Page 4

So all I had to do was follow him from work to wherever he was getting lunch, grab the folder, rush up, drop them in front of him, then run back to my car and peel off.

Then drive around for a while in case he got in his car to follow me. I’d done a pretty good job so far keeping him from finding me. I didn’t want that to change now.

Perry paused at the door to his luxury sedan, his posture stiffening. Then he did a slow turn, gaze scanning the street outside his work.

You couldn’t see from so far away, but those eyes of his were a dark, almost black, shade of brown. His face was handsome in an almost forgettable way. If you were looking at him, you would notice his sharp jaw, his aristocratic nose, his strong brows, and his thick lashes. But it didn’t linger. Once you walked away, you kind of just forgot what he looked like.

It used to drive him insane that almost no one remembered him after meeting him once or twice, sometimes even three or four times. He just wasn’t memorable. It would really piss him off when they remembered me. And it wasn’t like I could tell him that he was a sort of blank canvas person. He was just like any other suit you came across. Someone whose hobbies were trading stocks, golf, and reading books about wealth, discipline, and morning routines. Because being rich wasn’t enough. You had to be insufferable about it, too.

On the other hand, I was much less refined. My hobbies weren’t ones I’d picked up at boarding school with a bunch of other privileged, pretentious people who used their personal lexicons as penis-measuring contests.

It was easy to remember that one blonde woman you met at a party once who did pottery as a hobby.

I mean, it had once been a career for me. But Perry wanted a homemaker as a wife, not a potter. So I only got to tinker in the early days of my marriage before he put a stop to it. Because Perry hated when I had clay in my hair or under my nails.

“I didn’t spend seventy dollars to get your nails done for you to ruin them with that shit.”

I turned my hands on the steering wheel, feeling my lips curve at the short, blunt, unpainted nails.

A bit of proof that life was changing, little by little, even if Perry was still a dominant part of it, even in his absence.

Perry shook his head, like he was trying to shrug off the prickle up the back of his neck that said he was being watched.

He slid into his car and pulled away from the curb without securing his seatbelt.

I let another car move behind him before I turned onto the main drag and started to follow behind.

I was thankful for traffic as he drove down the highway away from work, then turned into the center of Navesink Bank.

Huh.

That was an odd area for him to be having lunch. We’d passed several of his favorite restaurants a while back. Why was he in my neck of the woods?

Had he found me?

Was he on the way to my little extended stay motel? A place full of the pretend excitement and real grief of (mostly) men going through their own divorces.

The only other women staying were two sisters who ran a true crime podcast that leaned a little into the tin-hat variety.

When I’d first shown up, soaked through my clothes, shoeless, and sporting a pretty impressive black eye, the sisters had closed ranks around me, promising to not let any of the men in the building near me, and to make sure my ‘good for nothing’ husband never snuck up on me.

They kept a running text thread (with pictures taken through their window included) telling me about every strange man they saw around the grounds. More often than not, those men ended up being delivery drivers. But I appreciated that there was someone looking out for me, keeping an eye out for Perry when I couldn’t.

It wasn’t until Perry pulled off to the right that I noticed the tight, burning sensation in my chest, making me realize I’d been holding my breath in anticipation of him driving right to my motel building.

But he wasn’t.

He also wasn’t going to lunch, since there were no restaurants on this side of town. Just a few mom-and-pop stores, some small starter homes, and a biker bar called Redemption.

I seriously doubted Perry—‘only top-shelf liquor’ Perry—would be heading to a bar full of leather cuts and cheap shots.

I had to drive around the block, though, once the car that was between us turned off. I didn’t want him to see my car if at all possible. He would have his people tracking me down by it in a heartbeat.

So I pulled up between two small ranches, cut the engine, grabbed the file, and made my way out of my car.

My heart galloped in my chest, charging out ahead of me as I walked on shaky legs down the street, my sneakers crunching on fallen leaves. It was something that I would normally obsess over, but I was too nervous to be in Perry’s presence to enjoy such a small pleasure.

I tried to remind myself that by this time next year, I would be free. Fully and completely free. I could enjoy crunchy leaves. I would no longer worry about lattes with full-fat milk and sugary syrups. I wouldn’t think of Perry’s disapproving face each time I twisted my hair into a messy bun.