Every Last Secret(49)

“You were right about that . . . and more. She’s become much closer to William than I would like.”

“You’ve got to nip that in the bud before it becomes a problem. Remember Josh and that nanny? Best baby nurse I’d ever seen, but I wasn’t about to let that fresh-faced girl live in our house, not with everything she and he seemed to have in common. I mean—fantasy football? How did I end up with the only woman on earth who enjoys fantasy football?”

I put her on speakerphone and settled down on the couch, checking social media and then my email. My thoughts slowed upon seeing the email from Beck Private Investigations. “Kelly, I’ve got to run. The game is at six, and I haven’t even showered.”

“Okay, but listen—bring Neena over to next week’s game. Josh wanted to talk more with her husband anyway, and I’d like to spend some time with her.”

I clicked on the email. “Why does this sound like I’m leading her to slaughter?”

She let out a laugh. “Oh, honey, you know me too well. But I’ll behave. After all, you’ve got to know your enemy before you can destroy them.”

I smiled at the sentiment, one that echoed my thoughts exactly. “Fine, I’ll suffer through tonight’s game with them and extend the invite to your house for next week’s.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then. Give a hug to William for me.”

I ended the call and scrolled through the email, which included a link to the invoice and a few photos. I expanded the images.

William and Neena, on the neighborhood trail, half-obscured by a tree. They were standing by the overlook, her hand on his arm, his face tilted toward hers. Casually innocent, but the proximity sent a knife through my stomach.

A photo of the Winthorpe Tech parking garage. Clearly at night, the exit sign glowing in the dark, only two cars parked beside the security guard’s cart. His Porsche and her BMW. I studied the photo with trembling fingers, finding the time stamp in the upper right-hand corner—8:44 p.m. It didn’t make any sense until I saw the date. July 14. My birthday. I thought of my solitude in Hawaii . . . his time alone at the office . . . and looked back at the photo. Not alone at the office.

I sat down on the closest chair, my chest tightening in a sharp pain. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but this was too much. I heard William’s car pulling down the drive and quickly returned the items to the envelope, stuffing it into my back pocket.

William knew about the abortion, but the rest . . . I quickly checked my face in the mirror beside the door, making sure that my eyes were dry, my expression calm. I needed to be smart with this information, and with everything in Beck’s report. Play my cards closer to the vest. Line up the dominoes and then let them fall.

I’d already tapped the first one, but no one knew that yet. I opened the front door and beamed at my husband, admiring his strong profile as he strode around the front of the glossy car and up the steps toward me. He planted a quick kiss on my mouth, then lifted me up and swung me in a small circle. Gripping him fiercely, I looked across the dark-green lawn, the tip of the Ryders’ roof just visible above the row of cypress trees, squatting on the low lot like a bad child in time-out.





CHAPTER 33

NEENA

In my kitchen, I adjusted a stack of cardinal-red napkins and topped off a glass of wine. “Can you turn that down?” I snapped. “I can’t even hear myself think.”

Dutifully, Matt raised the remote and adjusted the television’s volume, not moving from his place in the living room.

“And put these items on the buffet. They’ll be here any moment.”

He lumbered out of the recliner and to his feet, making his way slowly toward me. “The food and the drinks?”

“Just the food. Use a hot pad underneath them.”

I glanced over the dishes with a critical eye. Glazed meatballs. My famous chili. Steak and blue cheese bruschetta. I might not have a private chef, but there was nothing here for Cat to turn up her nose at. I opened the fridge, verifying that a dozen bottles of William’s favorite beer were lined up and ready. At the counter, Matt struggled to lift the heavy chili pot with his good arm, and I sighed, batting him away. “I’ll get that one.”

It’d been four days since our sex in the boardroom. Four days when William had stayed in his office and away from mine. Our Wednesday and Friday meetings had both been canceled by him, his assistant emailing me the update without an excuse. I’d almost expected a no-show today, but Cat’s texts had been bubbly, friendly, and cancellation-free. My texts to William had gone unread.

Postsex was normally the time men hounded me, desperate for reassurances of their sexual performance. William had zipped up his pants, tucked in his shirt, and walked away without a word—then completely ignored me. I’d blame it on the unsatisfying sex, but while he had neglected my pleasure, he certainly seemed to have had enough of his own.

Or maybe I was wrong. Maybe he’d hated it. Maybe his quick finish had been a hurried attempt to bail out on a mistake. My insecurity warmed to the idea, then panicked, offering up suggestions and criticisms in chaotic repetition. I had to fix things before the self-doubt became a permanent obsession.

I set down the pot of chili, centering it on the hot pad, and took a deep breath. It was normal, I reminded myself, to have a period of cold feet after a big action. It had nothing to do with the dimple of cellulite I’d seen when pulling up my panties, or the believability of my faked orgasm. It couldn’t have. William had an addictive personality, and addicts were a very predictable breed who followed a standard pattern.