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“Hi, Detective, this is Isabelle Drake,” I say once the line beeps. “I sent you an email on Wednesday, and I just wanted to make sure you got it.” I drum my fingers against the table, trying to decide how much to reveal. “I also had a question about one of my neighbors at 1742 Catty Lane. I had an encounter with him this morning that was… unsettling.”
I decide that’s good for now. Enough detail to maybe pique his interest, prompt him to get back to me—I asked him a question, after all, which requires a response—but not too much.
“Okay, thanks,” I say. “Talk to you soon.”
I drop my arms, exhaling slowly as I crane my neck back, staring at the ceiling. Just as my eyes close, I feel my phone start to vibrate in my hand, and I snap them back open, hoping to see Dozier’s name on the screen.
Instead, it’s a text from Kasey.
“Good to see you the other night,” it reads. “Offer still stands.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Gritalways threw extravagant holiday parties—or, rather, Ben always threw extravagant holiday parties—and my first year, almost two months into my employment, we went to Sky High, one of Savannah’s nicer rooftop restaurants, with string lights illuminating the dining area and a perfect view of the riverboats as they slid beneath the bridge.
I’ve been thinking about that night ever since I ran into Kasey at the vigil: the two of us adorned in sequins and sipping champagne while overlooking the bridge, its two cable peaks swathed in lights resembling oversized Christmas trees in the dark. We were standing beneath a heater together, a faux fur shawl wrapped around my shoulders, when Ben walked in with a woman on his arm.
“That’s Allison,” Kasey had said, swirling the champagne in her flute and watching the little bubbles rise to the surface. “Ben’s wife.”
That was the first time I had heard her name:Allison. Allison Drake. I had seen pictures of her in Ben’s office, of course, on that very first day when I had stepped inside. Pictures of the two of them, together, intertwined on the hull of a sailboat or sprawled out lazily in a field of lush, green grass. But in those pictures, despite the fact thatI knew she was real—logically, of course, I knew she was real—she was still only two-dimensional to me. I knew she existed in the same way I knew rare, exotic animals existed from the pages ofNational Geographic—she was a concept, a curiosity, nothing more than colorful ink slathered across glossy paper. Everything I thought about her had been imagined, concocted in my own mind rather than based on any truth or fact. I couldn’t hear the chirpy hum of her laugh or smell the floral perfume that seemed to swirl beneath my nostrils the second she stepped out onto the roof. She didn’t have a name,Allison, or hair that bounced or hips that swayed or any of the other human things about her that suddenly seemed to hit me so hard.
“She’s pretty,” I said. And she was. Her features were dark, like mine—chestnut hair, brown eyes, olive skin—though she was wearing a formfitting black dress with a slit to the knee, which made my gold sequins seem childish in comparison. She was tall and naturally skinny, her bare arms toned in just the right places. Her eyes winged with black liner, and her lips a deep, bloody red. “What does she do?”
“I don’t think she does anything,” Kasey said. “She stays at home.”
“Like a stay-at-homemother?” I felt my chest lurch, the champagne threatening to claw back up my throat. I never considered the possibility that Ben might have kids.
“No, no kids. She just stays home. I mean, why not, right? His paycheck must be fat.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “That seems… boring.”
Kasey shrugged. “Would you work if you didn’t have to?”
I watched as they floated from person to person, giving out handshakes and hugs. Ben was wearing a fitted navy suit, looking more handsome than ever, and I could barely peel my eyes from him. The way he effortlessly mingled with my coworkers and their plus-ones; the way he seemed to say just the right thing to every single person, making them smile or laugh or nod along in agreement. And especially the way he held Allison, his hand on the small of her back, guiding her along everywhere he went.
“I’m getting a refill,” Kasey had said, knocking her champagne back and taking off toward the bar. I had nodded, barely even registering her voice, until I found myself standing completely alone as they made their way toward me. I was suddenly aware of how painfully solitary I must have seemed in that moment: standing alone beneath a space heater, no plus-one to rub my goose-bumped arms or chivalrously drape their suit jacket over my shoulders.
“Isabelle,” Ben had said as he ambled up, flashing his teeth through that perfectly symmetrical grin. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am,” I said, trying to make it convincing. “This is a great party. Thank you for throwing it.”
I waited for him to introduce me to Allison, or for her to introduce herself, but instead, a stubborn silence settled over the three of us. My eyes darted around, looking for Kasey to save me, but she was nowhere to be found.
“You must be Allison,” I said at last, caving first. I thrust my hand out in her direction with too much eagerness. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she said, placing her dainty hand in mine. “And I’m sorry, I hate to run off on you so suddenly, but I need to find the restroom—” She leaned in close, her mouth to my ear, and I could smell the warm spearmint of mouthwash on her breath. “To be quite honest, this dress squeezes me in all the wrong places. It was a horrible choice.”
She leaned back and winked in my direction, flashing a smile as she placed a hand on her stomach. It was one of those self-deprecating jabs that perfect people do—trying to call attention to a tummy bulge or physical flaw that just isn’t there—and I smiled back, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction at being the one she chose to share this secret with—at the two of us having had amoment—but on the other hand, I hated how nice she seemed. It made me feel infinitely worse.
I watched as she placed one hand on Ben’s cheek while handinghim her glass with the other before stepping away and gliding toward the restaurant. My eyes trailed her all the way across the rooftop until she disappeared inside, but when I turned back around, Ben’s eyes were on me.
“So, how are you enjoyingThe Grit?” he asked. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
I could tell from his expression—his forehead tilted into mine, eyebrows raised—that he was alluding to that night,ournight, at the oyster roast. That he was acknowledging what happened between us for the very first time. There had been other moments, though. Every now and then, just as I would be starting to think that my memory of that night was somehow wrong—that maybe my mind had fabricated the way he had looked at me, that subtle twitch in his lips as I pulled back; that maybe the beer sitting stale in my stomach had contorted the evening into something it just wasn’t—little glimmers of truth would shine through, like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud of smog. He would assign me a story about a bladesmith who made artisan oyster knives, their handles handcrafted out of black walnut and mother of pearl; I would walk back to my desk on a Friday afternoon, running late to an office happy hour, and find a crisp Blue Moon waiting patiently for me on my desk, the cap cracked off and the neck slick with sweat.
It was like he was shooting me an invisible wink from across the room, one that only I could see.
“Everything and more.”
