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I don’t know if he’s telling me this to make me feel better, or for him to feel better about leaving me.
“And my mother is here. And she’s having the party tonight that will be fun for you to attend and keep you busy. Louisa Davenport is known for her social gatherings with all the glitz, fantastic food, and expensive wines.”
“Are Christina and Michael coming?” I ask, hating the idea of attending a party without Christopher. I sit cross-legged on the bed, watching his every move.
He chuckles as he folds a shirt. “They aren’t exactly in her social circle.”
“Maybe I should just stay upstairs and read,” I offer.
He pauses, looks at me, and then smiles. “Make an appearance, let everyone see how beautiful Louisa Davenport’s daughter-in-law is, and enjoy a bite to eat. If you’re having an awful time after that, then feel free to excuse yourself. But I think it will be good for you to interact with some new people and keep your mind off me being gone.”
“I suppose you’re right,” I agree as I fiddle with the hem of my skirt between my fingers. “But with all the people coming, will we all be… safe?”
“The media won’t be allowed inside. Don’t worry; my mother still has security outside the house. If anything, it will add to the elite and exclusive element of her party. I’m sure she simply loves it.”
I’m not referring to the media, but I don’t tell him that I actually meant if we’ll be safe from Papa Rich. He could walk into the party undetected if there’s a constant flow of people entering and exiting the house. The FBI team assigned to the case officially announced Richard as a wanted man. They are also searching for Scarecrow, as they haven’t been able to locate him either. They found Scarecrow’s old mining camp they believe he was living in, but it had been vacated. Their assumption is that Richard and Scarecrow are on the run together. They’ve ruled me out as an accomplice, or at least that’s what Christopher’s team of lawyers have told us.
Every time I bring up Papa Rich to Christopher, I can see it annoys him. Each time, he is getting a little more short with me and a little more impatient. I hate keeping things from my husband, but at the same time, maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m being paranoid over nothing. Maybe I need to set that ghost haunting me free.
Maybe Papa Rich died in that fire.
Or at the very least, maybe that fire and our escape really will be the last I’ll see of him regardless of if he escaped or not. I know I can’t heal until I stop thinking about him. I know that.
Christopher is trying to convince me to see a therapist to help me work through my feelings, but I don’t want to speak to a stranger. At least not yet. I know it’s not good that I really don’t want to leave our bedroom. I feel safe in it. I feel secure. Every strange face that looks at me reminds me of a bee sting.
It was bad enough that I had to go to a doctor to be examined and to get vaccinations that I never had growing up. Christopher also convinced me it would be best to be put on birth control. I want a baby but have to agree that I don’t want one quite yet. I didn’t realize that it was so easy to prevent one from coming. But the experience at the doctor’s office was awful. They asked so many personal questions, and I felt like I was a science project to them. I hated it, and I vowed to stay healthy so I never have to return… or at least until my next round of awful vaccines.
“I’m going to miss you,” I confess as I watch him zip up his suitcase.
He leans forward and kisses me on the lips. “I’m going to miss you, too.” He pulls away, runs his fingers through my hair, and adds, “I’ll be back tomorrow night. Try to have some fun while I’m gone. I’m also just a phone call away.”
Christopher gave me a cell phone when he started work again. I hate using it and keeping it on me at all times as he asked me to do. I feel so incompetent and inept in using it. I also don’t like talking into something to hear my husband’s voice. It feels unnatural and actually only makes me miss him more.
We walk down the stairs to the foyer hand in hand, something Louisa clearly hates when she sees us. Her eyes dart to our intertwined fingers, and if the daggers shooting from her heavy-lashed eyes could slice each finger off my hand, she would have.
