He pours another short drink, knocks it back, and closes his eyes for a moment. “Phoebe seemed to be a magnet for bad marriages. Her dad had a long string of them. We had our share of problems too. And now this. Jesus.” He shakes his head and knocks the liquor back. “All right. Let’s get cleaned up.”
CHAPTER 16
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, they’re crossing the street together, with every potential outcome spooling through Nadia’s head: cold, cordial, awkward, violent. It might actually end up being fun, with Vicki breaking out the Parcheesi board. On second thought, that would make things doubly awkward.
Gazing at the oversize stone–cottage façade of the Napier home, she catches a twitch of the blinds on the expansive front bow window. Nadia can’t help but feel both a little alarmed at being watched and nostalgic for the simpler days when it was her in her car and Phoebe peeking out at her. Who might the Napier lookout be? Someone who has something to hide?
Well, whatever happens over there, at least she looks good. Wyatt helped her get ready this time, selecting a pair of black leggings and an oversized light pink T-shirt for her to wear. (“This is definitely something Phoebe would wear when sick,” he said, and then paused. “Honestly, it’s what she wore most of the time these days.”)
It took a little while to get the makeup right this time. Subtlety was key, to make her look like she wasn’t wearing anything at all, while defining the features they had most in common, like the eyes, chin, and cheekbones, and downplaying the ones that more resembled Nadia’s mother: nose, lips, the hair, the latter of which Nadia covered with a pink ball cap to hide the visible roots. If she manages to make this work, she might consider going back to her natural brunette at some point. Why wouldn’t Phoebe have decided to experiment a little? The upkeep would definitely be easier. Phoebe’s skin was also more golden than Nadia’s ivory complexion. For now, she can at least use it to her advantage playing sick.
After her third attempt at eyeliner, she fell into a pocket of doubt. She couldn’t see Phoebe’s face in hers anymore. For several minutes, she sat frozen before the mirror, trembling with a dysphoric certainty that everybody was going to see right through this ruse. Wyatt must have noticed how long she was taking, because he came in to ask how it was going. Nadia stammered, “I . . . don’t know if I have this. Maybe you were right.”
“Hold that thought,” he said, and left the room for a second. He returned with a framed photograph of Phoebe in front of the house, holding a sign in her hand reading SOLD! Her smile was radiant. She looked fit and trim in a pair of white shorts and a purple sleeveless top, with a golden tan and blond hair past her shoulders. Although Nadia had never really gotten to know her, she could say the woman she saw in the grocery store never smiled like that. Maybe she did when she was with Jake. Nevertheless, the resemblance was remarkable enough to take her breath away.
“I know I said I thought this whole idea was nuts, and I still do, but I think you have it,” Wyatt told her, gazing solemnly at Phoebe’s picture. “Trust me. Trust yourself.” Everything came back into focus after that.
Standing side by side on the Napier porch, they look at each other. He seems okay right now, considering what they’re about to do. “What’s my name?” she asks.
“Phoebe. Honey. Babe. Sometimes Phoebs. You hate that, though.” He grins a little, but his eyes are unreadable.
“That’ll do, sweetie.” She reaches out and rings the doorbell.
The door opens, but only wide enough for a woman’s head, capped with a shaggy brown pixie cut, to peer out. This is the first time Nadia has seen her up close. Her face, with its delicate feminine features, might appear kind under other circumstances, but right now, drained of color, she looks cold and wary. Maybe even afraid. Her pale blue eyes seem to be studying Nadia’s features rather intently, which she expected, but did those eyes just dart up to her temple? The same spot where Phoebe had received a nasty blow? Nadia can’t be sure. Maybe she’s just eyeing the hat Nadia is wearing. Her frayed nerves could also be playing tricks on her.
“Phoebe?” she asks, sounding alarmed. “Are . . . are you all right?”
It’s difficult for Nadia to discern Vicki’s intent. Is she asking because of Phoebe’s alleged illness or because she knows Phoebe is a corpse right now? She tries on a stoic grin. “I am now. You know how stomach bugs are. They come out of nowhere and leave just as fast.”
