The Wife Who Knew Too Much(19)

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” he said.

His voice on the phone was low and intimate. My blood raced just from the sound of it. I looked at the clock. It was a little before six.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m on a boat,” he said.

“A boat?”

“In the Mediterranean.”

Oh, that kind of boat. He meant a yacht.

“It’s later here. I tried to wait, but I just had to talk to you.”

“I’m so glad you called. I miss you, but I was afraid to. We said we wouldn’t,” I breathed.

“We shouldn’t. I’m only calling because I have an important question. Did you send me a photo?”

“What?” I asked, sitting up in bed.

“Did you text me a photo just now?”

“No. We agreed not to communicate.”

He paused. I heard static on the line.

“Right,” he said, “that’s what I was afraid of.”

“What photo?”

“Of the two of us, from the first night at the ski house.”

I gasped. “That’s the night we heard the noise.”

“I know. Someone was actually there. I don’t know how. I went outside and searched, remember? And didn’t see a thing.”

“It’s a picture of us? Taken through the window?”

His sigh echoed across the ocean. “No. From closer up.”

A chill went through me. “You mean, somebody was inside the house?”

“From the looks of the picture, they were standing a few feet from us.”

“How is that possible? We would have seen them.”

“In the picture, we’re sleeping.”

I felt nauseous. “Oh, God. Are we…?”

“Yeah, sleeping, naked, together. The whole deal.”

“Jesus. That’s creepy.”

“It’s a fucking disaster.”

“Who would do that?”

“Someone who works for Nina, I imagine. The only thing I don’t get is, why send it to me? Why not just give it to her directly?”

“Maybe they did already.”

“I worry about that. She has the photo, and she’s biding her time till she kicks me out.”

“Isn’t that what we want, though? For her to end it?”

“Not if she has proof of infidelity. That triggers the prenup, remember?”

How could I forget? He’d gone back for the money, that was the bottom line. I knew I should hate him for it, too. But love didn’t work that way. The sound of his voice on the phone was making me itch to have him in bed beside me.

“Are you there?” he said.

“Do you miss me?” I said, hating that I needed to ask.

“Of course. I think of you constantly. I want to call. I want to be with you. But I have to handle things here. I don’t know what this means.”

“Whoever sent the photo—did they ask for money?” I said.

“No demand for money. No message, nothing.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. This situation keeps getting worse. I’m sick of it. I just want us to be together.”

I waited for him to say something more. Like, when that might happen, or what his plan was for achieving it. But he didn’t.

“When will I see you?” I asked, a note of desperation in my voice.

“I’m working on it. We’re on the boat the next couple of days, but we’re flying home in time for the Fourth. Once we’re back in Southampton and have some privacy, I’ll talk to her.”

“Talk to her? You mean, ask for a divorce?”

“That’s the plan,” he said, but he sounded vague. “It’s tricky. I need to figure out how to finesse things. Under the terms of the agreement, I can’t be the one who does the leaving.”

I was silent.

“Tabitha, believe me, I wish I could see you.”

“If wishes were horses…”

“I mean it. Talking to you is the only time I don’t feel crazy.”

There was a noise in the background.

“Shit, I have to go.”

“Connor. Wait.”

“I’ll call when I can. Don’t call me, okay? It’s too risky.”

He dropped the call.

I sat there staring at the phone in my hand, feeling sick to my stomach. Classic. I’d become the thing I’d sworn I’d never be. A mistress, a side chick, stuck waiting for her married lover to call. I wasn’t just ashamed. I was stupid. We were no closer to being together than we’d been the day he left. If anything, we were farther apart. I wanted to give up on him. But hard as I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.





11





You think things can’t get worse, and then they do.

The same day that Connor called to tell me we’d been photographed naked, I was driving to work at the restaurant when I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed an ominous-looking SUV tailing me. It was a black Chevy Suburban with windows tinted so dark that I couldn’t see the driver, following closely enough to rear-end me if I braked hard. I sped up. The driver sped up, too, and stayed behind me all the way to the restaurant, a solid fifteen minutes that included getting on and off the highway and making three separate turns. Each time he followed me through an intersection, I felt a sick jolt of fear. When I turned in to the restaurant parking lot, the Suburban slowed down momentarily to get a better look before speeding away.