The Marriage Lie(82)

“Of course.” An edge of fear shades my voice, and I cover it by dragging my smile wider. From the way his mouth draws tight, I don’t think I did a good job.

“If you don’t want to stay with me, you can always go to a hotel.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got the mac-daddy alarm, remember?”

“Right.”

Evan offers me a hand and pulls me off the couch, and I walk him to the front door. As he’s reaching for the knob, he pauses, turning back with a frown. “Did you ever hear back from Zeke about the 678 number?”

I slide my phone from my pocket, check the screen. “No. Nothing.”

“Wonder what’s taking him so long. I’ll give him a call on the way home. If he’s made any headway, I’ll let you know. And we’ll talk tomorrow about plans to go see Tiffany.”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay. Be smart. Keep your doors locked. Don’t open up to anyone. Trust your gut. If you have even the slightest suspicion there’s something wrong, use the panic buttons. That’s what they’re for.”

“Evan, seriously. I’ll be fine.”

He relents, yanking on the front doorknob, and a siren splits the air.

“Oh, shit!” I lurch to the pad and punch in the code, and the deafening screech stops. I know from experience what comes next. I run into the kitchen for the phone, which is already ringing.

“Rugby, rugby, rugby,” I say by way of greeting. “Sorry! I promise this is the last time.”

“Glad to hear all is well, Mrs. Griffith. Have a good night.”

I drop the phone onto the charger and make my way back into the hall, my heart settling.

Evan is standing just where I left him, his hands shoved into his pockets, his grin big and wide. “Well, at least we know the thing works.”

“My neighbors are going to hate me.”

He pulls me in for a quick hug, wrapping me in his praying-mantis arms and his scent of unfamiliar shampoo and aftershave. For a fleeting second, I reconsider his offer of his guest room, and just like that, the hug turns awkward. Too tight, too close, too soon for his chin to be resting on the crown of my head, his hand warm and dry in my neck.

I untangle myself and pull away.

“Be safe, okay?” I nod, and he smiles. “Call you in the morning.”

He slips out the door, then waits on the stoop while I flip the dead bolts behind him. He gestures to the alarm pad, and I roll my eyes playfully, punching in the code and giving him a thumbs-up through the glass once the system is armed. Once he’s certain I’m safe, he jogs to his car and folds himself in, and a few moments later, he’s gone.

I flip off the porch light, then reconsider, flip it back on. If there was ever a night to sleep with all the lights on, every damn one of them, it’s tonight. I press my face into the glass panel and look out into the night, at the row of hulking Victorians across the street, their silhouettes looming in the darkness. An occasional upstairs window spills out golden light, but otherwise, all is still.

“I thought he’d never leave,” a familiar voice says from right behind me, and my heart stops.





28

I stand very still, a panicky fear roaring in my ears. “What... How did you get in here? How did you get past the alarm?”

Corban steps out of the shadows of my front room, dressed like the lead bad guy in a James Bond movie. Indigo jeans, an ebony sweater, black sneakers, all sleek and designer and dark as the shadows outside. He looks like he could scale the walls of my house and drop through a window without making a sound. Who knows? Maybe that’s how he got inside.

“I learned a lot from your techie husband, including how to get around an alarm.” He makes a tsking sound, and that same creepy smile pushes up his face. It scares me more now than the last time I saw it this afternoon, when I was pulling away from his house. “I told you I knew how. Looks like you should have listened.”

It takes a couple of seconds before his words register over the pounding of my heart, and then another few for me to catch his meaning. Looks like I should have listened to what? And then I understand. Corban is referring to the text from the 678 number: FYI, I know how to get around an alarm system. “Hold on. You sent that message? You’re the one who’s been texting me?”

He lifts both arms to indicate the space around us—my foyer, my house—and I take it as a yes, which means he also sent the other one. The first threat from that same number comes flooding back in razor-sharp focus: Tell me where Will hid the money or you’ll be joining him.

I look into Corban’s eyes, obsidian and more than a little unhinged, and I think he’d do it. He’d kill me and not think twice.

But why? Why send me threatening texts from one number while pretending to be Will with the other? It doesn’t make any sense. The roaring in my ears turns hollow, like I’m at the bottom of the ocean.

“Look, I don’t know where the money is. I didn’t even know about it until a few days ago.”

“Of course, you have no idea.” His words agree but not his tone. His tone says that I know where the money is, and he’ll make good on his threat if he has to.

Sweat blooms between my breasts as I shuffle backward, inching closer to the alarm pad, trying to come up with a way to distract him for three seconds. Three seconds to activate a panic button! What idiot came up with that rule? Three seconds is an eternity when you’re panicked.