Mean Streak(92)

Emory, semireclined on the sofa, hugging a throw pillow to her chest, watched him. It disturbed her to realize that she was looking for dishonesty or perfidy, which, under the circumstances, was unfair. And yet…

“Jeff?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you know that my sunglasses got broken when I fell?”

He lowered his hand from his face and looked over at her. “What?”

“Last night, you asked me who had fixed my sunglasses. How did you know they’d been broken?” He looked stumped. She repeated, “How did you know they’d been broken?”

“Because of the sloppy repair job. You were wearing them on Friday when you left the house. They were fine. Yesterday, when you were changing out of your clothes in the ER, an orderly, someone, handed your things over to me. I had to sign an inventory form. As I was putting everything into the plastic bag they provided, I noticed that one of the stems on your glasses had been glued together.”

“It’s hardly noticeable.”

“I noticed. You know I have an eye for detail.”

She nodded.

“Anything else?” he asked tightly.

“Actually, yes. Are you having an affair?”

He seethed for a moment, then turned to the end table at his elbow and decisively set his glass of whiskey on it. “Let me get this straight. You’re the one who went missing without explanation, and, as it turns out, went on a crime spree with a man of mystery under whose roof you spent four nights, and I’m the one being put on the defensive?”

“Are you having—?”

“Yes!”

She took a deep, stabilizing breath. “Since when?”

“Makes no difference now. It’s over.”

“Oh?”

“I called an end to it.”

“I repeat, since when?”

“Recently.”

“How recently? Since my disappearance?”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been seemly, would it, to be dallying with a lover when the fate of my wife was unknown.”

“Do the detectives know about it?”

“They discovered it, yes.”

“While investigating you?”

“That’s right. They were delighted to find you alive, but I think they, particularly Grange, were disappointed that they couldn’t charge me with murder.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did it delight you that I turned up alive? Or not?”

The skin covering his face actually tightened. “I’m not even going to honor that with a reply.”

“Which is not an answer, is it?” she murmured.

If he heard her, he didn’t acknowledge it. He reached for his drink and sipped at it again.

“Who is the woman?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“She’s unimportant, Emory. I didn’t begin the affair because of burning desire or unrequited love.”

“You wanted to hurt me.”

“I suppose so.”

“Why?”

“Quid pro quo. You have your other loves, and they consume you. They’re all more important to you than I’ll ever hope to be. Your medical practice, your patients, your marathons, your charities.”

“It had nothing to do with the drug trials and my lukewarm opinion?”

“No more so than anything else.”

“Oh, I see. There are more offenses I’m not even aware of.”

“That’s precisely the point. As my wife, you should be aware of them, shouldn’t you?”

She was about to speak, but he held up his hand.

“I began the affair because you had turned me into a cliché. It chafed, Emory. I resented the role of underappreciated hanger-on, a shadow in your dazzling presence. I went in search of attention and affection.” He slammed back the rest of the whiskey. “And enjoyed a lot of both.”

“Then why did you end it?”

“Dealing with your little escapade has kept me busy. I’ve hardly had time to think about her, much less screw her.”

The snide words were intended to wound. They were lancing, but they didn’t pain her as much as they might have even a week ago. She also should have felt gratified or vindicated by his confession. Oddly, she didn’t. It only made her feel more alienated from him. Truthfully, she hadn’t slept with someone else out of spite. But Jeff had.

His resentment didn’t come as a surprise. She’d felt it on occasion. But she hadn’t known until now how deeply embedded it was. She couldn’t help but wonder just how far his hostility toward her extended.

She actually started when the doorbell rang.

Jeff got up to answer, momentarily disappearing into the small entryway of the suite. Emory heard him say, “Who’s this?”

“Special Agent Jack Connell. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”





Chapter 32



Upon hearing the man introduce himself, Emory’s heart sank like a stone. She stood up, facing the entry, as Jeff led Sam Knight and the newcomer into the living area.

Jack Connell was of average height and weight, in his midforties. He was dressed in slacks, sport jacket, and overcoat, but in place of a tie, he had a wool scarf around his neck. His hair was reddish brown. There were dark crescents beneath his brown eyes. He looked road-weary.