Just like that, Cassandra Snyder will die.
Cassandra Madden will be reborn.
And Giana will get the justice she deserves.
I’m not entirely sure how it’ll go after that. Any plan with more than two steps is doomed to fail, or so the saying goes. There will be a media circus, I’m sure, but that’s survivable and the sleeping pill I’ll take myself will ensure I stay safe, legally speaking.
So that’s that. My entire future has crystallized in the form of two little pills, safely hidden inside my tampon box.
On Saturday afternoon, I do my normal things. Pilates, shopping, dry cleaning, errands, this and that. I need to appearlike I’m in a normal state of mind. Why would I be worried about a little Caymans vacay? Why would an otherwise unremarkable Saturday night be triggering my anxiety?
If Raymond sees even a hint of a crack in me, there’s no telling what will follow. Better not to give him anything to suspect whatsoever.
By six P.M., I’m in the kitchen in a dress, salting a tenderloin. Raymond likes his steak rare, his wine red, and his wife quiet, and I am happy to oblige on all fronts tonight. Stevie Nicks on the playlist is my only subtle form of rebellion.
My husband comes in at quarter to seven, freshly showered, hair damp at the temples. He pours himself two fingers of Blanton’s into the heavy crystal tumbler and props his hip against the counter to watch me cook.
“You’ve been very quiet this week,” he says.
I don’t look up from the cutting board. “Have I?”
“Mm. I don’t dislike it.”
“Then I’ll keep it up.”
He chuckles, then sips his bourbon as he watches me chop a shallot. Then, to my surprise, he raises his glass to me. “Let’s toast,” he suggests. “To witnessing.”
I glance up from the shallot, knife paused in mid-air. “Witnessing?”
“It’s easy in a marriage to forget to watch your partner, to let the world distract you and blind you from seeing them for who they truly are,” he explains. “Let this be a reminder for both of us: Never stop watching.”
The shallot stings. My eyes water on cue, thank God, because that’s a convenient excuse for whatever’s happening in my face.
“Well?” Raymond prods. “Are we toasting or not?”
He’s still watching me.Witnessing,as he would say. My wineglass is sitting two feet away on the counter, half-full of a Barolo I have been carefully dumping into the sink every few minutes to pretend nothing is amiss. Pregnant? Who? Not me, that’s for sure.
But the baby,I think,will forgive me one tiny little sip.
The baby will absolutelynotforgive me if I out us right here, right now, in the final hour.
I pick up the glass and tap the rim against his with a tiny, civilizedclink. “To witnessing,” I echo. I bring the wine to my mouth, part my lips, and let the smallest possible amount touch my tongue.
Raymond watches me swallow. Then he grins and saunters away, whistling as he goes.
I plate the food shortly after. Tenderloin medallions, roasted fingerlings, haricots verts. I light candles, he joins me, and we start eating in relatively easy silence for the better part of ten minutes.
He’s on his second bourbon by the time he sets down his knife and burps. “So. Cassandra. I need to talk to you about tomorrow.”
My throat tries to close. I take a sip of seltzer and remind it that it has a job to do. “Okay. Talk away.”
“The car’s coming at eight in the morning. The flight’s at eleven out of Teterboro.” He picks up his glass and swirls the bourbon. “I’d like you to be ready and downstairs by seven-forty.”
“Alright.” Bless my calm, even speaking voice, the most normal thing that’s ever passed my lips. “I’ll start packing after dinner. Should I bring formal dresses, or?—”
“Don’t bother.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
