She smiles and slips on her coat.
Despite her implicit threat, I’m certain Rose came here not to harm me, but to try to strike a deal—money in exchange for the name of who gave me the information. Still, it’s difficult to remain seated while she disappears into the hallway.
A moment later, I hear the sound of my front door shutting and her footsteps going down the outside stairs. Only then do I take my finger off the panic button that alerts police and my alarm company I’m in danger.
I walk to the window and watch Rose disappear down the sidewalk, blending into the dark shadows.
I wonder what she really looks like beneath her plain disguise. She must resemble the real Rose DeMarco, who probably has no idea that her identity was borrowed for tonight. Acelia must have searched for an innocuous-seeming local woman who wouldn’t raise any suspicion in me, creating a copy of her driver’s license and sending a fake “client” who looked enough like Rose that I’d open my door.
But as with everything else Acelia has done, no real harm resulted and the details are murky enough that I can’t report this incident to the police without appearing paranoid.
What I can do is to implement a new policy: I’ll only meet new clients in public places.
I walk into my hallway and activate my alarm system, staring at the logo on the code box. It’s the same logo Derrick had on his work shirts.
Derrick protected me well, I think. It was he who suggested installing the panic button on my work chair.
I’m gripped with the urge to call him, but even as I’m pulling out my phone, I realize how unfair that would be.
Derrick would provide me with comfort. I’d repay him with pain.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and go upstairs to let Romeo out of his crate.
CHAPTER THIRTY
MARISSA
MARISSA LIES ON THE massage table, willing herself to relax, while a woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun works on the knots in Marissa’s lower back. Beneath the notes of the classical music through the salon’s speakers, she hears the incessant thudding of her heart. The padded cushion against her face makes it hard to breathe.
“How is the pressure?” the masseuse asks.
“Fine,” Marissa manages to whisper.
But surely her rigid body tells a different story.
What is she doing here? She should have trusted her instincts and skipped the treatment and gone home. Or better yet, driven straight to Candy Cane City to meet Matthew and Bennett. She berates herself for letting down her guard. Someone is trying to hurt them. Matthew has already been hurt. They aren’t safe.
“I’m sorry.” Marissa abruptly twists onto her side, pulling the sheet around her as she sits up. “I suddenly don’t feel well. I need to go.”
The masseuse begins to apologize.
“It isn’t anything you did,” Marissa assures her hastily.
Finally, the woman exits, and Marissa puts on the terry-cloth robe and slippers the spa provides its clients.
When Marissa first entered the room, the last of the day’s sunshine was creeping through the slanted blinds, a fractured bit of brightness. Now there’s only darkness. She feels light-headed and disoriented.
Marissa pushes out the door into the hallway. She hurries into the locker room to retrieve her purse, her cell phone, and other belongings.
A woman is putting her things in the locker immediately above Marissa’s, blocking the way, so Marissa waits, her stomach coiling tighter with each passing second. Finally, the woman steps aside and Marissa moves forward, tapping in her usual four-digit code. The locker door swings open and Marissa immediately pulls her phone out of her purse.
There’s nothing except another missed call from Avery. She knows Avery wants the name of the man she slept with, but there is no way Marissa is leaving that information on voice mail.
A sign on the wall announces the use of cell phones in the locker room is prohibited, and an attendant is nearby, setting out fresh towels, but Marissa can’t stop herself: She curves her body to block the view of the attendant and calls Matthew’s cell phone.
It rings several times, then goes to voice mail.
She instantly tries again, but Matthew doesn’t pick up.
He’s probably playing a video game or watching TV with Bennett, she tells herself. The phone is vibrating right next to him, on the end table by the couch. He just can’t hear it.
She knows she isn’t behaving rationally, but her premonition is so strong, she can’t help herself:
Call me ASAP, she texts.
She waits, her body frozen, but there’s no response from her husband.
Just as on the night he was attacked.
Marissa yanks on her clothes, then pulls on her boots and coat, leaving her hair twisted up in the terry-cloth scrunchie the masseuse offered her. She doesn’t even glance in the mirror; her movements are quick and jerky, fueled by the certainty she needs to get home. She flies out the door of the spa and takes the stairs down two flights, rather than waiting for the elevator. She hurries to the parking lot and slips behind the wheel of her car, barely waiting for the attendant to accept her ticket and raise the electronic gate before she races through it.
At the first stoplight, she calls their home phone, even though all the ringers are turned off downstairs so they aren’t bothered by telemarketers.
No one answers.
When the light turns, she swerves into the lane to her left, then back to her original one, trying to jockey ahead in the traffic-filled streets a few inches at a time, just like the drivers she normally complains about.
Matthew and Bennett are safe at home, she tells herself, repeating it like a mantra. She’ll walk through the door and Matthew will look up at her and smile, while Bennett chatters excitedly about his new rocket. They’ll devour the tacos and guacamole and chips Matthew picked up for dinner, then they’ll all snuggle on the couch and watch a movie. It will be a perfect night.
That’s an Instagram photo, she hears Avery’s voice chide. But it won’t be, she assures herself, because she and Matthew are changing. Because their marriage finally feels as if it is becoming the union she used to only pretend it was.
“Matthew and Bennett are safe at home,” she repeats aloud. She’s so close to them; in another few blocks, she’ll turn off the main artery, into their neighborhood.
She continues winding her way north, passing the treacherous circle that divides D.C. and Maryland, then turning down a quieter road.
Everything is as it should be on her street, she realizes. There are no sirens. No flashing blue-and-red lights from police cars or ambulances. No cluster of gaping neighbors in front of their home.
Her body finally unclenches a bit when she sees Matthew’s car in the garage. He must have left the door open for her, but she leaves her car parked on the driveway apron, not taking the time to fit it into the enclosed space.
Marissa grabs her purse from the passenger’s seat and slams the car door, then begins to hurry toward the house. She can’t fully relax, not until she lays eyes on her family.
A loud honk sounds behind her, and she whirls around. Bright headlights shine in her eyes, and she instinctively raises her hand to shield them.
Then she hears her name being called: “Marissa!”