The Golden Couple(7)
I pick up the chart at the foot of Skylar’s bed and scan the notes. She swallowed twenty milligrams of Lunesta, a sedative. Not enough to kill her. She didn’t even need to have her stomach pumped. Just enough to give her ex a bad scare.
“You know I hate hospitals.” Skylar’s voice trembles. “Will they let you take me home?”
“I don’t think you’ll be able to leave tonight.”
Her face falls. “But when I do, you’ll be there, right? You’ll stay with me.”
This is it, the moment when my ten sessions will collide with his ex-wife’s force of will.
“No.” Cameron swallows hard and releases her hand. “I have my own apartment now.”
She inhales sharply. “But I’m not well! I need you!”
As I put down the chart, Skylar’s head swivels toward me. I see recognition come into her eyes.
“What is she doing here?” Skylar’s eyes narrow. “Get out or I’m calling the cops again!”
A machine beeps shrilly, and by the time the same nurse who led Cameron and me to Skylar opens the curtain, I’m already backing out of the makeshift room.
“You feeling okay, Skylar?” The nurse checks the machine’s screen. “Your blood pressure and pulse just shot up.”
I hope Skylar will be kept here for another day or two. In the meantime, I’ll email Cameron another snippet of the video clip I’ve created, the one that features a zoom-in on Skylar’s furious, pinched face as she berates him with vicious words.
I showed Cameron that video during our fourth session together, the one I’ve titled Revelation. Seeing and hearing his wife disparage him, as he cowered on the couch, unshackled something in Cameron. It saved him.
Sometimes, we need to look at our lives from a different angle to recognize the dysfunction and damage certain relationships are causing. When Cameron saw—truly saw, for the first time—how abusive Skylar was to him, he began to gather the courage to move out.
That video also cost me my license. I’d snuck into Cameron and Skylar’s house in D.C. to record it; neither of them knew I was hiding in a closet, filming the argument I’d instructed Cameron to stoke. When Skylar found out by hacking into Cameron’s emails, she reported me. Luckily, Cameron told the police he’d given me permission to enter his home and film him, which means the criminal charges didn’t stick. Only the professional repercussions did.
So in a way, that video freed me, too.
Back in the hospital’s waiting room, I pause at the watercooler by the guard’s desk. A night of tequila and sex has left me parched, and the dry hospital air isn’t helping. I pull a plastic cup out of the dispenser sleeve and fill it, gulping it down without pause. Then I fill it again.
When I toss the cup into the trash bin, it lands atop a pile of others—including one that someone crushed. I stare at it for a moment, remembering Matthew’s hand closing tightly around the cup I gave him, then I head back outside.
My BMW is right where I left it in the parking lot, beneath a tall, bright lamp, but I still glance into my back seat before unlocking my door. It’s one of my newer habits, along with requesting a picture ID from prospective clients and making sure they match the photos before I let them into my house.
Skylar isn’t my only enemy.
It takes a minute for the heat to come on, and I’m already driving toward Matthew and Marissa’s house by the time the blowing air has chased the chill from my body.
Clients reveal only so much when they come to see me. I want to get a fuller picture of the Bishops, and I’m wide-awake, so I might as well start now.
They live in Chevy Chase, just over the D.C. line in Maryland, an area where even a small plot of undeveloped land can go for seven figures. Their home is exactly as I expected: grand and sprawling with a beautifully maintained lawn, enclosed by a tall wrought-iron fence and gate. It’s easy to imagine Marissa clipping flowers from the garden in a wide-brimmed hat while Matthew tosses a baseball to his son, and to picture them on their graceful front porch, sipping cocktails as the sun dips lower into the sky.
Only one thing is off, and it’s the inverse of what occurred just an hour or so ago, when I arrived home to discover my house was unexpectedly dark.
At nearly 2:00 A.M., the Bishops’ place should be cloaked in shadows and completely still. But a glow illuminates one of the second-story rooms. I squint and glimpse the form of a person moving around inside.
Which one of them can’t sleep?
Insomnia can grip us for many reasons: stress, guilt, fear, and rage are among them.
An uneasy mind is difficult to quiet.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARISSA
MARISSA WINCES AS THE empty glass shatters against the terra-cotta tiles of the kitchen floor.
“Damn,” she mutters, grabbing a paper towel and bending down to pick up the shards. Too much coffee and too little sleep have made her jittery.
“Mom,” Bennett says. “That’s a dollar for the curse jar.”
Technically, she feels the word is only a borderline swear, but she isn’t going to debate this with her eight-year-old. She scans the floor, knowing she has probably missed a few sharp slivers, as she hears the rush of water abruptly cease one floor up. On typical mornings, Matthew showers while she applies moisturizer and makeup, the two of them discussing the day’s logistics: whether he’d be home for dinner that night, or if they should repaint the dining room. Ever since their session with Avery, though, her husband has been sleeping in the guest room and avoiding the master bathroom until she is downstairs.