouth, but enough wine should wash them away.
; * * *
■■■
AFTER QUICKLY POLISHING off one bottle of cabernet, she decides it’s going to be a two-bottle day, possibly more. Why the hell stop there? It isn’t like she has anything better to do. The warm flush from the alcohol is a poor substitute for the contented glow she’d felt in bed with Jake earlier, but it will have to do.
The doorbell rings just as she pulls the cork, and she jumps hard enough to knock the bottle over onto its side, spilling a glug of its precious contents onto the counter. “The fuck is it now?” she mutters aloud to the room, noting the slur with some amusement. Maybe it’s Vicki, here to add another block to this toppling Jenga tower. She goes to the door and looks through the peephole. No one’s there. Not even a delivery truck, or her old friend from Executive Courier Services. A small jolt of fear penetrates the drunken cloud. Who would ring the bell and run in this neighborhood? Or did she hallucinate the whole thing?
“Drunker than I thought,” she mutters to herself, but opens the door anyway just to be sure. Nope. No one there. But something catches her eye, a small white envelope lying on the welcome mat. Her name is scrawled across the front in red ink, and the wine in her gut suddenly feels like it needs to go somewhere. She would much rather have the auditory hallucination than this. Nothing good ever comes in mysteriously delivered envelopes with names scrawled across the front in red.
She glances around, certain the person who left this here is watching. They couldn’t have gone too far. Everything feels too still. Not even the birds are singing; it’s as if they’re taking a pause in their day to bear witness. She quickly bends down to scoop up the strange delivery and slams the door shut again.
She should throw it away. Better yet, take it to the barbecue out back and burn the sucker. But she can’t dismiss this any more than she could ignore a tangle of snakes in her bed. She rips open the envelope before her doubt can intervene and pulls out a thin slip of paper. Covered in red letters. The color of warning and blood. The note is just four sentences long, but they have the impact of buckshot at close range, and for the second time today, all the strength has run out of her legs, sinking her to the floor.
I know your secret about the boy next door. I can’t promise I’ll keep it. What’s it worth? I’ll be in touch.
■■■
INTERLUDE
I’VE PUSHED OVER a very big domino, though I’m afraid to predict how exactly things will fall from here. A lot of it depends on you, I suppose. No matter how things go, I want you to believe me when I say this isn’t how I envisioned things would end up for us. I never thought I’d wind up killing a man, either. So much for thinking we know our limits.
It’s too late to take back now. I just have to see it through and pray you don’t do anything foolish. There’s no need to make this more difficult than it already is.
CHAPTER 10
SHE TRIES TO drink her panic away for the next hour or so, but it doesn’t budge. If anything, the booze is making her more aware of it, and sicker to her stomach. This is no time to obliterate her mind. She needs to think. Better switch to coffee.
Who left the note? It was clearly a blackmail attempt with its coy, What’s it worth? This takes Ron, with his check-returning wounded pride, off the list—along with anyone else under the Napier roof, for that matter. They had money in hand. It wouldn’t make sense to threaten her for it now. The most obvious answer is her friend in the car, the one who has been there, with few exceptions, watching all this time. But how much could she—Phoebe has come to think of the driver in feminine terms—really know? Sure, there was the day of her fight with Jake, when he stormed out the front door, leaving an undressed Phoebe in plain view for a couple seconds, but is this all the proof she has? If so, that isn’t much on which to base a whole blackmail scheme.
Unless she snapped pictures. Those could pop up next, probably somewhere on the internet, if she blows this off. Phoebe groans and nearly goes for her wine again before stopping herself. It’s time to make an approach. She’s scared to death, but it’s the only way to know for sure. Phoebe gets up, goes to the front window, and peers through the blinds as she has every day for weeks, this time actually hoping to see her little sentry waiting.
Instead, she finds a completely empty street. It’s been empty a lot lately, come to think of it. What if after all this, the car never comes back? What if the goal was to mess with her head by keeping her waiting for a bomb to drop? What a cruel joke that would be, worse than the threat in the note itself.
The phone rings, and she nearly cries out. Grumbling, she goes to where she left it on the couch. It’s Vicki. She wants to let it go to voicemail. This charade has become exhausting. And it is a charade, if Ron can be believed. My God, it’s amazing how she’s got your mind all twisted around.
