“All we need is a name.”
Before I could scream or spray him with my can of Mace, he walked away.
I haven’t seen that man since, but I know Acelia won’t stop. They must be afraid that whoever told me could share the information about the faulty trial with others. And they’re probably even more concerned that individual could be continuing to gather destructive information about Acelia.
I still went for my run that day; Acelia wasn’t going to take that from me.
But as soon as I got home, I called the security company that sent me Derrick.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARISSA
MARISSA PULLS THE PLUG from the drain and steps out of the bathtub. She towels herself off and massages a rich, buttery lotion—new to her store—into her damp skin. She slips on her terry-cloth robe and leans forward to wipe the condensation from the mirror. Matthew prefers her like this, with her hair pulled back and no makeup adorning her face. Perhaps it reminds him of the teenager he fell in love with, even though tonight she feels older than her thirty-eight years. She dots retinol cream onto her faint crow’s-feet and smooths balm onto her lips.
She walks into the bedroom and pulls open a dresser drawer. Her hand hovers above her favorite soft cotton pajamas. Beside them rests a midnight-blue silky nightgown. It’s Matthew’s favorite. She slips that on instead, even though the lace itches the sensitive area beneath her collarbones.
She switches off the overhead lamp and lights a candle. Then she removes her phone from its charger. She reads through her recent text exchanges with Matthew. His replies to her queries—Anything special you’d like for dinner? I could make salmon or steak tacos.… What time do you think you’ll be home?… Do you need me to pick up anything at the pharmacy?—have been brusque, when he has bothered to answer at all.
Her husband is one floor below her, probably watching television. She slowly taps out a new message to him: I’d love it if you slept in our bed tonight.
She stares at the screen. No response. She has no idea if he is ignoring her or simply hasn’t heard the chime on his phone. She’s about to replace her phone in its charger when three blinking dots form on her screen. He’s typing a reply. Then the dots disappear, leaving an empty space beneath her invitation.
Her husband isn’t ready to touch her yet, Marissa thinks as she blows out the candle and slides between the cool sheets. Avery promised there will be clarity about the health of her marriage in another couple of weeks, but right now, that’s hard for Marissa to believe.
She closes her eyes and tries to meditate, but her racing mind resists. Tomorrow she needs to proofread the forty-page catalog for the auction at Bennett’s school—a little task Natalie sprang on her—and talk to her accountant about her business taxes; it’s hard to say which task she dreads more. She turns onto her side, facing the empty spot in the bed Matthew used to fill. Her sleep has been fractured for weeks, and now, every time she awakens in the middle of the night, Matthew’s absence feels more pronounced.
She needs to do two other things tomorrow: First, call the florist to find out who sent those roses. Marissa has a suspicion, but she can’t believe he’d be so brazen.
She also needs to pick up a pregnancy test.
She doesn’t truly believe she could be pregnant, especially after she endured so many heartbreaking rounds of fertility treatments, but she needs to see a negative test stick to put her mind completely at ease.
The bedroom door creaks open and Matthew steps in. Soundlessly, she watches as he undresses, neatly hanging up his suit and tie in the closet and tossing his shirt in the hamper. Is he simply getting changed before returning downstairs? she wonders.
He walks over to the bed and stares down at her. Marissa feels pinned beneath his scrutiny. The light in the hallway is the only source of illumination in the room. It backlights him, so she can’t see the expression on her husband’s face.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. As she speaks the words, Marissa realizes the deep truth they contain. It wasn’t the barbed split that formed between them at the moment of her revelation that created her sense of loss, or even the pivotal moment when she succumbed to the tender touch of another man. The fissure began to form long ago.
He leans down. She inhales his familiar scent and closes her eyes. But instead of his lips touching hers, she feels the brush of fabric against her cheek. When she opens her eyes, Matthew is holding a pillow to his chest. A wild thought flashes through her mind: Is he going to smother me?
“The pillows in the guest room are too soft. Can you buy new ones?” Matthew strides back into the hallway without waiting for her reply.
* * *
Marissa can hardly be annoyed with Bennett for forgetting his saxophone when she herself didn’t remember to bring an umbrella, she thinks as she hops over a puddle. She tries to shield her hair with her free hand until she reaches the entrance to Rolling Hills Academy even though she knows it’s a lost cause. She pulls open the heavy glass door and greets the security guard manning the front desk, flashing her parent ID. He gives her a nod, clearing her to walk past the metal detector into the administrative office. Security is mostly invisible but tight at Rolling Hills, since several high-profile politicians send their children here.
“Hi, Joan,” she calls to the school secretary. “Guess what my son forgot?” Marissa waggles the heavy saxophone case.
Joan laughs. “He’s in Mrs. Tanaka’s class, right? They don’t go to music until after lunch, so you can leave it with me and I’ll have him come down during recess.” Joan, gatekeeper to the school, possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of Rolling Hills and its daily operations. “Oh, and I want to thank you again for the sweet baby gift! I gave it to Laurie and she sent me a picture of my granddaughter wearing the adorable hat and swaddled in the blanket. I hope you don’t mind that I gave her your address. She wanted to write you a note herself.”
For a moment, Marissa wonders if Joan’s daughter could have sent the flowers. But no one would send a thank-you bouquet that cost almost as much as the gift itself.
The sender remains a mystery—at least for now. After Matthew headed off to the guest room last night, Marissa lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness. She used her phone to call up the florist’s website, and she learned Bloom’s hours were 10:00 A.M. to 6:00 P.M. But the yellow roses hadn’t arrived at their doorstep until almost 9:30 P.M.
It was another question for the florist. She planned to call at 10:00 A.M. sharp.
“Please tell your daughter she doesn’t need to write a note,” Marissa assures Joan. “I remember how exhausted I was when Bennett was born.”
Joan is opening her mouth to answer when the phone rings. “I have to grab this, but don’t worry, I’ll reunite Bennett with his sax.”
Marissa waves goodbye as she exits the office. She peers through the glass door of the school entrance, hoping the rain is tapering off. But it’s coming down even harder.
She’s about to brave it and run to her car when she notices another parent approaching the building. The woman’s face is shielded—she didn’t forget her umbrella—but her distinctive walk and the outline of her hourglass shape in her cream-colored belted raincoat make her immediately recognizable to Marissa.