As I step into the office, I hear the distant siren of a police car, then see Skip struggling to pull himself through the window.
“Walk toward the window,” Matthew instructs Marissa. “I’ll shoot you now if you don’t.”
“I’ll kill you if you hurt her!” Skip is shouting.
“Actually, it’s going to be the other way around.”
I scan the scene, knowing I’ve only got a few seconds to act. Matthew is going to shoot Marissa just as Skip clears the window and heaves himself into the room. Skip will lunge at Matthew, and Matthew will shoot him, too.
Then Skip stops moving. He has spotted me.
“Look, Matthew, it was my fault, okay? Not hers. You don’t have to do this.”
“Keep walking.”
Marissa steps forward. Skip is trying to distract Matthew, while my gun remains fixed on the invisible bull’s-eye.
I can’t shoot Matthew, though. Marissa is directly in front of him. My bullet would probably tear through him and hit her.
“Marissa picked you, not me.” Skip’s desperate, playing to Matthew’s ego. Skip must have done the mental math, and he knows there is no way he can get to Marissa in time.
“Sure she did,” Matthew replies sarcastically. “Just like my dad prefers me to you. Just like Tina did, too.”
Marissa stops moving.
“Things didn’t end up so well for Tina, either.” Matthew’s tone is pure evil. “Do you know she thought it was you chasing after her when she was sitting on the pier alone that night? She looked so disappointed when she turned around and saw me. But not for long.”
You sick bastard, I think.
Matthew raises his gun slightly, and I know this is it: the moment he’s been planning ever since he discovered his wife and good friend betrayed him. Marissa is completely silent; she must be in shock. Skip is still too far away to help.
I’ve only got one possible move.
I flatten out my left hand and gesture in a swift, downward motion—the same one Skip taught me on the night he met Romeo. Down.
Skip’s eyes widen briefly, then he gets it. He flings himself backward and disappears.
Matthew leaps forward, grabbing Marissa and shoving her to the ground. Then he runs toward the window, leading with his gun.
The instant Marissa is clear, I pull the trigger.
A tremendous boom echoes through the room. Matthew collapses to the ground, dropping his weapon. Before I even realize I’m doing it, I run over to him and kick the gun away.
A widening bloodstain blooms across Matthew’s chest, and he makes a faint gurgling sound. His eyes flutter, then roll back in his head.
Marissa is still lying on the floor, her arms curled around her head and her eyes squeezed shut, as if she’s waiting for the next gunshot.
My eyes flit from Matthew’s body to Skip hurling himself through the window.
When Skip reaches Marissa an instant later, he wraps his arms tightly around her.
I step closer to Matthew and nudge him with the toe of my sneaker. He doesn’t appear to be breathing anymore. I move over to Marissa and Skip, but keep my gun trained on Matthew.
He seems to be dead. But he has tricked me before.
He’s not going to do it again.
Marissa finally opens her eyes and stares up at me. She whispers, “Tell me it isn’t real.”
“It is,” I say gently. “And it’s also going to be okay.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
MARISSA
TIME IS A CHAMELEON. It’s ever changing, cannily adapting to circumstances.
It stretches out some tiny moments for an eternity. Then it shifts course and swallows up whole days, years even, as if they never existed. It’s as slippery and elusive as water running through the cracks in a tightly cupped hand.
It has been eight days since Matthew’s death—a stretch of time that felt endless yet far too short, because it brought Marissa here, to Monday, her scheduled reentry point into the world.
Marissa thought she could do this; she imagined Coco would be a refuge again.
But all the scented candles and gorgeous objects and shiny fixtures provide her no peace.
They’re just beautiful things.
They have no importance at all.
Marissa has spent the morning desperately bargaining with time, wishing for the clock to spin forward so she can pick up Bennett. Other than when Marissa needed to give statements to the police, the two of them have not been apart since Matthew died. Marissa sleeps curled next to Bennett in a double bed; for the first days at her parents’ home on the Eastern Shore, and since then in a guest room at Skip’s town house. She takes Bennett to see a child psychologist and gives him ice cream every night, as if the sweet treat were a balm. When Avery asked to come over to meet with her, Marissa scheduled their talk for after Bennett’s bedtime and kept his doorway within view the entire time.
Now her son’s absence is like a missing limb.
The bell over Coco’s door jingles as two customers enter. Marissa and Polly have been busier than ever this morning, but most of the people coming in aren’t shoppers. They’re gawkers, thrilled by their proximity to danger.
Marissa can already tell these women have come to her store to collect a story to serve up to their friends. They’re not looking for new coasters or robes. They’re looking for her.
“I’ve got this,” Polly announces, and she marches up to the women while Marissa slips into the back room.
Marissa can hear Polly deflecting the women’s nosy questions: “If you’re not here to buy anything, we cordially ask that you leave.”
Polly steps briskly into the back room a moment later: “Just some lookie-loos. I got rid of them.”
“Thank you,” Marissa replies quietly.
Polly reaches out to touch Marissa’s shoulder, then withdraws her hand. Marissa can tell Polly has been gearing herself up for this conversation all morning. “If I had known, I never would have told Matthew anything.”
Marissa nods. “How did it all start?”
Polly’s chin trembles and her eyes grow wet. “Matthew came by the store one afternoon right after I began working here. You’d gone to pick up Bennett from school. He introduced himself and told me you were trying to get pregnant, and that you’d had some fertility issues. He asked me to look after you—to make sure you were eating enough, and that you didn’t lift any heavy boxes.”
All the offers of tea and muffins and salads. Polly’s distress when Marissa tried to pick up a box of pillows. It makes sense now.
“Matthew paid me, too,” Polly blurts. “He insisted. He’d come by when you weren’t here, usually at closing time. He’d give me some cash and ask how you were doing. I thought it was so sweet, that he loved you so much.”
Marissa should be upset, but it’s such a small betrayal, in the grand scheme of things.
“After we found that creepy note, we started talking more frequently. I’m such a dummy. He really made me believe he was trying to protect you, Marissa.”
“I believed him, too. It’s okay, Polly. Truly.”
Polly twists her hands together. “Well, if there is anything I can do, anything at all…” Polly hangs her head and begins to walk away.