Page 17 of The Bad Husband

I hope I’m wrong.

A few more moments of perfect silence pass before I make up my mind and pull off my shorts and top.

Wearing only my panties and my bra, I slide quietly into the pool. A grin of satisfaction pulls at my lips.

The water is perfect. Not too cold, not too warm.

I swim for about an hour before I pull out, grab a towel from a lounging chair, pat myself dry, pick up my clothes, and walk back into the house.

Still thinking about the rest of the pecan pie waiting for me in my room, I make the trip back.

Patting at my hair, I enter the room. The first thing I see is the empty plate on the narrow table by the wall.

“What the… fuck?”

My towel drops from my hand as I turn to stone. So do my clothes. A few drops of water slide off the tips of my hair and meet the floor.

Thunderstruck, I move my eyes around the room, not knowing what to do. Should I run out? Scream out for help? Call the police?

Is someone in the house? Henrietta?

Who ate my pie?

Is my memory failing me?

Barely breathing, I move toward the table and check the floor. Maybe it fell to the floor. There’s not much to check.

The floor is clean.

I remember it clearly. I ate half of the slice and left it on the plate next to a bottle of water. There was a napkin next to the plate. The napkin is gone.

I look around the room, trying to spot a garbage bin.

There is no garbage bin. There’s no need for one. I go to the bathroom. The one next to the toilet is empty. The place is tidy. There is nothing out of place, except my pie and napkin are both missing.

Good luck sleeping in this house now.

I grab a plush bathrobe and slide it on. I might need to call the police, after all, or him. Did I get his number? No. Hers? Hell, no. She won’t answer anyway.

Who am I supposed to call?

Well, had I not been so mesmerized with that man’s broody eyes, maybe a few brain cells would work right now.

Am I allowed to call the police?

And even if I called them, what should I tell them?

I’d like to report that my pecan pie is missing?

I slide a hand into my pocket and walk to the table again, hoping that the rest of the pie has magically reappeared.

There’s not a crumb of pie on my plate, not a pinch of sugar or cinnamon on the porcelain edge, and as my eyes casually move to the pool outside, my mouth opens in surprise.

Standing by the pool, with his eyes pointed down, a hand stuffed into his pocket, Damon West checks something on his phone, having no qualms with me staring at him.

He seems unaware of my presence, or maybe he doesn’t care that I look at him as if I’ve lost my mind, my brain trying to understand what just happened here.

Wait, didn’t he leave an hour ago?