Some of the wariness leaves Vicki’s eyes and after a few seconds, she opens the door a little more. “Oh. Oh good. I’m a little bit of a germophobe. Part of being a doctor’s wife, I guess.” She crosses her arms over her body. Still defensive.
“Which is why we’re here, by the way. Wyatt decided to take you up on your offer for Ron to look at the cut on his hand. After I nagged him half the day.”
Vicki grins. Reluctantly, but at least it’s there. “I’m glad good sense prevailed. Come on in.” Once they’re inside, she glances up at Nadia’s ball cap. “Never figured you as one for hats.”
“It’s from my ‘head in a toilet all day but feeling just well enough to be upright’ collection.”
This time, she laughs a little. Good. Maybe Vicki really was just worried about catching the stomach flu. She still seems a little stiff as she leads them through the foyer and into the main living area, but since Nadia doesn’t know her, she doesn’t have a baseline to compare to. Nadia briefly wonders if Vicki is picking up anything different about her “friend’s” voice. That detail didn’t even occur to her until now. She thinks she can chalk it up to being sick tonight if she has to, but she’s going to have to work on that later. Maybe Wyatt has some videos or voicemails to help her.
Throughout her years of breaking and entering, Nadia has encountered a spectrum of style and taste, and the Napier home is definitely more on the spartan end of things. Though the more she sees of it, the less she thinks it’s an intentional décor choice. There’s minimalism, and then there’s just having nothing. Their footfalls echo hollowly off the walls and vaulted ceilings. Some rugs would help with that, as well as furniture, but both are lacking. In the living room, the only seating options are a cheap-looking brown love seat and two folding chairs, like what one would find at a banquet hall. A couple of cheap end tables have been pushed together to make a coffee table in the center of the room, and one more table beside the love seat is holding a plain lamp that looks more like it belongs on a desk. A college student’s desk. In fact, the whole ensemble looks like something assembled by a young couple who had just enough money to pay the security deposit and first month’s rent but not enough to furnish the place with, so they went scavenging at thrift stores.
A vast expanse of built-in bookshelves flanking the fireplace would offer a great opportunity for more warmth, but they’re currently empty, save for a few paperbacks on a bottom shelf. The homiest feature is the huge array of framed photos on the mantel. There are a lot of pictures of Jake throughout the years in that display that show him progressing from cute kid to awkward teen to current heartthrob. Apparently, he enjoys tennis and surfing in addition to older married women.
The family first arrived here when? A month ago, give or take? Nadia had been coming here a few weeks already when they showed up. Seems like a long time to still have that whole “just moved in” look, especially if you’re wealthy enough to move to Lake Forest. Maybe they aren’t so wealthy after all, which is odd. Of all the Chicago suburbs they could have picked, they went for one of the most exclusive. Either they were ignorant of that, or they picked this area for another reason.
“You’re noticing my appalling lack of furnishings,” Vicki says, a playful element creeping into her voice. She’s loosening up a little more. “You ought to be proud that I at least have a couch in here now.”
“It’s a nice couch,” Nadia lies.
Vicki looks at Wyatt. “Your wife probably hasn’t told you, but it’s been slow going replacin
g what we sold before the move. We’re making some progress, though.”
“Selling everything and buying new on the other side makes the most sense,” he comments mildly.
Vicki nods. “Yes, or so I thought at the time. I was trying to be frugal, and I also thought it would be healthy to wipe the slate clean and start from scratch, but it’s been harder than I expected. We’ve had a lot of unforseen expenses. But even under ideal circumstances, how do you replace a whole life overnight, you know?”
“I can only imagine,” he says, his voice a bit fainter now.
An awkward pause ensues. The house’s silence drapes over them like an unwelcome blanket. Nadia grasps at anything to fill it. She detects the aroma of cooking food. “Something smells good. I hope we’re not interrupting dinner.”
Vicki shakes her head. “Oh, no, it’s just a sauce simmering.” She pauses. “Would you like to stay and eat after Ron fixes up Wyatt’s paw? I made a bunch.”
Nadia and Wyatt pass a quick glance. “I probably shouldn’t eat yet,” she says. “My stomach is still little unsteady.”
