Reputation(70)

I feel a hand on my shoulder and tense. Someone pulls me into an alleyway between the buildings. I let out a muffled cry, preparing to fight.

But when the person spins me around, it’s Patrick Godfrey holding my forearms.

“What the hell?” I wrench away from him. Light shines in from the street, but no one has seen him pull me into the alley. “W-Were you following me?”

“I need to talk to you,” Patrick pleads. He’s wearing a dark gray suit and shiny loafers but no coat. “It’s important.”

I step toward the sunlit sidewalk, stabbing a finger toward the building across from the bar. “Have you forgotten your wife works right up there?”

“Come for a drive around the block with me, okay? It’ll take five minutes.”

There’s something in his posture that tells me he isn’t going to take no for an answer. Unbidden, my thoughts flip back to our hot, hurried kisses in that elevator. I whisk the image away.

“Fine,” I decide, hating myself a little for giving in. “Five minutes.”

Patrick’s car, a white Acura crossover, smells like basil and fresh leather. I climb in tentatively and buckle my seat belt. Patrick’s hands tightly grip the wheel. He’s wearing a wedding ring today. The sight of it sickens me, even though I know it shouldn’t. At a stoplight, I consider jumping out. This is a bad idea. I need to keep out of trouble.

Patrick grabs my arm as if he senses my hesitation. His eyes are pleading. “There’s this thing that I found out that’s been weighing on my mind. I feel like you should know.”

I cast my mind about for answers: He’s going to say something about us. Maybe he’s leaving his wife. Maybe he’s never felt a connection like the one he felt with me.

The light changes, and he hits the gas hard, shooting us back in our seats. “You know that benefit last week?” he asks.

I almost laugh. “You mean the one I got home from and found my husband dead in my kitchen?”

He tugs awkwardly at his collar. “Yeah.”

I study the print shop whizzing by, then a sandwich place.

“I was watching you,” Patrick goes on. “You seemed . . . well, you seemed drunk.” He holds up his hands in quick apology. “Not that I blame you. That night was a shitshow, and I’m sure my showing up there didn’t help any. So I left, figuring my absence might help. But now I’m just wondering . . . how much did you drink that night?”

At first, I’m annoyed—what business is this of his? He doesn’t have any right to judge my life. But the question makes me uneasy, because I realize how specific it is. I stare at the blinking LED lights on the dashboard. “I only had one martini that night—well, that I can remember. I guess it hit me strangely.”

“Does that often happen?” Where is he going with this?

“No.” I peek at him. Is he trying to gauge if I’d been drunk when we kissed in Philly?

“And did you get the drink yourself, or did someone get it for you?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. His eyes are on the road, but I can tell he’s steeling himself for my answer. “Your wife did, actually.”

And then it’s like a light goes on—for me, and for him, too. Patrick looks crushed. When he turns to me, I think I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

“Lynn put an Ambien in that drink,” Patrick says quietly. “I’m almost positive that’s why you got so drunk.”

For a few moments, the only sounds are the rumble of the engine and the swish of the road. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to feel, either—betrayal, obviously. Embarrassment. Finally, vindication. I knew Lynn was a bitch.

“Did Lynn tell you, or did you figure it out?” I finally ask.

“She told me she gave someone Ambien, but she wouldn’t say who. I put two and two together.” The car halts again at a light, and he turns to me with a look so sincere I feel a flip in my chest. “She’s crazy, Kit. There’s always been something about her that’s off.” His throat judders as he swallows. “She could have killed you.”

“Wait a minute.” My heart stops. “Do you think Lynn knows about . . . us?”

Patrick shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

“But you’re not sure. She could know. She could have known at the benefit, even. She could have been out to hurt more than just me that night.”

His eyes widen at what I’ve just suggested. “Are you thinking maybe she stabbed your husband in revenge?” He runs his hands through his hair. “Jesus. I never thought of that.”

We whizz through three green lights in a row. I almost want Lynn to be the murderer—then she would go to jail. Justice would be done. It would free up Patrick, too, though I feel dirty recognizing this silver lining.

Finally, Patrick stops in a parking lot and shifts into park. About five minutes have passed since we got into the car—he is making good on his promise of not keeping me long. I feel disappointed. Maybe I’ve misinterpreted his intentions. Maybe he really is just trying to warn me.

He reaches into the side pocket on the door of the car and pulls out a small, gray, handled bag from a jewelry shop whose name I recognize but have never visited. “This is for you. I saw it, and I realized you had to have it.”