Page 42 of The Bad Husband

She wears slippers and a fancy pajama set––satin shorts and a top––a flowing, silky robe on top of it.

She still has makeup on, and please don’t tell me she was waiting for her husband.

He seemed quite busy at the club. As a rule, he spends the night out.

Don’t these people talk to each other? Wasn’t she supposed to come back next week?

Was he lying to me? Was that part of their games?

For sure, her yelling at me looks genuine. She seems mad at me, and perhaps even at him.

But I need more than this to understand their dynamic, and what role I’m playing in all this.

“Where were you, Lila Skye?”

She slides into a barstool next to me and shifts to face me with one hand gathering her robe over her lap.

There’s no acting or pretension in her stance. Her expression seems authentic.

Why is she mad at me?

“What’s your problem?” I ask.

“His men dropped you off.”

I swallow hard as if I have a fishbone stuck in my throat.

‘And you know that how?’ is my first question that luckily remains unspoken.

Asking her about that would only make me look even guiltier.

I don’t know what kind of game these people play, but I need to brush up on my skills and play it with them until I figure out what this is all about.

So I start by not looking like I’m affected, and I tell her the truth.

“I went out with Keira.”

She knows about Keira. She met her before. Their dislike for each other was thick and mutual.

She purses her lips, waiting for me to elaborate.

“And then I got drunk.”

“Go on,” she says as I put the rest of the burger down and drink more water.

“I don’t remember much after that.”

I’m also rehearsing my speech for when the police will come over and ask me about a certain man picking up a particular suitcase crammed with money, jewelry, guns, or body parts, perhaps.

I point to the burger.

“I got hungry. Bought some food. Went to Keira’s. Ate it. Got this extra burger. Headed here and tried to get in. As you may very well know, I’ve been having a hard time with the gate, so I went back to town. Again, I don’t remember much after that. I think your husband found me, took pity in me, and instructed his men to take me home. And here I am,” I say, content with how nicely I wrapped up my story.

My smugness fades as I can’t read a thing on her face. I can’t tell whether she’s buying it or not.

She’s probably not.

“He saw you wear that?”