Vicki rubs Nadia’s shoulder and offers a sympathetic look. “No problem. We’ll just add it to our growing stack of rain checks.” She lifts her head and yells toward the hallway, “Ron! Your patient is here!”
After a moment, they hear a muffled, “Hang on!”
“He’s been locked away in his study all day. Lord knows what he’s up to. I’m so over it.” She gives Nadia a knowing eye roll, and Nadia returns it in a way she hopes reads, Men, am I right?
Vicki takes a step back and looks Nadia up and down, a grin playing on her face. “How much did you barf, anyway? I swear you’ve lost ten pounds in the last twenty-four hours.”
Nadia cringes inside. She had a feeling the weight difference would be noticed, even with the baggier clothes. There’s only one way to play this off, though: catty humor. “Are you trying to call me fat?”
“Well not anymore, skinny bitch,” Vicki replies, laughing. Nadia joins in, unsure whether to be relieved at how much easier the banter has become, or more on guard because of it.
Vicki brings them into the living room. “You take the love seat, Wyatt. Ron will be with you shortly. Like most doctors, he likes to run at least thirty minutes behind. Makes him feel more important.”
A door down the hall closes a moment later, and Ron walks in holding a big orange American Red Cross bag. Upon seeing Nadia, he gives a start so faint that she might have missed it if she weren’t looking right at him. It’s hard to get a good read on either of them now. They’re either really good at pretending they’re not seeing a walking dead woman, or there’s nothing for them to hide.
“Nice of you to join us, sweetie,” Vicki chirps. “You and Wyatt haven’t officially met, have you?”
“No. Seems like you ladies are having all the fun.” Nadia has only ever heard Ron’s voice from a distance, and at yelling registers, so she’s surprised by how deep and serene it sounds, almost like Harrison Ford’s. He extends his hand toward Wyatt and then pulls back when he sees the bandage. “Well, I guess we should fix that first.”
Nadia watches Ron closely as he takes a seat next to Wyatt. The two men are of similar age and build, and both look like they’ve been having a rough go of things lately with their bleary eyes and scruffy facial hair, but Ron’s weariness looks more ground in somehow. The daily fights with his wife probably aren’t helping. Neither is the barren state of this house. The question is whether he’s worse now than he was this morning.
“Thanks for doing this,” Wyatt says. “I was going to head to the ER, but Vicki suggested I come here.” He sounds natural and affable enough, which is a relief. If they both can stay this cool under pressure, they might just survive this weird little playdate.
Nadia clears her throat. “I also insisted.”
“It’s no trouble,” Ron says, sifting through the paper-wrapped parcels from his med bag. He sounds distant, distracted. Nadia senses he’s avoiding her gaze. What would the reason for that be?
“Would you actually mind if I used your restroom before we got started?” Wyatt asks. “Phoebe was in such a rush to get me over here.”
Vicki grins. “Sure. It’s down the hall. Second door on the right.”
His eyes flit briefly in Nadia’s direction before he heads off. They didn’t discuss going on any scouting missions before they left, but she admires his initiative. Hopefully he’ll find something interesting to report.
“Phoebe, you want something to drink? I have some ginger ale if your stomach is still bothering you.”
“That sounds nice, thank you,” she says, more interested in something to help lubricate her dry mouth.
Vicki glides off toward the kitchen. “Would Wyatt like the same, do you think?” she calls over her shoulder along the way.
“Sure. Can I help?”
“No, you just sit tight.”
Wyatt is taking longer back there than she likes. She starts to fidget a little, but then notices that Ron is watching her with a chilly, speculative expression that says either he can see through the sham of her disguise, or he has particularly nasty business with Phoebe that precludes any attempt at small talk.
Vicki arrives moments later, a dubious savior bearing glasses of ginger ale on ice, just as Wyatt returns from the bathroom. It’s only after she’s drained half her drink at a single go that she wonders if it was a good idea to accept anything to eat or drink from these people, given what they may have done. She supposes if the room starts spinning in the next couple minutes, she’ll have her answer.
