The Ex by Freida McFadden(31)

Mrs. Richards, on the other hand, seems blissfully ignorant of the elevator’s potential to be a deathtrap. “Do you have a beau?” she asks.

Cassie forces a smile. “Yes, I do.”

“Very good.” The older woman nods her approval. “Will you be getting married soon?”

She snorts, although maybe it’s not so funny. Despite Joel’s insistence that he’s not thinking about marriage or kids this early in the relationship, he must be when all his friends are at that point. “We’ll see,” she says.

They both get off on the fifth floor, and Cassie lets out the sigh of relief she always does when she steps out of the elevator. Mrs. Richards lives in the apartment two doors down from her, so they must both go by Cassie’s apartment. So Mrs. Richards is standing right next to her when they get an eyeful of what’s written on Cassie’s door in crimson paint:

SLUT.

Cassie stares at the word, her body frozen. Mrs. Richards clasps her hand over her mouth and murmurs, “Oh, dear.” Cassie knows she needs to do something or say something, but she’s not sure what. Someone called her a slut on her apartment door. Someone who knows who she is and where she lives and can get into her building.

And the worst thing is, it’s the same color paint that was on the door to her store.

“How horrible,” Mrs. Richards declares. “Who would do such a thing?”

Cassie has no idea. Given that until last night, she hadn’t had sex in over two years, it’s laughable that someone would call her a slut. But there’s a part of her that wonders if the person who wrote this slur on her door knows exactly what she did last night. And isn’t happy about it. There’s only one person she can think of who might feel that way.

Francesca.

Francesca—the faceless but beautiful woman who occupied Joel’s heart before she did. Francesca, who is a great cook and clearly better liked by his friends. Francesca, who is perfect.

Mrs. Richards is looking at her differently now, perhaps noticing for the first time that she’s dressed in clothes to go out for the night, even though it’s early in the morning. Mrs. Richards must realize she’s doing the Walk of Shame. And for the first time, Cassie feels ashamed.

“You should call the police,” Mrs. Richards says.

Cassie nods. She needs to call the police. Of course she does.

Except if the police come, they’ll want to go into her apartment. They won’t just stand outside the door, will they? And if they come inside, they might find what Grandpa Marv left behind.

And that would lead to questions Cassie can’t answer.

Anyway, the police never figured out who threw that paint at the door to her store, so how likely are they to solve this crime? Really, Joel is the one she should call. Especially since she’s beginning to suspect Francesca could be the one behind all this.

Cassie reaches into her purse for her phone, prepared to call Joel and tell him what she suspects. But before she puts through the call, she hesitates. She’s suddenly not so sure she wants to share her suspicions with him.

Despite the fact that they’re broken up, Cassie knows that Francesca still occupies an important place in Joel’s heart. He’s oddly protective of her. That’s why whenever Cassie even hints about her, he quickly changes the subject. Not that it would be better if he trashed her—badmouthing the ex is a quality Cassie finds distasteful—but she doesn’t like the way his eyes soften when someone says her name. She would bet anything there’s a small part of him that misses her. She’s scared that if there’s any great love story here, it’s the one between Joel and Francesca.

So Cassie puts her phone back in her purse. She doesn’t call the police. She doesn’t call Joel. She tells nobody.





Chapter 18: The Ex


I regret a lot about last night. I regret that after I left the café, I went to a bar. I regret the amount I had to drink.

I don’t know quite how I ended up at Olive’s apartment. At one moment, I was chugging a shot of bourbon, and the next, I was standing outside her door. A voice in my head was telling me I ought to go home. Before I did one more thing I would regret.

But a small part of me regrets nothing. I had a decision to make last night. Either to forget about Joel or try to get rid of Olive. And I made that decision.

But I do regret the way my head ached when I woke up this morning. I’ve been hydrating all day, but when I leave work, the throbbing is still there in my right temple. I’m not twenty anymore—when I drink, I pay for it the next day. All I can think of is going straight home and running a nice, hot bath. Nonna won’t bother me.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sophia Loren…”

I whirl around at the sound of the voice right behind me on the street. It sounds familiar but I don’t put it together until I see the face. It’s that guy, Dean, who I met in the park. The friend of Joel’s.

He flashes a smile at me that makes his one dimple pop. “What are the chances, right?”

“Right,” I mumble, thinking wistfully about the bath at home.

He arches an eyebrow. “I think fate could be bringing us together.”

“I don’t know about that.”

He takes a step toward me. He’s wearing a jacket, but underneath he’s got on a pair of slacks that look expensive. A tie peeks out from his collar. He doesn’t have on scrubs, that’s for sure. I wonder what he does for a living.