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Despite myself, I’m a little offended.
This is how he treats Amber? He’s gone for days and then all she gets of his time is a brief conversation on his way out the door that morning? He finally comes home, only to hide himself away in his office. What the hell kind of situation is this?
One tiny, irrational part of me is tempted to storm his office and demand he treat me like I’m more than an expensive accessory in his life.
I don’t, of course. The more he works, the less time he’ll have to recognize that I’m not really Amber. The less I’ll have to deal with the panic always simmering beneath the surface as I think and rethink every word I say to him.
I take a long, hot bubble bath, which I’ve been doing every evening since the tub is so luxurious and it helps relax me before bed. Then I put on another new set of pajamas I bought the other day—a soft, white lace camisole and silk knit pants in a deep blue. Since it’s a little cool in the room, I add a white belted sweater before I go into the media room.
Instead of reading, I turn on the television, which is set to a channel playing a British comedy. At first I’m just curious, so I pause before switching to a streaming network. But then I start to snicker over the dry, clever humor.
An hour later, I’m still laughing, completely wrapped up with the show and momentarily forgetting I’m supposed to be Amber.
I’m by myself, stretched out on the cushy leather sofa with a glass of white wine in my hand and a soft throw tossed over my legs. And I can’t seem to stop laughing.
I break off abruptly when I realize that William is standing in the doorway. He’s taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie, but otherwise he’s wearing what he put on that morning. His eyes are startlingly dark above the french blue of his shirt. They’re fixed on my face.
I have no way of interpreting his expression. But I’m nervous and self-conscious as I straighten up on the couch where I’ve been stretched out in a careless sprawl. “Hey. You done working?”
He makes a brief gesture with his hand, almost as if he’s brushing away my question. His eyes bore into me and then shift to the television screen.
“It’s silly—I know.” I have to fight not to babble nervously at his expression. “But it’s kind of funny.”
Maybe William is surprised since Amber might not have been in the habit of chortling uninhibitedly over British comedy. But my sister used to have a similar sense of humor. As girls, we would giggle for hours over exactly the same things.
Surely something so trivial won’t be an obvious giveaway.
William’s eyes have returned to my face. Then they lower to the wineglass in my hand. Something changes on his expression. It tightens or darkens or something.
I have no idea what’s happening, so I blink when he turns on his heel and strides back down the hallway, away from me.
I stand up automatically. He’s angry about something. And I have no idea what it is.
Not knowing what else to do, I follow him. Find him in the entry hall, rifling through my new purple Prada bag.
“What the hell are you doing?” I’m immediately angry at the violation—even though almost nothing in the bag is mine. I’m also washed with a cold wave of panic, remembering the little notebook with all of Amber’s information is in there.
William completely ignores me. He pulls out Amber’s shiny, engraved, silver pillbox, and I now know what he’s looking for.
Several days ago, as I was searching for an aspirin in Amber’s bag, I found in that container a large collection of pills that were definitely not aspirin.
They looked like prescription medication. Some were white and round. Some were small and blue. And there were a couple of oblong yellowish ones.
Maybe prescription pills are one of Amber’s vices. I’m not going to have anything to do with it. I flushed the mysterious pills and filled the little compartment with ibuprofen instead.
When he flips the lid up, William blinks down at the harmless over-the-counter pills, obviously taken aback by not finding what he expects.
“Satisfied?” I snap, still deeply annoyed by him searching my purse without permission. “I can’t tell you how much trouble I get into with my little hoard of Advil!”
He stares up at me. “Where are they?”
“Where are what?” I don’t need to fake my indignation. My spine stiffens, and my cheeks flush with rising emotion.
“Where are the pills? I’m not a fool, Amber. I knew you were acting strange. I told you I wasn’t going to let you—”
“There are no pills. And I don’t give a fuck what you’ll let me do. Who the hell do you think you are?” It’s been a long time since I lost my temper. Most of the time I just don’t care enough to bother anymore. I have no idea why I’m so upset now—since all this is about Amber and not me.
William takes one long step over and grabs my upper arms. He looks cold and hard rather than fiery, and his hands on my arms are strong but don’t hurt. “I have every right to know this. We came to an agreement, and if you’re using again, then you’ve broken your side of it.”
