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“It’s been a while since I did something fun.” I readjust my hat, tucking a ribbon of strawberry blonde hair back inside.
“What are we playing for?” he asks.
I think about it. “If I win, I want you to pay for a huge billboard sign and advertiseThe Seagull. You know, one of the fancy Times Square placements. Three days minimum.”
“I’ll do you one better. An entire week, best block available. And if I win, you quit,” he fires back, standing on the opposite side of the pool table from me.
Sourness explodes in my mouth. He still wants me gone.
“And here I thought you were mildly human,” I huff. “I should’ve—”
“Winnifred.” He smirks, delighted.
“What?”
“I won’t win.”
“But you—”
“And just for the record, I love that out of all the things I could’ve done for Calypso Hall—repair the floors, the seats, put a fresh coat of paint on the walls—you chose something for yourself. Very telling. I find altruism such a boring trait.”
I blush furiously because he is right. I could’ve asked for him to fix the theater. I never considered myself to be selfish, but something about this man inspires me to want to get things for myself. Maybe because he is so unapologetically self-serving.
He takes my limp hand in his, shakes it, and starts playing.
Arsène is, in fact, exceptionally bad at this. He doesn’t give excuses or get frustrated like Paul did whenever he proved himself to be less than adequate in axe throwing or basketball. On the contrary. Each time I slide another ball into a pocket, he lets out a delighted laugh. I’m never sure if he is laughing with me, because of me, or at me. But for the first time in months, I’m actually having fun, so I choose not to ask.
The first few minutes, we play silently. So I’m nearly caught off guard when he starts speaking.
“I suppose our starting point is that we both agree they were having an affair.”
My cue stumbles on the surface, creating a train of bald patch as I lose my grip on it. I straighten up. “No. We don’t.”
“They did.” Arsène stands back, his voice steady and low.
“Why? Because you always choose to believe the worst about people?” I lean against my cue.
“For at least nine months.” He ignores my question.
“Ninemonths?” Something inside me goes slack. That can’t possibly be right.
“Yes.” Arsène takes his turn, striking the stripy red ball straight into a pocket.
“How do you know?” I try to angle my stick on the table and, again, it slips.
If this is right ... if Arsène is telling the truth ... then that means ...
For the first time in months, Ifeel. Oh, do I feel. Anger. Wrath. Pain. I want Paul’s blood. I want to resurrect him and kill him all over again. How could he do this to me? How could he?
It’s not that I haven’t suspected it. It’s that up until now, I told myself there could be other explanations. And I kept thinking that even if they did have an affair, it was recent. Not an ongoing thing. A month-old thing, maybe.
“I hired a private investigator.” He crosses his ankles. “Grace and Paul had been frequenting a hotel not very far from their office. All the receipts are from the nine months prior to the plane crash. All paid in cash.”
I drop the cue noisily. I stagger to the bar to fill my empty whiskey glass to the brim with more liquor, as if it’s sweet tea. I take a swig. “When’s the earliest receipt from?”
Arsène’s face is unreadable, a blank mask. “September thirteenth.”
“The thirteenth, you say?”
