She’s either in the bedroom or the bathroom, and if I guess incorrectly, things could go very wrong, very fast.
Resting my head against the back wall of the closet, I release my hold on the knob, my hand cramped and almost in a permanent grip-like shape.
And then I hear it: the spray of a shower.
The faint echo of music follows, then the metal-on-metal rack of the shower curtain rings against the shower curtain rod.
This is it.
This is my chance.
I manage to open the closet door with hardly an audible noise, at least not anything she’d be able to hear over and above the shower music and the Fitz and The Tantrums song she’s playing on full blast—which happens to be from the very same album I play when I deep clean the Queen on Saturdays.
Four steps and I’m at the door, only when I attempt to make my great escape, I realize she’s secured the door using the chain lock.
When she gets out of the shower, she’s going to know someone was in here with her. But I don’t have time to give it another thought. I get the hell out of there, making the least amount of noise as possible, and in what feels like the blink of an eye, I’m back in the driver’s seat of my Audi.
I can’t start the engine fast enough, and within seconds I’m zooming through the side streets, heading back to the Queen, with white knuckles and a racing mind.
I need to calm down so I can think, so I can process what I just witnessed.
I know what I saw.
That wasn’t a “visual disturbance.” That was a woman who looks like me and dresses like me and who signed an apartment lease with my name.
I pull into the driveway a while later, with no recollection of the drive home.
Niall should be home within the hour. Part of me wants to tell him everything. The other part of me can’t help but replay the conversation with the PI last week, the way he laughed at me and dismissed me.
I don’t know what I’d do if Niall brushed off my concerns like that.
Heading to the back door, I ready my keys for the lock and draw in a hard breath.
I’ll tell him.
Just not tonight.
CHAPTER 9
It’s strange that Niall still isn’t home yet tonight. He’s almost always home by five thirty sharp on Mondays and hardly a minute later.
I try not to imagine a scenario where Niall and Kate reconciled or decided to have a romantic dinner or worse: met up at her place for hot makeup sex, though that’s exactly where my mind is attempting to steer my thoughts.
I let the PI’s reaction from the other day play on a loop in my head. Again. I know I shouldn’t. I know he was just some asshole. But it wasn’t so much what he said as how he said it.
He straight-up insinuated that I was crazy.
But I know what I saw.
Had he taken the time to actually listen and let me explain . . .
Despite the fact that I know what I witnessed this afternoon, I can’t help but wish I had some kind of validation. Someone else who could see it, too, and tell me I’m not going insane.
The lock of the back door clicks around 9:00 PM, and a moment later, I hear the soft tread of Niall’s footsteps across the kitchen tile. They grow louder by the second, as if he’s headed for the back parlor.
A moment later, he stands in the doorway, still dressed in his teal work scrubs. “Hey, sorry. Met up with an old friend for dinner. We got to talking and—”
I glance up from my spot on the sofa. His pale gaze narrows in my direction.
An “old friend.”
Kate, I’m sure.
“God, are you okay? You’re shaking.” He takes the seat next to me, coupling my hands in his. “Did I scare you again?”
I shake my head.
I want so badly to tell him everything. About the apartment. About the woman living as me. But the only thing I keep thinking is, What if he reacts the way that PI did? What if he thinks I’m making this up or imagining things? If Niall’s pitying looks made me feel uncomfortable, how would I feel if he looked at me like I’d completely lost my mind?
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He eyes the half-empty glass of red wine sitting in front of me. I don’t tell him it’s my fourth one tonight. I’m not a lush, just a woman dying to quiet the voice in her head and numb the nerves of her frazzled body.
“How was dinner?” I ask. “Where’d you go?”
“Antonella’s.” His voice is lilted, but his face is still laced with concern. He doesn’t like that I’ve changed the subject. “You sure you’re okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”
“I think I ate some bad takeout or something.” I can’t tell a good lie to save my life. All he’d have to do is check the trash can in the kitchen, and he’d know I didn’t order takeout. Come to think of it, I haven’t had dinner yet tonight.
“You want some wine?” I ask. “I don’t want the whole bottle to go to waste.”
“Yeah. I’ll take some,” he says, settling into the sofa. I try to quiet the voice that tells me he’s only sitting with me because he thinks I’m out of sorts and feels sorry for me.
I head to the kitchen and return with an extra stemless wineglass.
“How was dinner?” I ask as I pour and hand it over.
Shit.
I already asked that.
“You sure you’re all right?” he asks for the millionth time, refusing to buy my amateur lies. “What kind of takeout did you order?”
Sometimes I swear he sees clear through me.
I shrug, thankful for the dark of the room because it hides the crimson on my cheeks. “Some new Chinese place.”
I force a smile on my face. I just want to act like everything is normal. I don’t want to think about the other Brienne or the overwhelming rush of powerlessness flooding my veins every time I try to wrap my head around this situation. I’ll deal with everything after I’ve had a couple more nights to sleep on this and to come up with a plan of attack, to go over all my options.
People like that, the clever and conniving types, generally operate one step ahead of everyone else. If I act on anything in haste, if I don’t have all the facts lined up ahead of time, it could spook her. And I want to catch her. I want answers.
I want to know why she wants my life and what she intends to do with it.
“Oh, I got the mail today,” I tell him. “Put your stack by the microwave.”
Getting the mail has always been his thing. Our box was crammed full, mostly junk and catalogs, but it was apparent he hadn’t grabbed it in days.
“Oh, jeez. I bet it was pretty full. Sorry about that.” Niall’s long fingers wrap around his wineglass. “What is it with me lately? I’m never this forgetful.”
My thoughts take a left turn.
If he forgot to get the mail, is it possible he forgot to lock up the other night, too?
There I go. Jumping to conclusions again.
I reach for my glass, burying my anxieties in the last few drops.
We settle into the sofa, zoning out in front of a Dateline rerun like an old married couple. He’s seated next to me, so close I can feel his body heat against my arm, and it gives me goose bumps . . .
Until I think about Kate.
The faceless other woman.
It’s funny—I don’t have romantic feelings toward Niall, and yet I can’t deny the hot streak of jealousy that sears through me every time I imagine the two of them together.