Reputation(76)

He’d known when Greg’s Lolita e-mails broke wide. Hell, he might have thought I was Lolita. And he’d known the night he sent me to the benefit alone. What else did he know that night? And where was Ollie the night of the gala?

I’d come home from my near suicide attempt at 2:00 A.M. Ollie hadn’t been here—I’d had to wake Lucy from the couch. I figured, of course, that he was still at the police station, working on the hack . . . but now I’m not so sure. If I’d idled my car for a little longer in Greg’s circle that night, might I have seen Ollie come along next?

I imagine the rage roiling through him after finding out about Lolita. Reading those e-mails, presuming I wrote them, imagining Greg and me doing those disgusting things. I picture Ollie pacing the floor, breathing through his nose, groaning. Did he worry about being made a laughingstock, a cuckold?

Am I living in a house with a murderer?

Fear shudders over me. Ollie’s motive is perfect. And he has the strength to overpower someone like Greg. It’s the perfect crime, too, because after all those e-mails breaking in the hack, Kit looks like the obvious suspect. How deeply are the police searching for other people’s motives? Is there any way they could find out about what Greg and I did? I remember, too, how cavalierly Ollie had said, “Oh, they’ll find the murder weapon.”

One thing’s for certain: I can’t stay here any longer.

I snap off the bathroom light and scurry into the living room again. As Freddie pokes at a small, plastic lion toy with noisy buttons, I locate my phone in my bag. My mother’s number is at the top of my contacts list, but my finger hesitates over the screen. What do I tell her? That we’re simply going to take a drive up north for a visit? Or maybe I shouldn’t call at all. Maybe I should just grab Freddie, pack a few things, and call her while I’m on the road.

I hurry upstairs to the baby’s room and start throwing things into a bag. Next, I scuttle into my bedroom. I open my closet and toss the first things I see into a duffel. It doesn’t matter what I bring, really. I can buy new things later.

And then I hear a cough.

I shoot up, the bag’s handles slipping from my fingers. I can just make out Ollie’s silhouette in the dim light of the hall. Fear shoots through me like fire.

“Oh,” I say, my voice too loud in the silence. “W-What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” It’s not a question. Then I feel his gaze drift to the suitcase. My heart sinks. Once again, I feel foolish for thinking I could trick him.

In a blink, he’s across the room, right next to me. I shrink against the wall as Ollie—well, he doesn’t touch me, exactly. He just stands there . . . threatening to touch me. The energy crackles off him like lightning. There’s an eerie smirk on his face that turns my blood to ice. He’s pressed so close to me that our torsos are mere millimeters apart. For the hundredth time, I don’t recognize the man I married.

“Don’t do it,” he whispers.

“Please,” I eke out. “Please.”

Downstairs, Freddie lets out a squawk. Ollie glances toward the sound and then, mercifully, steps away. I collapse to the ground as though he’s just tried to strangle me. He bends over me, jutting up my chin to force eye contact. “Don’t do it,” he growls, hate in his eyes. “Or you’ll regret it.”





28





LYNN


FRIDAY, MAY 5, 2017


Morning, Lynn!” Amanda chirps as I walk into the office on Friday. “Ready for the weekend?”

I stare at her as though she’s just spoken in Dutch. I want to rip off her perky barrette. I want to pull out her fake nails. But instead, I smirk and say nothing.

“George wants you, Kit, and some of the others in his office in fifteen,” Amanda adds. “That okay?”

I murmur a note of consent, then close myself inside my office. I sink into my couch; my eyeballs feel freeze-dried from lack of sleep. My nerves are jumping from . . . well, from nothing specifically, except the fact that my husband is cheating on me and it’s been four whole days and I still haven’t figured out who the bitch is.

I’ve combed through Patrick’s things. Every pocket of every blazer. Every receipt in his wallet. Every text on his phone. I tried to re-create his schedule, figuring out exactly when he might have seen whoever she is—and when he could have given her that bracelet. Or perhaps he hasn’t yet? Perhaps it’s still hidden somewhere and he’s going to give it to her on an upcoming business trip?

Yesterday, early evening, while I’d been tidying the house and getting the kids ready for soccer practice, I noticed Patrick in the foyer, putting on his coat. “Where are you going?” I knew there was a paranoid wobble to my voice, but I was already teetering over the edge, trying desperately not to explode.

Patrick worked the buttons of his coat, his head down. “I need to do a few things in the office before I head to Detroit next Wednesday. That okay? I figured you didn’t need me for soccer.”

Call a private detective, my brain blared. What if he was meeting her?

I rose to full height. “Maybe I’ll come to Detroit with you.”

He looked up at me in surprise. “You want to come to Michigan?”

“I’ve never been.” I tried to sound flip and airy. “It sounds fun.”