Never Lie (24)

Luke returns with my cup of coffee. The liquid is black, and he’s brought me a little cup of cream on the side, as well as a stirring stick in the cup itself. I didn’t even have to tell him that’s how I wanted it. Somehow he figured out that I wanted to add the cream myself.

“Thank you,” I say.

The corner of his lips quirks up. “I hope that helps.”

I pour the container of cream into my coffee. I stir it slowly, until the black morphs into a tan color. I take a long sip and let out a sigh. “I needed that.”

“You must be exhausted, Doc,” Gloria remarks. “You got that big drive both ways. What is it—an hour?”

My fingers dig into my coffee cup. “Something like that.”

Luke arches an eyebrow. “You live in Manhattan?”

“No, she doesn’t.” Gloria won’t let me get a word in edge-wise. “She lives out in Westchester. In a fancy schmancy house. All by herself.”

I silently curse the fact that Gloria is privy to my home address. But I appreciate that Luke didn’t know. He may have a pointless and irritating crush on me, but he’s not a stalker—I’ll give him that much.

“It’s not safe out there,” Gloria rambles on. “All by yourself, in the middle of nowhere. You probably don’t even have an alarm system.”

It’s an echo of what Paige said to me when she dropped off the proof copy of my book. Why is everyone so convinced I can’t take care of myself? “I’m fine. Really.”

“You know…” Luke looks up at me from the computer. He has long eyelashes for a man. “A security system isn’t a bad idea. I just put one in for my mother. It was easy, and now I feel like she’s a lot safer.”

Gloria shoots me a look as if to say, See? I told you that you need an alarm system. And also, Luke is such a wonderful son to his mother—don’t you want to go out with him?

I smile thinly. “I’ll think about it.”

I won’t think about it. I am perfectly fine the way I am.





Chapter 17


TRICIA



Present Day



I manage to sleep through the entire rest of the night, and according to my watch, it’s almost nine o’clock when I wake up the next morning.

Ethan isn’t in the bedroom anymore, but there’s a piece of paper on his side of the bed. It’s a note for me. He scribbled in black ink: Making breakfast downstairs. Didn’t want to wake you.

He’s so thoughtful.

I reach for my purse that I left on the nightstand. The first thing I do is grab my phone—still no service. I wonder if Ethan had better luck. I doubt it.

I do a few stretches in the bed, then I force myself to get up. I walk over to the gigantic window near the bed and stare out at our surroundings. Oh my God, there is a lot of snow. Everything is covered in a thick blanket of white. Every tree, every bush—the road we took to get here is decimated by snow. I’m sure the BMW is probably just a big lump of white at this point.

We aren’t getting out of here soon. That much is certain.

I have to make the best of this time. I can’t bring myself to take a shower in that bathroom, but I brush my teeth with my finger using what I assume is three-year-old toothpaste. It makes me feel a little better.

My honey blond hair is a complete rat’s nest after last night. I splash some water on it, then do my best to comb it out using my fingers. There’s a hairbrush on one of the shelves in the bathroom, which still has a few dull red strands in it. I’m not touching that hairbrush. My fingers will have to do the trick.

I throw on my jeans and blouse from last night as well as my socks, which are dry but slightly crusty. It does seem a bit of a shame to be wearing my old clothing when there’s an entire walk-in closet filled with designer outfits in approximately my size, but I’m not touching any of that stuff. It’s too creepy.

When I get down the stairs, I can hear Ethan singing to himself in the kitchen. I pass by the living room and discover he's taken the portrait down again. I’m obscenely grateful that he took it down again so I won’t have Dr. Hale staring at me. We just have to remember to put it back before we leave.

When I get to the kitchen, Ethan is wearing the Yankees shirt again and the too-long blue jeans. Now that I’m closer, I can make out what song he’s singing. “I’m Walking on Sunshine.” He always likes to sing in the shower or while he’s cooking—he actually has a nice singing voice—but he rarely belts it out quite like this. He is in a really good mood.

“Hey, Tricia.” He winks at me as he stirs something in the frying pan. “Sleep okay?”

I nod. “What are you making?”

“I found some eggs.”

As he says the words, the smell of eggs hits me. All at once, my stomach lurches. I try to suppress it, but I can’t. I race over to the kitchen sink and vomit up the residuals of the bologna sandwich I ate last night while Ethan looks on in horror. The vomiting seems to go on for several minutes, followed by another good minute of retching.

I guess this is what morning sickness is like.

“Jesus Christ.” He shuts off the stove. “Are you all right?”

“Uh-huh.” I run the faucet and scoop up a little water with my hand to rinse out my mouth. I hate vomiting. Not that anyone likes vomiting, but I find it particularly distasteful. “I’m fine.”