Page 13 of Over Her Dead Body

The two feelings are getting along surprisingly well.

“Were you ever going to turn around?”

“No.”

His attention shifts past me.

At the end of the street, a dark car is parked at the curb. A man stands beside it looking at his phone. I noticed the car when I got here. I didn’t notice him.

Now Reid is watching him.

“Ten years, and this is the best you can do?”

His gaze returns to mine. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You used to be better at lying to me.”

His jaw tightens.

There you are.

The reaction is small, but I know it. Reid did the same thing when he wanted to say something cruel and was deciding whether the pleasure would be worth the consequences.

Usually, it was.

This time he lets it go.

What a joke.

The worst part is, I’m the one who crossed an ocean expecting better.

He proves the point by opening his mouth again.

“Listen,” he says. “You followed a man you don’t know from Texas to Portugal because he looks like your husband.”

“Because he is my husband.”

“I think you should call someone.”

“Who?”

“A friend. Family. Someone who knows where you are.”

He is doing something I recognize from rooms full of powerful men: moving the problem away from what I’m saying and onto the woman saying it.

I am not wrong. I am tired. Upset. Confused.

Much easier to manage.

“I could call the police.”

One eyebrow lifts. “And tell them what?”

“That my husband faked his death.”

“Do you have proof?”

“I’m looking at it.”