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“I really didn’t take you for the type of guy who monograms his towels.”
Fuck.
“My ex-wife was into that.”
A devious expression slides across her face. “I dried myself off with a towel that said E.L. Hopefully, it wasn’t hers.”
“That’s my son’s,” I say, sliding a flyer for the school carnival over the bills. “Edward. But we call him Nick.”
Damn it.
Ali looks somewhere between amused and annoyed.
The first thing about lying if you aren’t expecting to is that you have to think quick, and that’s usually when you mess up.
Now, I’ve not only pissed off a potential psychopath, I’ve given her two of my three children’s names, hand delivered her to my home, and if she is the killer, it’s possible I’ve blown my cover completely. But I didn’t stop there. I also broke a cardinal rule. Perhaps,thecardinal rule. Never have sex with someone who has more to lose than you do.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ethan
As I dress for work, it dawns on me that it’s Wednesday. My least favorite day of the week, although I suppose waking up with a woman in my bed is an improvement.
Prior to taking the Roberts case, I hated every day equally.
The bright side—at least I get to see the kids.
It’s probably better that Ali didn’t commit to seeing me again. It’s therapy night, which means I get Nick and Kelsey overnight.
Either way, it’d be prudent to put the situation with Ali Brown behind me. While I’m at it I should probably call a realtor. Changing my name, changingallof our names for that matter, couldn’t hurt. In the event that I have just slept with a serial killer.
The thought gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had the chance once, to do exactly that, to go into WITSEC, the Federal Witness Security Program. If I had been smart enough to take it, life would have turned out very differently.
I picture Ali sitting in that booth at The Crispy Biscuit. I recall her in my bed. I can still smell her in my kitchen. Now, not only do I have the sick feeling in my gut, my chest physically hurts. My mind and my heart do not seem to be playing on the same team.
For a second, I feel a deep sense of longing. It’s nice waking up next to someone. I miss that and for a moment, even though Ali may be dangerous, I’m convinced I’m sad about the way things turned out. The way she practically bolted out my front door, without looking back. Not even once.
I realize it’s not Ali I’m missing. It’s not her I’m sad about.
My emotions are misplaced. There’s a term for it in psychology, one I’m sure Ali knows.Transference.
I realize that I want to see her again, that Ihaveto see her again. Not only do I need to know if she’s capable of murder, I need to investigate my feelings. That’s what our family therapist constantly tells Bethany and the kids. Me, I refuse to allow Dr. Nancy’s lies to reach my ears. Her sing-song voice replays in my mind.Investigate your feelings, you pussy.She doesn’t put it exactly like that of course, but I know that’s what she’s thinking. Man up and deal with it.
The thought makes the feeling in my stomach worse. God, I hate Wednesdays. I hate therapy. I hate Dr. Nancy. Every week it’s the same. Like a sermon on repeat, she preaches about feelings being fleeting, but I know—and Bethany knows—hell, even the kids know—it’s all bullshit. There aren’t a lot of things I can say with certainty, but the fact that she’s full of shit, that, I can say for sure.
Maybe tonight will finally be the night. Maybe tonight when she comes at my family with her psychobabble drivel, I’ll do what I’ve been meaning to do since the first time I stepped foot in her office. I’ll ask if she’s ever watched her child die. I’ll ask if she’s ever carefully chosen an outfit for her dead daughter to wear so that her brother and sister can say their goodbyes. I’ll ask if she knows how important it is that the clothing be familiar, so she’ll look somewhat normal, instead of dead. I’ll tell her it’s important that they associate their final moments with their sister with positive memories, instead of seeing her for the last time with a bullet hole in her gut, bleeding out all over the living room floor.
Dr. Nancy may know these things in theory but she hasn’t lived them. She doesn’t have a dead child. So it makes sense that to her, feelings are fleeting. Unfortunately, I won’t say any of that. Because the worst part of it? I, too, am full of shit. If I told Dr. Nancy what I really think I’d lose visitation. My weekly visits with my kids are all that I have. That and solving this case.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ali
Ali swivels in the high-backed chair and sucks in a deep breath. The lights warm her skin as she counts backward from ten. She feels ready. Expectant. Open. She’s supposed to feel gratitude. It isn’t easy to land a guest spot on the third top morning show in the country. Not only that, but they slated her interview in the coveted prime-time spot.
She waits for the gratitude to wash over her. Hair and makeup teams have made her look refreshed. Her stylist told her she looks like a million bucks in her black silk suit. Twice.
Ali knows her material. She can recite her answers backward and forward in her sleep. And still she waits for the thankful feeling to hit. Instead, all she feels is the same nagging sense of doubt she gets whenever she speaks in front of people.
