“We should probably get out,” she says, but doesn’t move.
“Probably,” I agree, and pull her a little tighter.
Eventually, I help her up, wrap her in a towel, and take my time with her—pressing lotion into her skin with slow, warm hands, kissing the long lines of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the soft swell of her chest. Not with urgency now. With adoration.
I settle her beneath the sheets, her lashes damp, her breath already softening into the rhythm of sleep. The world outside can spin and burn.
For now, she’s safe.
And I’ll make damn sure she stays that way.
Chapter
Thirty-One
Alicia
There’s an uneasy quiet to the house, the kind that hums under your skin. The dull thud in my head and the queasy roll of my stomach feel like the morning after too much wine—only I didn’t drink last night. I just didn’t sleep. After waking in the afternoon, I’d been disoriented—and lacked the willpower to shower again and blow out my hair. So I pulled it back into a chignon, applied makeup, and chose a simple business casual outfit of loose jeans, a cashmere cream turtleneck, and a navy blazer. It’s not my best outfit, but it’ll do to face Richard.
So far he’s refused my calls—sending only clipped texts that say we need to speak in person. Given he’s a lawyer, it always makes me uneasy when he refuses to put anything more than sterile, professional phrases in writing. That’s when I know he’s angry, or afraid, or both.
The traffic outside passes like any other weekday. Upstairs, I have a million emails waiting. I’ve put clients on hold today, giving myself a chance to fortify myself before I address questions and concerns. Some clients may choose to select a crisis management firm led by a woman who isn’t herself in crisis, and I can’t blame them. I’ve made my list of clients to call, and tomorrow morning, I’ll arrive at the office, hold a staff meeting to explain the situation, then begin making calls.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years talking frantic people off ledges, drafting talking points and timelines. Now I’m the one plotting my own damage control, waiting until I’m emotionally steady enough to listen without breaking. So many times, my clients are the cause of the pain, and I’m the one counseling that an apology with a “but” isn’t an apology.
If I were to speak to my clients—or my staff—my apology would most certainly include an “I’m sorry for this inconvenience, but this is not my fault.”
I didn’t kill Matt. I had no part in his murder. But I did sleep with him and bury the truth for ten years. I’m not guilty of what they’ve charged me with, but I’m hardly innocent.
Another reason I’m holding off on calling clients is I haven’t decided how much I’ll share. If I were to take my own advice, I’d come clean about the affair. Someone out there clearly knows—it’s not like the detective uncovered DNA evidence from ten years ago. He didn’t even acquire CCTV or hotel footage from ten years ago. He spoke to someone—which means it could come out in the press with coverage of the trial. It’s better to tell the whole story when I have my first call. There’s a selfish part of me that still hopes it will stay hidden—that no one else ever has to know what I did.
Noah’s reflection appears in the front window panes a beat before his arms come around me, solid and sure, pulling me back against his chest. I sink into his warmth, my palms sliding over the corded strength of his forearms. At a time like this, it would be so easy to fall in love with him.
Of course, who am I kidding? I’ve been falling in love with him for weeks—a quiet look, an after-work drink, one steady heartbeat at a time. I’m not sure how I’d get through this without him. Will falling for him make his inevitable departure more painful? Yes, it will. But there’s no doubt I need him now.
Christine’s coming over later . She doesn’t know exactly what happened—I don’t think. She’s likely heard rumors. Her most recent message said simply: I’m coming over this evening with vino. After dinner. See you at 8.
I gave the message a thumbs up. If there’s one sign of a true friend, it’s when you’re charged with murder and she arrives with wine. If I had killed someone, she’d help me hide the body. Not that I would ever resort to murder. Even on my worst days with Richard, I might have joked about unaliving him, might have even fantasized about an untimely demise, but I would never kill. It’s disturbing to think others think I would—and it’s also disturbing that someone out there did kill and may be trying to pin the murder on me.
The car pulls into my drive, stopping right at the gate, and my grip on Noah’s arms tightens. There’s pressure on the side of my head as he presses his lips to my hair. I tap his arm and say, “Let me go greet them.”
“I’ll wait inside,” he says.
I don’t bother with a coat. I’m too numb to worry about chilly air or the drizzle.
Richard exits his BMW first. I catch sight of Stella holding an iPhone, her shoulders hunched around the glow. She’s rooted to the seat, hypnotized by the screen. For a second, I assume it’s Richard’s. Then I see the case—a sparkly blue thing she’d pick herself.
He closes his car door, and the slam of metal somehow ricochets through me. His eyes are cold, possibly bloodshot, the fine lines around them deeper. Like me, he hasn’t slept. Who told him? When did he find out?
I peer past him. “Is she getting out of the car?”
“She got a new phone,” he says, as if that explains everything. “She’s…enthused.”
“We agreed—no phone until she’s fifteen.”
“It’s better that she has it,” he says flatly. “I can track her if I need to. And you can call her.”
I reel back—but the car door opens and Stella’s excited voice intervenes.