It is strange to me that her journal would be in his possession, but I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. Maybe he packed it by mistake. Or maybe he was wanting to pore over these vignettes, analyzing where things went wrong. Regardless, it’s pointless to wonder because I’m never going to ask him.
“I should get cleaned up,” I say, sipping my coffee. “What time were you wanting to go?”
He checks his watch. “The sooner the better.”
“Big plans later?”
“Meeting with a friend,” he says, his expression bathed in seriousness all of a sudden.
I don’t ask. I don’t pry.
I can only hope today’s the day she’s finally going to sign.
CHAPTER 17
We return from Sioux City shortly after one. Niall leaves the plastic sacks filled with wireless cameras and control centers on the kitchen table with the promise that he’ll install everything before the weekend ends, and then he runs off to meet his “friend,” briefcase in hand.
I have no idea if the contents of that briefcase included the divorce paperwork or not.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
Retiring to the back parlor for some mindless Saturday afternoon TV, I curl up on the sofa with a wool throw and my phone, tapping on the Instagram icon and checking the other Brienne’s profile for the tenth time today.
I expect nothing new, just the same old shot of her cocktail lineup from the Clever Canary Thursday night.
Only I’m wrong.
The first image on the top left is brand-new: a selfie of her lying in bed, dark hair piled into a topknot, clear-framed glasses resting on her nose, and a book in one hand—which happens to be the very same book I started but never finished shortly before my attack.
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier.
Identical to the copy resting untouched on my nightstand.
I sit up, tossing my phone to the other end of the sofa and burying my face in my hands as I steady my breath.
Yesterday got me nowhere, and given the fact that today is Saturday and tomorrow is Sunday, there’s no way to determine her schedule with any degree of accuracy. My best bet is to lurk in the parking lot Monday morning.
Or better yet—call and schedule an appointment to see her at work.
But first, I book a cut and color. I need to look like my old self when I meet the other me. The expression on her face is going to be priceless.
CHAPTER 18
I sign the credit card slip at Salon Bella Vida Monday morning, adding a 23 percent tip because I’m in a generous mood today. Hanging my Goyard bag over my shoulder, I run my hand over my sleek bob as the receptionist validates my parking and bids me adieu with her red-lipped smile and shiny blonde waves.
There’s an extra bounce in my step that hasn’t been there for a long time.
My lips are painted in a luxurious wash of rose-pink YSL gloss.
Givenchy mascara coats and lengthens my lashes.
Creed perfume fills the space around me, radiating off the warmth of my pulse points.
I’m dressed in one of my old color-blocked sheath dresses that still managed to fit with the help of a body shaper.
I haven’t looked—or felt—like my old self in ages, but the expression on the other Brienne’s face when she sees me is going to be worth all this effort.
I want her to know she’s been caught.
And that she won’t get away with this.
I refuse to be a victim again.
Heading to the parking garage, I check the time.
If I leave now, I’ll arrive twenty minutes early for my appointment. It’s a little overkill, but it’s also now or never.
I’m doing this.
And I’m doing this now.
CHAPTER 19
The uplifting, albeit unexpected, scent of tangerines floods my lungs when I step off the elevator and into the lobby of the Opal Green PR Agency. Modern lounge music wafts from hidden speakers.
I’ve been here once, years before, when I had just opened my insurance agency on the square and needed some help in the publicity department. The woman they assigned to me suggested a grand opening complete with catering, a live guitarist, and an open wine bar and an extensive social media ad campaign. When I told her my budget was three grand, she almost choked on her Evian.
Maybe had I used her services, my agency would still be around. After the attack, I had to close my office. No one so much as made an offer to buy me out, though one person insultingly offered to buy my client list for a thousand bucks. That’s the thing about some people—they’re opportunists. They’ll take advantage of you if you’re not careful.
I maintain a confident stride, keeping my shoulders back and my head high as I head in.
The sweeping glass double doors with the agency’s navy-blue logo close softly behind me. The visitors’ lobby is chic with its streamlined leather furnishings, neutral color palette, and geometric planters, and this place seems better suited for a Manhattan high-rise than some hidden, sleepy town in the Loess Hills of Western Iowa.
“Hi there. How can I help you today?” the bubbly receptionist asks from behind a glass desk. A headset rests on her ear, and she adjusts the reflective red frames on her face as she devotes her full attention my way. But her perky demeanor fades once she examines me.
Her jaw sets. Her eyes dart. She clears her throat.
It’s almost as though I’m making her nervous.
Maybe I look too much like my doppelgänger?
“I’m here to see Brienne Dougray,” I say. It’s so strange, saying my name in reference to another person. It feels unnatural. Familiar in my mind but foreign on my tongue.
“You must be Laurelin,” she says, eyes scanning her computer screen.
I nod. I’d given her my middle name when I called this morning.
“Perfect. Let me get you checked in,” she says, clicking her mouse. “Would you like something to drink while you wait?”
“I’m all right, but thank you.”
A second later, the receptionist rises. “Okay, I’m going to take you back to her office. She’s running just a bit late, but she’ll be with you shortly if you want to follow me.”
My grip on my bag tightens, and I swallow the bulge that’s forming in my throat. This place feels like a sauna, and I’m thinking this fitted sheath dress wasn’t the most comfortable choice for this moment, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
The young woman leads me down a long hallway, past offices that look like carbon copies of one another with frosted glass doors and lacquered white desks and matching potted plants, and when we get to the fifth door on the right, she stops.
“Here we are. Go on ahead and have a seat. Brienne will be with you shortly.” Her gaze is fixed on me for half a second before she returns to her desk, and I take the guest seat in “Brienne Dougray’s” office.
Her desktop is situated much like I used to have mine. Minimalist. Marble and rose quartz accents. Shiny silver-handled scissors. Cup stocked full of matching silver pens. Monitor screen so spotless you could use it as a mirror.
A silver nameplate on her desk all but stares at me, taunting almost. And I’m half-tempted to turn it away, but instead I cross my legs, fold my hands in my lap, and maintain my patience.