The Good Widow(79)

When Nick showed up on my doorstep the first time, I never asked him how he knew how to find me. Had he stalked me too? Or had digging into Dylan’s double life simply led him to me? Looking back, I don’t see Nick ever acting obsessed with her. He’d just seemed like a man grieving for the woman he loved, the same way I had been dealing with losing James.

As my finger hovers over the number for Nick’s floor, I think about getting off on the one below and trying to find Briana. Ask her more questions. I could show her Dylan’s driver’s license. Ask her what she thinks it means that Nick has it. I shake my head and punch the button for the floor that Nick lives on, worrying my own insecurities may be causing me to jump to the wrong conclusion.

So I head to Nick’s place. I walk down the hall and stop at his door, staring at it. Fumble for my key in my purse, remembering him giving it to me on a keychain with a red heart. I’d been wide eyed at first and asked, “Are you sure?” Then he nodded and said, “Of course, you belong here.” I giggled in response, twirling the key around my finger.

I think about how I never had any of James’s passwords, not even to his cell phone. Nick wouldn’t have given me a key if he had something to hide.

I run my thumb over the red heart and slide the key into the lock. “Nick,” I call out, just in case he’s home. I wait to step inside. “Nick?” I say again. Slowly I make my way into the condo and let the door close behind me. I stand in the middle of the living room, waiting. For what, I don’t know. Despite my plan to give him the benefit of the doubt, to let him be innocent until proven guilty, his place looks different with Briana’s accusations swirling inside of me. The Ikea furniture now seems too sterile. The stack of magazines on the coffee table looks too perfect. The glow of the time on the microwave is eerie. The hair on my arms shoots up, and I feel a strange sensation, as if I’m being watched. As if I’m not alone. If he is a stalker, he could have cameras set up. I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous. That’s something Beth would say after watching too many episodes of Law & Order: SVU.

I finger Dylan’s ID in my pocket, making sure it’s still there, which somehow makes me feel sane. Like I have a reason to be here. To make sure everything is okay. That I didn’t go from one liar to another. I glance around me. The espresso maker parts are rinsed out and in the dish rack where I put them, the magazine I was reading still open to the page I stopped on—an article about how to make a face mask out of avocado. I’m standing here, not sure not where to start or what I’m trying to find, when a booming sound rips through the condo, and I scream.

I realize it’s just the air conditioner kicking on. My racing heart settles. And I roll my eyes. What’s got me so jittery?

I almost leave, deciding to simply ask Nick about the ID and take it from there. But then I think of James. How hard it had been to make sense not only of his death, but of the whys—the affair, the deceit, the other woman. And I decide I have to search Nick’s place so I can prove to myself that he’s not James.

I start in the kitchen, opening cupboards, pulling out drawers. I move to the linen closet in the hall, but I only find towels and a surplus of soap, deodorant, and body wash.

Maybe his biggest flaw is that he’s too clean.

I open the medicine cabinet in the guest bath, look under the sink. But there’s nothing suspicious.

I hesitate outside the threshold of his bedroom. Somehow looking in here feels worse, more invasive.

Nick’s bed is still just as I left it, the comforter longer on one side than the other, the pillows thrown on top of it casually. I’ve never been a great bed maker. James used to laugh at me because I struggled with the whole process—especially the fitted sheet.

Inside his bathroom, there’s also nothing out of the ordinary, his smell still lingering from his morning shower. I’m feeling foolish for snooping on him. What did I think I was going to find? I’m standing in front of his walk-in closet, debating what to do, and finally decide I might as well finish what I started. Then I’ll talk to him face-to-face so he can explain the ID. I check the time on my phone and see two missed calls and several texts from Nick.

Hi, my love!

Just got back from a call and thinking of you and missing your gorgeous face.

The last message has a picture attached. I click on it. He’s wearing his navy-blue Long Beach Fire Department T-shirt and hanging from a pole. His lopsided grin makes me feel even guiltier. I send a quick text.

Sorry, just got these. Miss you too!

And I do miss him.

Three dots instantly appear as he types his response.

Where are you?

At my house.

I hate lying to him, but he can’t ever know I was here. That I questioned his integrity. Quickly I start to slide hangers to the left and right, the same four or five flannels and T-shirts he rotates hanging from them. I open drawers and gently search behind his socks and boxer briefs. I move a stack of jeans and look behind it. Nothing.

I stand on my tiptoes and peer over the shelf with his baseball caps. I reach my hand up and feel the side of a box. I pull out a drawer and step on the edge, careful to not use all my weight so I don’t break it off its track. I slide the box toward me, and it tips over the edge and falls against my chest, knocking me off balance. It hits the hardwood floor with a thud.

I pull it open, and it’s just bunch of old T-shirts. I grab one and almost laugh at the absurdity of what I’m doing as I stare at the logo from a 5K from a couple of years ago. I breathe for the first time in what feels like minutes. Just shirts.