The Marriage Lie(48)

Dave’s anger ignites my own. “I don’t know!” I scream back, the words fueled by fury and frustration. My skin is blistered with it, with the shock of receiving a note in my dead husband’s scrawl.

The bathroom plunges into silence.

Behind me, Dave sucks a lungful of air and blows it all out, long and slow, until his shoulders unhunch and his expression loses some of its heat. “Sorry. Sorry, but I’m pissed, okay? I’m going into big-brother protective mode because whoever sent you this did so with one intent and one intent only, and that’s to fuck with your head.”

I let out a laugh that’s not the least bit funny. “Don’t tell him, but it’s working.”

Another hard sigh. “Okay. Let’s back up and think this through. I’m so sorry is generic enough he could have said it to anyone, but to write it on a piece of paper and hand it to them... It has to be someone he knew pretty well. Someone he worked with, maybe?”

“Probably the most likely candidate. If Will wasn’t home, he was at the office. Either there, or at the gy—” The word gets swallowed up in a realization, and I twist around on my stool, staring up at Dave head-on. “Corban.”

“Who?”

“The friend from the gym. The one who showed up at the memorial with news of the job that wasn’t. I don’t know if he was lying or misinformed, but there was something off about him, mostly because he knew all these things about Will, when I’d never heard of this guy. Will never talked about him at all. Not once”

“Okay.” Dave nods. “Definitely suspicious. So how do we find out if he’s the one?”

I pause to think, but the answer doesn’t take me long. “I’ll call him, ask him to meet me for coffee, get to know him a little better.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me just now. I said we. How do we find out.”

I shake my head. “He won’t open up if he suspects even for a second we’re onto him, which he will if I bring along a chaperone. I’m a psychologist, Dave. I know how to make people flip over and show me their underbelly. But I have to build trust first, and I can’t do that with you glaring at him over my shoulder.”

“I don’t like it.” The anger is back in his voice, and it’s laced with oh hell no. “If he’s our guy—”

“If he’s our guy, then having you there will make him clam up for sure. And give me a little credit. I’m not stupid. I’ll make sure to suggest a public place, a spot with a million people around. Nothing will happen. I’ll be fine. And no offense, but nothing you can say is going to stop me.”

My brother thinks about it for a second or two, puffing a trio of short and quick breaths through his nose. “Fine, but only if you promise me that, if he’s our guy, you’ll let me kick his ass.”

I don’t tell him there’s not a chance, that Corban is built like a tank. I don’t remind him of that time in tenth grade, when the PE coach told Dave he fights like a girl. Instead I nod and reach for his hand, thinking never have I loved my brother more.





18

Corban is seated on a bar stool by the window at Octane, a trendy coffee bar and lounge on Atlanta’s Westside, when I walk through the door. The place is packed with new age nerds and long-haired hipsters interspersed with a few grad students from the downtown colleges, all of them pounding away at their MacBook Airs. Corban looks up from his phone, greeting me with a smile that is both quick and blinding. “Hey, Iris.”

I toss him a wave, then gesture to the counter. “Can I get you anything?”

He lifts a ceramic mug from the bar top, fresh steam rising from the rim. “I’m all good, thanks.”

I head to the counter, reciting my order to a dreadlocked girl, and study him out of the corner of my eye. I’d forgotten how dark and...shiny he is. His scalp is cleanly shaven and buffed to a high sheen, his arms slick and smooth where they bulge out of his sleeves.

I also can’t help but notice he’s handsome—the kind of handsome that comes with glossy magazine covers and red-carpet appearances. His clothes are casual, a fitted T-shirt and designer jeans, but he wears them with the elegance of a custom suit, perfect for his lean frame. I was too wrecked the day of the memorial to pay much attention to his looks, but I’m noticing them now, and I’m not the only one. Judging from the hair twirls and liquid looks over coffee cup rims, every female in the place has spotted him and is trying to snag his attention. Their doe eyes narrow when they get a load of me heading in his direction.

I drop my drink on the bar and let him pull me into a hug, soft cotton over muscles hard as steel. He smells like detergent and aftershave, a spicy scent that tickles the back of my throat.

“So great to see you again. How are you holding up?”

Friendly. Empathetic. Sincere. If this is the guy behind the letter, if he’s capable of torturing a widow with a handwritten note from her dead husband, he’s an Oscar-worthy actor skilled at hiding behind his charm. This doesn’t mean I’m letting my guard down. There are plenty of good actors out there, not all of them in Hollywood.

I sink onto a stool, hanging my bag from a hook under the bar. “As well as can be expected, I guess. Thanks for meeting me, and for bringing over the box of Will’s stuff. I especially liked the picture CD.”