Phoebe grits her teeth. If she doesn’t answer now, the calls will keep coming. And then her doorbell will start ringing. You could always trash the phone, barricade the door, and never set foot outside again. Sure, Wyatt would probably put in a call to one of his psych colleagues at the hospital and stick you in a suite with Nerf walls, but at least you would be free of this place, right?
“Hello?” she answers. It’s hard to scrub the edge completely out of her voice.
“Hey, doll. How’s your day going?”
Pretty great! It began with a lovely morning with your son in bed, followed by a scary confrontation with your husband, and then for the ultimate chaser, a blackmail note from my mystery stalker threatening to expose me for the lying tramp I am. You know, typical weekday crap. “Oh . . . it’s going. What’s up?”
“I need you to tell me not to eat this giant slab of Black Forest cake I picked up from our favorite little bakery just now. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since yesterday. This is my last chance for redemption, Phoebe. You’re the angel on my shoulder.”
She tries to smile, but her whole face feels like a brittle mask that might shatter at any moment. “That costume never did fit me well. Eat the cake.”
“This is probably why I liked you from the start.” The words are a little muffled, like she’s speaking around a mouthful of the decadent slice. After a few seconds of silence, Vicki asks, “Are you okay?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“You sound a little down.”
She debates shrugging her off with a lie, but the topic of the money is going to come back up sooner or later now that Phoebe has her offering back. “Your husband came over today. He returned the check I wrote, and your Williams-Sonoma purchases. Did you know about that?”
Vicki is silent for a long time. Or at least, it feels like a long time under the present circumstances. “That lying, arrogant prick.” Her voice is low, the words sharpened daggers. Phoebe can picture Vicki sitting over there and stabbing her cake repeatedly with her fork, rendering it chocolate-cherry mud.
“Whatever is going on between you two, I think I need to just stay out of it from now on. I thought I could help, but clearly that only caused more problems, and I have enough of those to deal with, you know?”
“Listen, I’ve gone about this all wrong from the very beginning, but I think you and I being friends now . . . It’s time for me to explain some things. Can I come over?”
“This isn’t a good time for me.” And it will never be a good time. Trapped between the dueling words of a married couple who are as stable together as vinegar and baking soda, Phoebe can feel herself closing off, and she knows once that happens, she won’t open back up again.
“Okay then, tomorrow,” Vicki says more empathically. “I know I’ve been a real drag, but this is important, Phoebe. Please.”
She can’t help but feel curious about what Vicki has to say, but Ron’s words echo again: She’s got your mind all twisted around. And on the heels of that, the note on the doorstep: I know your secret about the boy next door.
She suddenly feels cold enough to s
tart shivering. Are all these things swirling around her like debris in a tornado—the car, the note, the Napiers’ issues, the sordid revelations about her father, and now Vicki’s urgent request to meet—related somehow? How else to explain this growing certainty that a trap is about to spring around her ankle?
Come on, you’re being paranoid. Just because you have dots in front of you doesn’t mean you have to start connecting them.
Maybe so, but this is still one big mess of dots, and they aren’t going away. They actually seem to be multiplying at a pretty alarming rate. Soon they’ll all start to merge into one ugly blob. Whatever Vicki has to tell her, it won’t stop that. Things you have to make an appointment to say in person because you can’t say them over the phone or in a text are rarely good. By the end of tomorrow’s brunch, Phoebe is certain she’ll be in a deeper rut, or at least a different one.
“Tomorrow will work,” she says, mostly to move the conversation to the end. Her heart is thudding hard enough now to make her chest hurt.
“So should we do our usual brunch time, then?” There’s a note of relief in Vicki’s voice.
“That sounds great.” No, it doesn’t sound great. In fact, she’s pretty sure she won’t answer the door when Vicki comes over tomorrow. Better yet, she might just make a quick escape before her neighbor shows up. That way she won’t have to wait for the doorbell to stop echoing off the walls like a taunt.
Her breath catches. Escape. Now there’s a thought.
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Vicki says, her tone seeking some sort of reassurance that Phoebe can’t provide.
“Okay.” She hangs up. Alone again in her too-quiet kitchen, one word begins twirling like a dervish in her mind: Escape.
Oh sure, just run away from all your problems. How grown-up of you, Phoebe.
The Other Mrs. Miller Page 11