After standing around for a few minutes, Matthew went back inside. By the time the tow truck had arrived, Chris had fixed the problem.
You can’t outsource everything in life, Chris had said. Though I guess you’re used to having other people clean up after your messes. He’d picked up his toolbox and closed the hood. The slam seemed to echo through the night.
Matthew had never again invited his father over.
“Bennett’s not going to feel the way I did,” Matthew says now, his voice fierce. “If he doesn’t want to play baseball, he doesn’t have to play baseball. We’ll do whatever he wants this afternoon.”
Marissa lifts herself up and kisses Matthew.
“I love you,” she whispers.
He kisses her back, deeply, as he pulls her closer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AVERY
I THRUM MY FINGERTIPS AGAINST my steering wheel, keeping watch out my window, while I speculate about the man who hurt Matthew.
When the Bishops rushed out in the middle of our session to go to the police station last night, Matthew promised to fill me in on what happened. I got a text from him a few hours later, letting me know he couldn’t identify anyone in the lineup, and that the police didn’t seem to have a real suspect.
As of now, it appears to be a random attack.
Still, I’ve decided not to wait until Monday to learn about the man Marissa slept with.
I reach for my cell phone and dial Marissa’s number. It rings a few times, as it did when I called earlier this morning, then goes to voice mail again. Last time I didn’t leave a message. Now I do, asking her to phone me back as soon as possible with the name of the person we discussed at the Chevy Chase Circle. Enough is enough. I need to check him out.
The front door of the house I’m watching opens, but the person who steps out isn’t the one I’m waiting for. It’s a tall, gangly looking guy with longish hair. He shifts his backpack higher up onto his shoulders and walks past me, never even looking in my direction. I shift in my seat and exhale, then glance at the dashboard clock: it’s a quarter past nine.
I should have pushed Marissa to tell me more that day about her infidelity when we stood in the middle of the traffic circle, but she seemed so broken and afraid that I merely told her not to worry, and that I’d handle everything. I regret this tactic now.
I’m beginning to wonder if Marissa emotionally seduced me—the way she probably seduced the man she slept with. And the way she must have seduced Matthew, too, all those years ago. Not overtly through her sexuality, as Natalie would, but with a subtle vulnerability. Marissa is gorgeous and fragile with her soft voice, delicate frame, and long-lashed cornflower-blue eyes. Her magnetism is quiet, but undeniable. Even Polly fell under her spell.
What if there never was another guy? Perhaps she’s been stalling because there is no name to offer up.
Marissa has already created one major fabrication—saying she slept with a near stranger from her gym—and it’s entirely possible her lies didn’t end there.
But what would be her motivation?
From early on, I’ve sensed the Bishops are more complex than my typical clients, and I’m still not convinced Marissa is the only one hiding something.
Matthew’s swift acceptance of me and my methods seems almost too compliant. Plus there was that phone call outside Mon Ami Gabi, and the revelation that he told Natalie, not his wife, about the lost business account.
Like his wife, Matthew seems almost too perfect.
If either—or both—of them is playing a game, I’m several moves behind, and I desperately need to catch up.
My day is jam-packed, with appointments stacked up: a meeting with my accountant to answer his many questions about my taxes, a visit from the mobile vet to give Romeo his Bordetella vaccine, and sessions with three clients, including a brand-new one. But one way or another, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.
There’s just one thing I need to attend to first.
As if on cue, the front door of the group house opens, and Polly steps out, blinking in the bright morning sunlight. As she walks toward her VW Rabbit parked at the end of her walkway, she scans her phone.
She is so absorbed that she doesn’t even notice me until I am nearly by her side.
“Hey, Polly,” I say casually. “Got a minute?”
She starts, then looks from side to side, as if seeking an escape route. “I have to get to work.”
“You have some time. I’ll be quick.”
Discomfort spreads across her face. She’s clearly trying to come up with a reason to say no, but she must not be able to think of one.
It’s chilly and the wind feels fierce. Polly is wearing the same lightweight turquoise jacket she had on the other night. As she shoves her hands into her pockets, I notice her nose is already beginning to redden.
“You’re cold. Why don’t we sit in my car and talk? Or yours, if you’d rather.”
I’m hoping she’ll choose her car because you can learn a lot about someone by checking out their personal spaces when they don’t have advance warning. She hesitates, then as another gust of wind hits us, she uses her key fob to unlock the doors to her vehicle.
The passenger seat is clear, unlike in my car, and everything is well organized, just like her purse: a blue hair scrunchie is wrapped around the gearshift, a stainless-steel water bottle is tucked in the cup holder, and a pack of disinfecting wipes is in the console.
Polly starts the engine and a Britney Spears song blares. She quickly reaches for a knob and turns off the radio.
I wait for her to begin the conversation. A moment later, she does: “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“I know strange things have been happening around Coco. Like the creepy note you found. I need you to tell me what else is going on.”
I speak with authority, hoping Polly will succumb to it, as she did when I searched Coco. But maybe she learned from that experience.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not really sure I can tell you anything. I mean, not without permission.”
“Marissa’s permission? Polly, she is in danger. Matthew told me you called him to say you were worried about her. Do you really think I’d be here if the Bishops didn’t want my help?”
“He told you that?” Polly looks surprised.
“Yes, he also told me you drove all the way down to Giovanni’s restaurant to try to see him.”
“Okay.” Polly shifts in her seat. “So, I didn’t think it was a big deal at first, but twice in the past week a guy has called and asked for Marissa. When I asked who it was—Marissa taught me to do that before handing the phone to her—he hung up.”
“Any idea who it could have been?”
“No, I didn’t recognize his voice. And there have been a few hang-ups, too. Like someone keeps calling because they hope she’ll answer instead of me.”
I play the devil’s advocate: “Could be a telemarketer.”
“I don’t think so.” Polly is practically bristling; she has a lot invested in her role in Marissa’s life, and Polly doesn’t like me downplaying the drama she feels she’s a central part of.
“Is that all?” I keep my tone a little bored.