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* * *
I hear the rush of water as he opens his shower door and steps in. I sit up, moving quickly and silently off his bed and out to the hall. To be safe, I am giving myself four minutes, my feet running as soon as my bare soles touch the cool tile. I trace the path Drew led me down one week earlier, the path to Nathan’s office.
* * *
I skid around the edge of his desk, my hand gripping the wooden edge, tugging on handles and drawer pulls until one slides open. Files. There has to be something on me, a folder of my history, or a diagram of their evil plan. I skim the folder titles.
* * *
Three minutes.
* * *
The drawer seems to be filled with mostly family-related items.
Dumont Family History.
Dumont Estate.
Dumont Trust.
* * *
Files for names I am not familiar with, most likely his parents. I see my name, and time slows.
* * *
CANDACE
* * *
The title is written as painstakingly neat as the rest of the tabs, my place equal among his family files. I almost missed the file, its thin depth lying against the one before it, shielded by a tag with similar placement. I reach forward and pull it out.
* * *
Two minutes.
* * *
My heart sinks as the file slides out quickly and easily, its weight too light to hold many secrets. It feels, in fact, empty. I open it slowly, and my eyes fall on a single piece of paper. It is a piece of Nathan’s letterhead, a half-page card that is familiar enough to my eyes, the embossed letters of his name across the top. On it, in the painstakingly neat writing of my husband, is one short message. I read it quickly, then stop, my heart thudding heavily in my chest—slow, loud thumps that rattle my thinking. I read it again.
* * *
I loved Candace more than I have ever loved another soul on this planet. Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled. Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.
* * *
One minute.
CHAPTER 37
I am back in Drew’s bed when he emerges, his hair wet, a towel around his shoulders, his jeans unbuttoned and hanging low on firm, muscular hips. I stretch, my body still naked, in hopes of distracting him from any erratic thoughts. The shower had been off when I returned, no rush of water to hide the sound of the door. I close my eyes, trying to keep my face smooth and calm, trying to paint the picture of a woman whose heart is not racing, whose mind is not panicking.
* * *
“We can’t keep doing this. I can’t …” His words hang, unfinished, and I open my eyes to see him bend down, picking up his shirt and walking to the edge of my bed, his eyes traveling over my skin until they stop at my face. He puts a knee on the bed, leaning over to brush his lips over my skin, placing soft kisses on my stomach, the underside of my breast, my collarbone, and then my lips. He studies me, his green eyes cloudy. “Neither one of us deserves you,” he says, standing up and buttoning his pants.
* * *
I roll over, facing the opposite direction, and hug his pillow.
* * *
I loved Candace more than I have ever loved another soul on this planet.
* * *
Loved me? A lie, like every photo taken by the press, like that entire weekend at Napa Valley.
* * *
Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled.
* * *
There are very few explanations for that line, written on Nathan’s stationary, in handwriting I recognize as his, placed in a folder that bears my name. My mind can only grasp one. In Nathan’s world—his meticulously scheduled, perfectly planned universe—I’m going to die. It’s planned for, a statement already prepared, everything in place except for my dead body. When? And why?
* * *
“You need to go back.”
* * *
I nod, rolling off the bed and standing, accepting the clothes that he hands over. I don’t bother dressing, giving him a tight smile and leaving, walking naked through the house and back to the guesthouse, glancing at the clock as I crawl into the bed. Five hours until Nathan arrives home. Five hours before the next man fucks with my mind.
* * *
Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.
* * *
Cecile disappeared. I can’t. I can't run away from Nathan, not without something in place for my father's care. No matter the reason, no matter how unhappy I am as his wife, or whatever danger might exist, I am now in the rare position of being able to actually help my father. To provide for him, visit with him, financially support his care—not just through this sickness, but for the rest of his life.
