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Sourness explodes in my mouth. He still wants me gone.
“And here I thought you were mildly human,” I huff. “I should’ve—”
“Winnifred.” He smirks, delighted.
“What?”
“I won’t win.”
“But you—”
“And just for the record, I love that out of all the things I could’ve done for Calypso Hall—repair the floors, the seats, put a fresh coat of paint on the walls—you chose something for yourself. Very telling. I find altruism such a boring trait.”
I blush furiously because he is right. I could’ve asked for him to fix the theater. I never considered myself to be selfish, but something about this man inspires me to want to get things for myself. Maybe because he is so unapologetically self-serving.
He takes my limp hand in his, shakes it, and starts playing.
Arsène is, in fact, exceptionally bad at this. He doesn’t give excuses or get frustrated like Paul did whenever he proved himself to be less than adequate in axe throwing or basketball. On the contrary. Each time I slide another ball into a pocket, he lets out a delighted laugh. I’m never sure if he is laughing with me, because of me, or at me. But for the first time in months, I’m actually having fun, so I choose not to ask.
The first few minutes, we play silently. So I’m nearly caught off guard when he starts speaking.
“I suppose our starting point is that we both agree they were having an affair.”
My cue stumbles on the surface, creating a train of bald patch as I lose my grip on it. I straighten up. “No. We don’t.”
“They did.” Arsène stands back, his voice steady and low.
“Why? Because you always choose to believe the worst about people?” I lean against my cue.
“For at least nine months.” He ignores my question.
“Nine months?” Something inside me goes slack. That can’t possibly be right.
“Yes.” Arsène takes his turn, striking the stripy red ball straight into a pocket.
“How do you know?” I try to angle my stick on the table and, again, it slips.
If this is right . . . if Arsène is telling the truth . . . then that means . . .
For the first time in months, I feel. Oh, do I feel. Anger. Wrath. Pain. I want Paul’s blood. I want to resurrect him and kill him all over again. How could he do this to me? How could he?
It’s not that I haven’t suspected it. It’s that up until now, I told myself there could be other explanations. And I kept thinking that even if they did have an affair, it was recent. Not an ongoing thing. A month-old thing, maybe.
“I hired a private investigator.” He crosses his ankles. “Grace and Paul had been frequenting a hotel not very far from their office. All the receipts are from the nine months prior to the plane crash. All paid in cash.”
I drop the cue noisily. I stagger to the bar to fill my empty whiskey glass to the brim with more liquor, as if it’s sweet tea. I take a swig. “When’s the earliest receipt from?”
Arsène’s face is unreadable, a blank mask. “September thirteenth.”
“The thirteenth, you say?”
He nods. I close my eyes, bile coating my throat.
“I’m missing context here.” Arsène’s voice seeps into my body. “What’s significant about the date?”
I shake my head. It’s too personal. Besides, it has nothing to do with why we’re here.
“I need a minute.” I put my glass down, my drink sloshing everywhere. “Where’s the restroom?”
Silently, he points me in the direction. I make my way there in a daze. I lock myself in one of the cubicles, rip my vest off my chest, stuff it into my mouth, and scream into it until my vocal cords are raw. I bite down on the fabric until my gums are bleeding.
I want to torch the entire city of New York to the ground. To go back in time. To stay in Tennessee, in the comfort of my family. I could’ve had a good life. Yes, I wouldn’t be an actress on Broadway—but I’m not one now. At least I’d have Rhys—sweet, dependable, chivalrous Rhys—and a secure job at a high school, and people to lean on when things got tough.
Even through all this pain, all this heartache, I can’t find my tears. I blink fast, trying to produce moisture in my eyes, but to no avail.
“Oh, Paul!” I howl in the cubicle, punching the wall. “You asshole!”
Allowing myself a few minutes to recompose, I make my way back to the billiard room. Arsène waits where I left him, by the pool table, his posture imperial.
When I walk in, he frowns at me.
“What’re you looking at?” I lash out. “Never seen anyone have a nervous breakdown before?”
“I’ve seen plenty. And believe it or not, yours doesn’t even give me particular joy,” he says dryly. “But your hat’s off, and so is the vest. I take it you want to spend the night at the police station.”
