Page 142 of The Bad Husband

I retreat to the corridor, call Damon, and quickly give him the information so he can focus on the two.

By the end of the night, I identify not one but three women and four men who are part of this little conspiracy.

Damon’s text arrives a little before midnight.

‘You can go home. I’ll see you later.’

That’s it.

I step outside where one of his men awaits me.

He takes me home and drops me off in front of Damon’s dimly lit, now-welcoming house that I finally have all for myself.

Relieved that I’m done, I enter the kitchen, grab a bottle of water from the fridge and an apple from the counter, and head upstairs.

An hour later, I’m out again and dive into the pool.

Swimming for a while helps me release the tension in my body.

Later, I relax in a lounge chair and think about this life. It’s good. It’s strange. It’s dangerous.

It’s nothing like I’d like for myself.

Waiting for a man to come home from his club, and not knowing what tomorrow brings, is hardly my idea of a perfect life.

And what happens when you no longer know whether he’s late because of work or because boredom has pushed him out of your bedroom?

My shoulders shudder in resentment as if those things have already happened. Maybe this isn’t the best time to think about this type of stuff.

I lean back and close my eyes, trying to suppress my anxious thoughts. So, I’m thinking about Keira and Nicky. About my life back in New York.

About my future.

Next year, I’ll need to figure out whether I want to live in New York after graduation––probably not. Whether I move out of state or not. Whether I work for the rest of my life, start a business, or a charitable foundation.

My father left me enough money to have the luxury of thinking in those terms.

I’m lucky in that way, although I don’t consider myself lucky without them in my life. They were too young to go––my parents––and I don’t even remember discussing these things with them when they were alive.

A pang of melancholy spins in my chest when a voice rings nearby, startling me.

“You need to know something about him,” Henrietta says, and I instantly pull upright and flick my eyes to her.

“What is wrong with you, woman?” I snap. “He specifically asked you not to come here.”

She dismisses me with a clipped gesture.

“I don’t care about what he wants. You need to know the truth about him.”

I pull a towel from a nearby chair and wrap it around my shoulders. I’m not comfortable with her standing next to my chair and looking at me. She wears flowing pants and a shirt tied at the waist.

She holds a margarita as well when she sits on a lounge chair in front of me.

“I don’t care about the truth,” I say, annoyed with her.

I push to my feet, ready to move away from her.

“Sit.”