The Golden Couple(26)
He looks up at me and freezes.
“What are you doing in there?” I can’t restrain the indignation in my voice.
“Sorry—I was looking for the bathroom.” The line rolls off his tongue, smooth and believable.
But the hairs on my arms stand up.
“The bathroom is just off the living room.” I descend the final steps slowly, keeping my eyes locked on his.
My office is a sacred space. The only people who ever go in there besides me are my clients. My professional files are stored alphabetically in two tall cabinets. I keep all my financial information in my desk. A built-in safe contains my birth certificate, Social Security card, passport, engagement and wedding rings, and Finley’s folder. It also holds my .38 pistol.
Skip has been to my house once before, when he stopped by after a day of meetings in Bethesda before we went to a concert at the Wolf Trap. I’m not 100 percent sure, but I’m reasonably certain he even used the bathroom on this level.
“Oh, yeah, right. Now I remember.” He doubles back, heading toward it.
If Skip had merely opened the door and peeked in, he would instantly have noticed he was in the wrong room. But he went inside. What was he doing?
I peer into my office. Nothing looks out of place, and he couldn’t have been in there for more than a minute, but I’m going to check more closely after he leaves.
Now I’m glad Skip provided the excuse for ending our evening early. I want him out of here.
When Skip exits the bathroom, I’m waiting with his coat. He shrugs it on, then leans down and tries to pat Romeo, who shrinks away. “Bye, buddy.” Skip straightens and faces me. “I had a really nice night. We should do it again sometime soon. And don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any more dog questions.”
“Sure,” I say lightly. I escort him to the front door, and before he’s even off the front porch, I’ve closed and double-locked the door behind him. I turn and begin to walk toward my office, then I whip around again, this time to set the house alarm.
Maybe Skip’s appearance—and sudden reappearance—in my life isn’t a simple coincidence. I met Skip after I called the FDA and relayed the information Finley had overheard.
I step back into my office and riffle through my files, but they appear untouched. I check my other drawers, including the ones in my desk. Nothing seems to have been moved.
I glance at my safe, but there’s no way Skip could have cracked the code; it’s fingerprint activated. My laptop is in my bedroom, so he couldn’t have installed spyware on it. I stand in the middle of the room and circle around slowly, considering the possibility that Skip had really been searching for the bathroom after all, then I spy the appointment calendar I keep on top of my desk. I log appointments on my phone, too, but I like having the physical reference as a backup. A striped ribbon that had been neatly nestled between the book’s pages marking the current day is now askew, as if someone had flipped through the pages.
There’s no good reason I can come up with for why Skip would be searching for details about my schedule.
I pick up the calendar and examine it closely. These days, surveillance techniques are so sophisticated that tiny cameras can be applied anywhere.
Nothing is affixed to my calendar, though. I search the entire room, running my fingers over every surface, checking the window blinds, and even peering up into the air-conditioning vent.
When I’m finally satisfied the room is clean, I sit down at my desk and review what I know about Skip. He told me he’s a commercial real estate developer, and that he owns a town house in the Palisades neighborhood in D.C.
I log into my laptop and plug his name into a search engine. There are dozens of mentions of Steven Pierce. I click on one of the hits, an article that appeared in a local glossy magazine called Washington Life. Accompanying the brief piece is a spread of photographs from the Allison Gala at the Four Seasons Hotel last September. Skip appears in one, wearing a tuxedo and smiling directly into the camera, and the caption confirms his name and occupation.
I scroll through another dozen hits until I’m certain he checks out. Skip appears to be exactly whom he claims; I can’t find a single loose thread. I finally stand up and walk out of my office, flicking off the light. But throughout the rest of the night, I can’t stop seeing Skip standing in that doorway, like an intruder.
My heart tells me Skip is a decent guy.
My gut tells me to never go near him again.
CHAPTER TEN
MARISSA
MARISSA FINDS HERSELF HUMMING as she leans toward the bathroom mirror to apply a creamy lipstick, one that complements the rose-colored silk sheath she picked up at Coco’s today. Her personal favorite of the many dresses in her closet is a black knee-length one, but Matthew prefers her in softer hues. He also loves how her legs look in high heels, so she slides into a pair of bone-colored pumps, even though she has been on her feet most of the day running errands and taking Bennett to a birthday party at an indoor trampoline park.
She desperately wants for tonight to go well. Matthew is still avoiding her, but Avery’s instructions mean they’ll have to talk over dinner. It’s reassuring to have their agenda predetermined. Marissa spent most of her spare moments today sifting through memories, finding the ones that seem right to share. She’s conscious of Avery’s critique from their first session—That’s an Instagram post—so she’s doing her best to ensure the emotions contained in the remembrances are textured and honest.