“Covenant.”
“And your mom’s at home with your siblings?”
“Technically she’s my stepmom.” I add, “She’s a nurse. They met on a shift.” Her eyes widen at this implication.
“You mentioned younger siblings. How many?”
“Two. Both younger boys they had together, so a big age gap between me and them.” I don’t want to talk about my family anymore.
Changing the subject, she muses, “You know, I really admire medical professionals. I couldn’t handle the sight of blood and guts.”
“Really?” My eyes widen. “I wouldn’t expect that.”
She gives me a sideways glance. “How come?”
Because you’re a sociopath, I want to add. But I can’t. Because she doesn’t know I know all about her and her sordid past, intertwined with mine.
“I just think people can get used to it after a while—you know, desensitize themselves to the sight of unpleasant things. Plus . . .” Lifting the bag of cookies, I raise an eyebrow. “Your patient satisfaction would be high because of these.”
She laughs as her shoulders relax against the seat.
“Oh, turn here.” I point to the road ahead. “It’s the third one on the left.”
Her eyes veer down the street toward a dark-blue shingled single-story with a gabled roof and red shutters. “What a cute house. I love Cape Cod–style homes.”
“Yeah, my stepmom said the same thing.”
She slows the Jeep down and pulls into the driveway. Lights are shining through the dormers on each side of the chimney, beckoning me inside. “Would you like me to tell your mom where you were?” She puts the car in park. “I don’t want her to think you were outside during the tornado warning.”
“She’s not home.”
“Oh, but the lights are on . . .”
“They went to my grandma’s earlier.” I shrug. “She hates being home alone during storms without my dad.”
“Should I call her?”
“I sent her a text.”
“Okay, I’ll wait to make sure you get in safely.”
I groan. “You don’t need to do that.”
“It’s fine.” She gives me a small smile. “It was nice to meet you, Elle.”
“Thanks so much for helping me out, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Oh no, don’t you dare put a Mrs. in front of my name.”
“Okay, Charlotte.” I remember I’m still wearing her clothes. “What about your socks and coat?”
“Keep them.”
“No. No way.”
“Seriously, I have a million pairs, same with coats. And ditto for Noah—he’ll never notice a missing shirt. It’s not a big deal.”
I slide out of the leather seat and close the door carefully behind me, not wanting the metal to make a loud thud. The rain has slowed to a steady trickle, and I sprint to the side entrance, near the garage. I enter through the rickety door, the broken handle never fully closing behind me.
Charlotte seemed nice, too nice, but skittish.
Definitely a woman hiding something.
He might actually be telling the truth for once in his life.
And if he’s right, I might not have anything to worry about when it comes to his innocence.
I swallow hard.
But if he’s right and she’s guilty, my own safety could be in jeopardy.
CHAPTER 6
Charlotte
The next morning, I tidy up the living room, dust the frames, and wipe a lint-free cloth over the glass top of the coffee table. My eyes narrow at the sight of a balled-up T-shirt under the sofa chair with a band’s name listed, one I’ve never heard of. The band’s foreign to me—pop culture seems to elude me these days. I tend to live in my own world, or so I’ve been told. Sometimes staying in my own bubble is safer than the alternative.
Confused for a moment that I’ve found a woman’s shirt that doesn’t belong to me, I start to panic.
Was Lauren here for some reason?
Did Noah bring that whore to the house?
My hands start to tremble as I crumple it up in my fists, ready to slam-dunk it in the garbage. Or maybe burn it. Instead, I leave it on the couch.
In a frenzy, I pull every reminder of us off the wall and shove every framed photograph into a box, which I toss into a heap in the garage. My anger intensifies by the minute.
How can he keep doing this to you? I ask myself. Better yet, how can you keep letting him do this to you? Slipping the silver diamond band angrily into my pocket as a sign of protest, I kick the tire of my Jeep.
Hands on my hips as sweat drips down my brow, I watch in confusion as the garage door miraculously starts to open and the headlights of a BMW 5 Series shine a spotlight on me.
The face behind the wheel seems just as shocked to see me standing in the stall, and the driver immediately slams on his brakes.
I step aside so he can finish parking.
He shoves his car door open as I stammer, “Noah.” Dropping my hands to my sides, I say, “I didn’t know you’d be home today.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.” After popping the trunk, he grabs his leather briefcase and rolling suitcase. “Surprise!”
“It’s definitely a surprise. But a pleasant one.”
“What’re you doing in the garage? You hate darkness, and you looked like you were wanting to gut me with a kitchen knife.”
His observation isn’t far off from the truth, so I ignore it.
“Ah, nothing. Just had to bring some recycling out to the bin.” I don’t dare glance in the direction of the box of miscellaneous pictures I’ve just removed from the house.
He gives me a kiss. “As always, it’s nice to see your face.”
My cheeks hurt as I force a smile. “Likewise.”
“Except I can’t stay.”
“No?”
“No,” he sighs, his frustration palpable as he wrinkles his forehead. “I have to head to Jersey. One of my partners needs help with a deal that’s gone awry.” I try not to let my own emotions show, a combination of neediness and loneliness. He hates when I complain about something that’s out of his control. Plus, it’s his career, and he loves what he does, as he points out to me, the same way I love when students fall in love with the classics and speak passionately about Austen or Defoe.
I keep my tone neutral as we head into the house, but I can’t wait or I’ll ruminate on it for hours, pace back and forth in the living room, and break some expensive dishes.
I have to know about the repulsive shirt.
He leaves his suitcase and briefcase by the hall closet, arching his back in a stretch.
“Question for you.”
“Hit me, baby.”
I plaster a fake smile on my face, settling into the middle of the couch, a spot that sags just a tad, one most people would avoid so they don’t hit the dreaded crease. Not me. “Did Lauren happen to come by?”
His naturally tan skin goes red. “Charlotte.”
“I found this.” I heave the crumpled ball into his hands.
Perplexed, he unfurls it and holds it up. “This is a T-shirt . . . for the Jonas Brothers.”
Staring at him, I don’t comprehend the smirk on his face.