Page 29 of Cruel Lies

Can this really be happening? It's like the universe is giving my plan its blessing. All the stars aligning, a chorus of angels paving the way to my revenge.

Because Tuesday is a therapy day. Well, "therapy," scare quotes very much needed.

And on therapy Tuesdays, between roughly nine and ten-thirty, my husband will be in a leased Murray Hill bolt-hole with my best friend, desecrating our marriage. Then he'll get dressed in a hurry, splash some water on his face, and head back downtown to the office, smelling like a department store perfume counter and the plasticky stench of condoms. Or so I presume.

When he gets back to Whitmore Stearns, he's going to get blindsided in a way he will never, ever see coming.

I don't feel joy, though. Or thrill, or bloodlust, or schadenfreude, whatever that word even means.

I just feel this restful calm.

Again and again, the same sentence flows through my head.

It's almost time.

Tuesday arrives.

Todd is up before me, which never happens. I lie still and listen to him move through, the rustle of his slacks, the metallic zip of his garment bag. He's humming a little tuneless thing under his breath, the sound of a man who thinks his whole life is about to break wide open in his favor.

He has no idea how right he is.

Just not in the way he imagines.

"You're up early," I murmur, voice rough with fake sleep.

"Ah, just woke up full of pep," he says as he knots his tie in front of the mirror. "I've always loved Tuesdays."

"Mm. I bet you have."

"Huh?"

"Nothing, sweetheart."

He grunts and folds down his flipped-up collar. "Don't wait on me for dinner. Could be a late one."

"Mm. Okay." I roll over and pull the duvet up to my chin like the very picture of a wife with nothing on her mind but a snooze button.

He grabs his keys, his coffee, his sense of cosmic entitlement, and heads for the stairs. I let him get three steps down before I call out, light and easy, "Oh—I've got therapy this morning. Won't be home 'til after lunch."

His footsteps pause. Then, from the stairwell, warm and pleased: "Oh, good. That's good. That's… that's great."

I almost laugh into my pillow. The front door slams shut. I count to thirty.

Then I get up.

I shower and blow-dry my hair, then I get dressed. First, I put on the black lace. It's the same frilly little set I wore to the convention in Phoenix, the one I ripped off myself the night it all went wrong.

Then the dress I bought at the boutique over the weekend. It looks even more dangerous in the morning light.

Over it goes a sharp charcoal blazer, because I am, after all, a serious businesswoman pitching to serious money in a serious bank. It's best to look the part.

I wear sensible gold jewelry and two-inch heels, with a light nude lip stain to complete the look and a dark, thick mascara to encourage the men in the room to look at my eyes instead of my cleavage—although, knowing Todd's coworkers, that's probably a losing battle.

When I'm fully assembled, I check myself in the mirror one last time. The woman looking back at me is calm, gleaming, and absolutely lethal.

It's almost time.

I take the subway downtown. I'd normally just drive, but right now, I want my hands free and my head clear.