Page 45 of The Husband I Left

Leo is leaning against the side of the car, arms and ankles crossed, and looking highly entertained.

All he says, however, is, “that went well.”

I don’t answer. I just walk around to the driver’s door.

Once we are both back in my car, Leo turns to me and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’ that much before in your life.”

“Shut up, Leo.”

“Well,” Leo says, as I start the engine. “Where to next? Another social call to someone else who hates you?”

I pull away from the curb, my grip tight on the steering wheel. “I’m going to find out where Evan lives. Genny has to be staying with him.”

“And when you find her,” Leo says slowly, “at the apartment of the man you’re convinced she’s sleeping with, you’re going to do what, exactly? Politely ask if you can speak with her?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll figure it out. Well, you’re doing a fine job of that so far. I truly can’t think of a single thing that could go wrong.”

Chapter 14

Oliver

The penthouse is silent except for the distant sound of Mrs. Stewart vacuuming and the occasional ping of my phone. More strangers wanting to buy things that I’m not selling. It’s been five days since Genny left me, and I’m no closer to finding her than I was on day one. The only thing I’ve discovered is how thoroughly my wife planned her revenge before walking out of my life.

Take the amber liquid currently in my glass. It should be my favorite bourbon. The bottle is certainly the same as it’s always been. It was in the correct place in one of my desk drawers. But as I gently swirl it, watching the light dance through it, I know something is wrong. Gingerly, I take a sip. The bourbon touches my lips, and I grimace immediately at the taste. It’s downright awful, like something you’d find on the bottom shelf of a college student’s liquor cabinet. I pull the glass away and examine it with narrowed eyes before dropping it onto the carpet with disgust. The liquid seeps into the expensive fibers, and I can’t even bring myself to care.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, leaning back in my office chair and running both hands through my hair.

And here I thought the pranks had stopped after that first morning. I should have known better.

My phone buzzes again. I glance at it; another text from someone asking about a boat I supposedly have for sale. I‘ve given up responding to these messages. They come in waves, sometimes waking me in the middle of the night. Changing my number would solve the problem, but then Genny wouldn’t be able to reach me.

If she wanted to reach me.

Which, judging by the past five days, she doesn’t.

I managed to find out where Evan lives. I called in a few favors to get that address. Upon arriving at the nondescript building in Cambridge, I knocked on his door for nearly ten minutes. Okay, pounded would be more accurate. And maybe I was calling out Genny’s name as I did so.

Evan’s door didn’t open, but eventually the one next door did. An elderly woman with curlers in her hair and an unhappy scowl stuck her head out. “Stop trying to break the damn door down! And stop all that racket! I’m trying to watch my shows.”

“I’m looking for Evan,” I replied, trying to summon the charm that usually comes so easily to me. “Or Genevieve. Genevieve Sinclair.”

“Well, clearly there’s nobody home,” she said flatly, emerging fully into the hallway. She was tiny, barely reaching my shoulder, dressed in a faded housedress and slippers. “I’m the landlady, and I don’t appreciate you disturbing the peace in my building.”

I remember how my heart sank at those words, how desperation made me press on, anyway.

“Do you know where they went? It’s important that I find my wife.”

“Your wife, eh?” She looked me up and down with undisguised skepticism. “If she’s your wife, why don’t you know where she is?”

I had no good answer for that, so I just said, “I’m not leaving without her.” And that proved very unwise.

In a flash, she had one slipper off her foot and in her hands. She brandished it at me, waving it like a weapon. “You get out of my building before I call the police. Or worse, before I take matters into my own hands.”

I’m not proud of how quickly I turned tail and ran. But I had the feeling she meant business, and I had no desire to explain to the police — or worse, the press — why Oliver Sinclair was being attacked by an elderly landlady with a slipper.

After that fiasco, I had to regroup. That’s when I made what was perhaps my biggest tactical error: I called my mother.