“I have to say, Wyatt, it’s great to finally meet you,” Vicki says. “You are my bestie’s husband, after all.” She smiles at Nadia, showing a few too many teeth. A cold, invisible finger tickles the back of Nadia’s neck, but she returns the smile and prays Ron is a quick hand with the needle and thread.
“This is a pretty nasty little gash,” Ron observes once he gets Wyatt’s hand unwrapped. “I was hoping I could glue it shut, but I think it’s going to require a few sutures.”
Vicki takes a closer peek. “Wow. All that from a piece of broken mug?”
He jerks as Ron pours disinfectant over the wound. “It shattered in my hand when I put it down. My lucky day, I guess.”
The doubt she’s still nursing about Wyatt’s innocence flares alive again like an ember in a fresh breeze, burning her gut. He’s lying, and the brief look he gives her confirms this.
“You broke it just putting it down?” Vicki asks, her eyebrow raised in a playful way. “Come on, admit it. You slammed that sucker. Were you two having a little tiff?”
“Damn, Vic. Stop interrogating him,” Ron says, swabbing the cut and surrounding skin with Betadine before grabbing a syringe filled with clear fluid that Nadia assumes is lidocaine. “Shit just happens sometimes.”
“True,” Vicki replies, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “Some people just don’t know their own strength.”
“This is going to burn a little,” Ron says, positioning the needle. “But it’ll numb up quickly.” Wyatt looks away with a grimace.
Nadia says, “It probably had a hairline crack that finally gave way.” You know, like some people, she wants to add. Someone here, perhaps.
Vicki searches her face for a few seconds. “Something is really different about you. Did you, like, do a chemical peel? Your complexion is like porcelain now.”
Nadia plays off her nerves with another exaggerated scoff. “First you say I’m fat, and now I’m old? Christ, some friend you are.”
She laughs. “I’m just wondering who I should be crediting, that’s all. You look like a whole new woman.”
Nadia doesn’t breathe or so much as twitch a facial muscle. If this were an old Hitchcock movie, there would be alternating close-ups of their faces, with a strings-heavy score building to a taut cres
cendo. Then Vicki would pull out a gun—or a knife, since it’s the weapon du jour—and demand answers. Who are you? I know you aren’t Phoebe, because I last saw her at the end of this blade.
The front door opens, and a few seconds later, the third and youngest Napier walks in wearing sweaty running gear and earbuds, and sorting through a bundle of mail. “Hey, Jake,” Vicki says. “I was just beginning to wonder if you’d show in time for dinner.”
When he looks up and sees Nadia in particular, the small stack of envelopes and circulars falls from his fingers, and his eyes go glassy with terror. Lover boy is not quite ready for prime time, it would seem. But something more than his reaction catches Nadia’s attention. Red scratches mar his pretty face, as well as his arms and neck, like he ran through a blackberry bramble, or perhaps struggled with a woman fighting for her life. Come tomorrow, he might even be showing a few bruises. All the boxes in Nadia’s mind fill with checkmarks. Alarms begin sounding, raining down balloons and confetti. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have our killer!
Vicki quickly gets up to collect the dropped mail. “Jesus, Jake, don’t be rude. It’s just the neighbors. What’s your deal?”
Jake pulls out his earbuds and clears his throat. “Hey, everyone. Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was here. Just startled me is all.” He shuffles from foot to foot for a few seconds, like a kid who has to use the restroom. “I’m going to hit the shower.”
“By all means, boy. Go clean up.” Vicki watches him dash off up the hall and shakes her head at Nadia. “I really don’t know about that kid anymore.”
“He’s fine,” Ron mutters, bent over his suturing work.
She looks at Phoebe. “He’s hiding something. I can feel it. I asked him if he’s started packing up for orientation. First semester is right around the corner. He just grunts and shrugs. This kid, who literally couldn’t talk about anything but Stanford this spring, is like . . .” She makes a “poof” gesture. “Gone.”
“Vic,” Ron grumbles. His tone is likely a preamble to most of their fights, and Nadia feels the hairs on her arms stir.
The Other Mrs. Miller Page 17