And then there was the way she died. It seemed unlikely she’d administer a lethal dose given her history with the disease. Then again, accidents happen. There’s no telling what state of mind she was in on the night of her death. Had she been drinking? Was she distraught? Oliver had mentioned her suicidal ideation often. Maybe Danielle knew exactly what she was doing when she chose to fill the vial, plunge the needle into her flesh.
“Drink up,” Ava said, handing over the shot. The stringent liquid burned my throat on the way down.
“Excuse me,” the bartender said, raising a finger to get our attention. “Do you have another card?”
“It’s already on file,” Ava said, before slipping a slice of lime into her mouth.
“Didn’t go through,” the bartender said, ignoring a trio of giggling girls fighting for his attention.
Ava’s eyes bugged. “I’m a total idiot,” she said, unzipping her wristlet. She handed over another card right away. “We closed that account.”
The bartender took the new card, sliding over a receipt moments later. I watched Ava as she wrote her signature, noticed the subtle shake of her hand. Ever since Danielle died, I’d been so preoccupied with myown thoughts. I’d barely reached out to Marlowe, stopped attending doctors’ appointments with Constance. I had hardly even spoken to Marmee. And now Ava was acting weird.
“Are you okay?” I asked, repeating the same question she’d asked only moments ago.
“Totally,” she said. “Looks like I’m spacing out, too. Maybe an early night would do some good.”
The men stood as we returned to the table. Oliver wrapped his arms around me, and I had to fight the urge to pull away. That reaction followed us home. We slipped into bed, and when his hand slid beneath my pajama pants, I feigned a headache. His touch, which once ignited me with desire, made me recoil in revulsion. It was a restless night’s sleep.
When I finally woke up, it was late in the afternoon. Oliver was already dressed, his carry-on packed and resting beside the bedroom door.
“I didn’t think your flight was until tonight.”
“You know me and airports. I like to get there early,” he said. “And I thought maybe you’d want to grab lunch before I left?”
“My head is throbbing,” I said. “Must have drunk more than I realized.”
He sat on the bed. “If something else was bothering you, you’d tell me, right?”
I pulled deep, wearing a smile that would wipe away any concerns he might have. I didn’t need Oliver questioning my intentions.
“I’m going to miss you, that’s all,” I said, leaning close to him. “I’m glad this is your last trip before the big day.”
“You and me both,” he said, leaning in to kiss me on the lips. I held my breath, didn’t release it until he was gone.
Suspicion roused me into restlessness. It was impossible to continue living with Oliver and planning our wedding like these thoughts didn’t exist. Loose threads dangled before me; my nature beckoned me to tug.
I’d already been through our closet. Nothing rang alarms other than the syringes, a startling enough discovery on their own. My next best bet would be exploring his digital landscape. Thankfully, Oliver left his laptop behind when he traveled for work, insisting most business wasconducted with clients at the hotel bar—that was certainly the case anytime I traveled for film or literary conventions. If he needed to send an email or access a sales report, all the data was available on his phone.
His computer was password protected. I tried using the same code I’d seen him use on his phone—his birthday—but that didn’t work. Neither did my birthday, or our upcoming wedding date. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to gain access at all, my plans thwarted by a measly four-digit code.
Closing my eyes, I tried to recall anything significant Oliver had told me in the past year, any date or figure or number he’d deem worthy of guarding his deepest secrets. He only had one possession he loved more than anything else. His 1953 Sunbeam Alpine roadster, sapphire blue and dripping with retro glamour. He viewed the car as an extension of himself, his worth.
I typed in the code—1-9-5-3—and pressed enter.
The screen sprung to life.
Oliver’s email was already synced to the home screen. Within seconds, I was scrolling through his inbox, my eyes searching for anything relevant. A flash of guilt simmered. This man was my fiancé. We were supposed to be building a life together, not tearing it apart in search of secrets, yet here I was, assuming the worst of him.
If this is what it took to quiet that nagging voice in my head, so beit.
One of the most recent emails in his inbox came from a real estate agency. I expected it was related to the apartments we’d been planning to tour once we made it to California. To my surprise, the agency was based in Key West, Florida, a place where, to my knowledge, neither of us had ever been.
Hi Oliver!
We’re delighted to share some amazing property listings that have just hit the market…
I read the lines over and over again in a fog of confusion. I almost disregarded it as a piece of spam until I realized there was an email chainspanning several weeks. This wasn’t a blanket email sent to a mass list of subscribers, but rather a personalized correspondence, the purpose of which was clear.
