Romeo stares up at me, his tail thumping against the wood floor, part of the grease-stained Five Guys foil wrapper from last night’s takeout stuck to his plastic cone.
“Are you kidding me?”
His tail raps harder as I sigh and begin to clean up. In the kitchen, I discover the built-in drawer holding my trash and recycling bins is wide open. Either I forgot to shut it tightly, or my dog has figured out how to open it.
“My little Dumpster diver, you were doing so well out of the crate. What happened?” I scold Romeo as I wipe down the floor. He licks my hand and looks suitably ashamed.
I have no idea what he is digesting, and I don’t want another unwelcome surprise from him, so I change into my workout clothes, clip on his leash, and take him for a long walk. It feels a bit like I’m rewarding Romeo’s bad behavior, but I remember Skip’s advice to go easy on him.
I no longer trust Skip, but he did seem to have a way with my dog.
Every few minutes, I spin around and check the street behind me, and I scrutinize the faces of people who pass me. I don’t intend to let Acelia’s henchmen catch me unawares again.
When we get back to the house, I reset the alarm, then settle in to work, keeping Romeo in my office with me. After paying a few bills, conducting a Zoom session with a client who had to unexpectedly leave town to care for her ill mother, and returning a few other calls, I turn my attention to drafting emails to send to Matthew and Marissa separately. Our next session is Devastation. I need the Bishops to be in a positive frame of mind when they come to see me on Thursday, because experiencing an abrupt drop in emotions—such as the dip in the roller coaster that comes after the slow climb—will strip away more of their superficial gloss.
I craft my message to Marissa first, thinking about what I want to accomplish.
When he learned of his wife’s betrayal, Matthew’s ego suffered a major blow. Marissa needs to offset some of that damage. I type this instruction: When you next see Matthew, bring up something that makes him a great husband. Be specific.
Then I follow up with a message for Matthew. Marissa feels unseen in her marriage; this is one of the top reasons a woman will stray from her husband, and why it’s so important for Matthew to make a course correction.
When I spoke to Matthew alone during our first session, I took him back to the early days of his relationship with Marissa in the hopes of recapturing some of those positive feelings.
Given the bomb Marissa had just thrown into the room, it took a while for Matthew to be able to say anything positive about his wife. But when he did, it was such a stunning, raw declaration that I still find myself replaying it in my mind. The sentiment Matthew expressed is one of the reasons why I’m eager to help the Bishops find their way back to each other.
I send Matthew the following instruction: You told me the first time you kissed Marissa, it was like glimpsing the ocean for the first time. The next time you see her, tell her this.
Before I can hit SEND, my cell phone rings and Lana’s photo appears on my screen. We spoke earlier today, while I was driving to Dr. Hernandez’s office, so I’m surprised she’s reaching out again.
“Hey, sweetie—”
“Avery! Oh my God—my car—I just left work—I can’t believe someone—”
“Slow down. Are you hurt? Were you in an accident?”
“No, no.” She lets out a huffing sound. “My tires! Someone let the air out of them—all four. They were that way when I got to my parking spot. Who would do that to me?”
I suspect I know exactly who: Acelia.
The parallel is clear: someone came after me in a parking garage today and now they’re messing with my sweet, guileless stepdaughter in a different parking lot. Fury courses through my body.
“Where are you now?” I’m glad it’s still daylight out.
“I’m right by my car. I tried my mom, but she didn’t pick up. Greg’s at work so he can’t talk.”
“I’m glad you called me. I’m going to get in touch with AAA, and I’ll come wait with you.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll be here.”
I frown as I grab my purse and slip on my sneakers. I don’t want her alone in a parking lot even for a short time.
“Actually, is there somewhere else you can go? How about that sandwich shop you like?”
“Why?”
“I’m hungry,” I lie. “Order us two of those veggie things and I’ll meet you there.”
* * *
An hour later, Lana’s tires have been refilled and she’s at Greg’s place—where she plans to sleep tonight—and I’m driving home, clutching my steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. Skip must be the key to all of this. He knows I have a stepdaughter since Lana phoned once when he and I were together, and although I don’t recall mentioning where she worked, he could probably find out. And who else would know about my doctor’s visit? I never mentioned it to a soul.
I’m tempted to call Skip and let loose, but I tamp down on that instinct. If Skip is weaving some complicated web, he’s already several steps ahead of me, and acting impulsively is the worst thing I can do.
I mentally review what I know about him: He’s forty, never married, and a commercial real estate developer. He’s the youngest of three, went to Dartmouth, and lived in California before moving to D.C. There’s no obvious tie between him and Acelia. But I can’t shake loose the idea that if I dig deeper, I will find one.
Maybe it’s time to call the police. I also know a former cop who now works as a private investigator; I used him on a case a couple months ago.
I step harder on the gas, trying to catch the tail end of a yellow light. Part of the reason I’m so enraged is because I genuinely liked Skip. My instincts told me he was a decent guy, and I’m not usually so off base when it comes to sizing people up.
He’s making me feel like a fool.
The light turns and I slam on my brakes, the nose of my BMW edging into the intersection. A woman walking a white poodle glares at me as she maneuvers around my car.
Get a grip, I order myself sternly, as I would a client.
My front windshield begins to fog up so I turn on the defrost and try to swipe away some of the cloudy film with my sleeve, but my thin Lycra top is ineffective. I reach into my center-console glove compartment, where I usually keep a few paper napkins. I don’t see any, but there’s a pack of tissues.
I pull one out and stare at it, remembering how Skylar plucked a tissue out of her handbag and offered it to me.
I shake my head as I realize my mistake.
I’ve been focusing on the wrong parallel.
A car honk from behind me jolts me, and I shift my foot off the brake, driving more carefully now.
What happened to Lana’s car wasn’t a message from Acelia to let me know they could get to my stepdaughter. Someone else was behind it.
You know so much about me. I guess I wanted to learn more about you, Skylar had said.
Cameron’s ex must be the one who let the air out of Lana’s tires; it seems like exactly the kind of spiteful act she would perpetrate.
I turn down my street corner and park in front of my house, but I don’t immediately cut off the engine. My mind is operating clearly now that the muddy swirl of my emotions is falling away.