The Marriage Lie(90)

Last night’s events play out in freeze-frames in my mind. A black body sliding from the shadows of my front room. Will’s voice in my ear, telling me to get out. Corban’s lecherous grin. His brains splattered on my den wall, his skull leaking a thick and gooey puddle onto the carpet. So, so much blood.

Without warning, a wave of nausea pitches up my throat. I lurch out of bed and sprint to the toilet, barely making it on time. My last meal was ages ago, and there’s little in my stomach, but I throw it all up, over and over, until all that’s left is bile. I flush the sick down, but the dizziness doesn’t pass.

Will was there, I’m sure of it. He was, what, twenty feet away? His voice haunts me—Iris, get out of there. I’m on my way. Despite Corban’s threats and my terror, the only thing I felt when Will’s words traveled down the line was relief. Relief that he was alive, that he was coming for me, that finally, after all the heartache and drama, I would see him again.

And now? Now all I feel is a ten-ton weight of disappointment that I didn’t and a looming sense of dread for what comes next.

I brush my teeth with a new toothbrush and mini tube of toothpaste on the bathroom counter, select a T-shirt and pair of yoga leggings from the stack of Susanna’s clothes Evan left on the dresser for me, then make my way into the hall.

Evan’s house is gorgeous. High ceilings, generous moldings, sunny, spacious rooms decorated in neutral colors, each one prettier than the next. I take my time moving down the hall, swinging my head left and right, admiring Susanna’s exquisite taste, until I come to a closed door. The last room on the left, and I know whose it is. If I push the door open, I’m certain the walls inside will be painted pink.

By the stairs, I pause at a wall of framed photographs, wedding portraits and vacation snapshots interspersed with more recent baby pictures. A black-and-white shot of a gorgeous dark-haired woman is in the dead center, a tiny infant on her chest. My heart twists for two people I never knew, but mostly for the man I hear banging around downstairs. How does he walk by this picture every day? Does he cover his eyes? Does he look away? I wouldn’t be able to stand it.

I pad downstairs, where the scent of something scorched wrings another wave of nausea from my empty stomach. I wait until it passes, then follow the noise into a chef’s kitchen, dark cabinets and gleaming stainless appliances. Evan stands behind the island, slicing a red pepper into long, thin strips on a chopping block.

“Hey,” I say.

He glances up, then sucks a breath, quick and sudden, through his nose. It’s a reflex, one of those involuntary responses to pain, the lung’s version of a flinch. I know because it happens to me, too, those memories that slam into me when I least expect them.

“Sorry,” I say, already backing out of the room. “I’ll go change.”

“No. No, that’s okay, I’m fine.” He clears his throat, shakes his head. “Well, not fine fine, but I will be. Soon.”

This is why I didn’t want to come. Because I’d be stepping into memories that aren’t mine, treading onto territory where I don’t belong or feel welcome.

“You sure?” I pluck at Susanna’s T-shirt. “Because I don’t mind.”

“No, keep ’em on. Yours are filthy. I figured y’all were about the same size.” He waves me in with the blade of his knife, gestures to a seat across the island. “Come on in, sit down. I’m just making dinner.”

Dinner? I look around for a clock. “What time is it?”

“Just past six. You slept for almost seventeen hours.”

My eyes go wide, and I sink into a stool. “Seventeen hours, how is that even possible? I haven’t slept that long since...since junior year, when Scott Smith gave me mono. And I did it without one of my brother’s little blue pills.”

Evan snorts. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned these past two weeks, it’s that grief is exhausting.”

“I need to call my boss. He’s—”

“No need, I already talked to Ted. Your mom, too. She’s a trip, by the way. She said to call her the second you get a chance. Ted said to take however long you need.”

“What about the police?”

“Detective Johnson was a great deal less understanding. She said if you weren’t awake by the morning, she was coming over here to see for herself. I assured her that wouldn’t be necessary, that we would drop by the station first thing tomorrow to make a statement.”

“Did she give you any news?”

“Some. I thought I’d fill you in over dinner. Then we’ll hammer out a plan.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder to the stove, where black steam is rising from a pan like a smokestack. “I’m making enchiladas.”

“Okay, but, um...” I point, and Evan turns to look. He lunges for the pan, jerking it up off the gas, but it’s too late. The contents are already chunks of charred cement.

He dumps it, pan and all, into the sink and turns on the water with a hiss. “New plan. What do you like on your pizza?”

*

“I want to come stay with you,” Mom says into the phone, and I picture her standing in her foyer with her overnight bag, car keys clutched in a fist. “When can I come?”

I’m seated at Evan’s kitchen table, watching him scrub the pan with steel wool and elbow grease. He doesn’t seem to be making any progress. Every time he rinses the soap off to check, he starts in all over again.