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I wanted to confront him, but I was so exhausted that I fell into bed and drifted into a rage-fueled sleep. I woke up hours later, dim morning light peeking through the blinds. When I saw Patrick wasn’t next to me, I panicked. I went downstairs and found him dressed in a T-shirt and pajama pants, scooping coffee grounds into a filter. “Hey,” he said. “I’m going to pick up the kids from their sleepovers if you want to ride with me.”
“Where were you last night?” I bleated. “You weren’t here when I got back.”
He hit the button to start the coffee brewing. “Walgreens. We were out of Pepto.”
Out of Pepto?It was so clearly a lie. But then I glanced at my phone sitting in its charging dock on the island... and everything came to a halt. I’d received eleven texts since the night before; quite a few of them were from people from my office and others in the community. Most included a link from a local news website:ProminentSurgeon Murdered in Home Late Friday Evening.I saw the face of the man I’d seen on Kit’s arm at dinners and benefits. And the e-mails I’d trolled for in the hack.
Greg Strasser was...dead.
I read the details, the timeline. Then I looked up at Patrick in horror. He’d been out last night, too. He could have been killed just as easily. Everything felt so fragile and unpredictable, and I wasn’t angry anymore—just grateful I wasn’t the one who’d lost a husband.
“Mom!” Amelia sprints up to me now, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. “Did you see my goal!”
“Of course I did!” I cry, pushing a few strands of her blond hair from her face.
Connor runs up next, slapping Patrick a high five. “Do you have my granola bars?” he asks me, hopping madly from foot to foot as though he’s still on the field.
“Right here,” I say, pulling one from my bag.
I notice, as Patrick bends down to readjust Connor’s shin guards, that we are the only mom-and-dad unit who’s shown up today. Every other kid has one parent on the sidelines, not both. It’s got to count for something.
“Go get ’em,” I tell the kids, patting their butts as they run back onto the field. Honestly, I wish I were running around, too, because although it was balmy ten minutes ago, it’s now downright freezing. Damn mercurial weather.
I lean into Patrick. “Babe, I’m cold.”
He looks up, surprised. “You didn’t bring a sweatshirt?”
I set my mouth in a stern line, and he sighs. “I think I have a jacket in the car. Want me to grab it for you?”
“Forget it.” I wrench away from him. “I’ll get it myself.”
I can feel Patrick gazing at me the whole walk up the hill to the parking lot, but I don’t turn back. Let him feel like he needs to make it up to me.
The complex is nestled in the middle of an office park, and bland,soulless buildings rise around me. It’s a gloomy scene, which only compounds my malaise. I’ve looked everywhere for evidence that Patrick’s up to something: his phone, his browser history, even what he’s watched on Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and YouTube. Nothing. So why is my intuition pinging? Why do I feel a strange, sneaky uneasiness? Am I only suspicious becauseIhave done something I’m not proud of? Am I turning my guilt outward, projecting it onto someone else?
I hit the key fob to unlock the SUV doors. The back seat is littered with juice boxes and empty snack containers, but when I open the trunk, I find Patrick’s leather jacket lying under a few empty plastic grocery bags. I whip it out and put it on, running my hands up and down my arms to get warm. I’m about to head back to the fields, hoping I haven’t missed another goal, but then I notice a small silver shopping bag tucked into the very corner of the trunk. I frown and pull it out. Inside is a small, lacquered box with a familiar, expensive jewelry store’s name printed across the top.
I open it up and there is an exquisite, whisper-thin gold tennis bracelet with a line of channel-set diamonds. It looks like a glamorous handcuff. I draw in a breath. Our anniversary is in a week. Is this my gift?
I feel the corners of my mouth tugging into a grin. And just like that, I feel much, much better.
15
LAURA
SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 2017
After Greg’s funeral, Ollie, Freddie, and I flop onto the couch. Freddie has finally,finallyfallen asleep after fussing through the service. I carefully set him down in the pack-and-play. Then I back away, my chest clenching when I see his curled little form, his butterfly-wing eyelids. He looks so peaceful.
What would he think if he knew his father is dead?
The thought stabs me, but then I feel Ollie’s arms circling my waist, his lower half pressing against my butt. “Mmm.”
“Ollie,” I say, stepping away. Ollie pulls me closer, cupping the sides of my face, kissing my mouth aggressively.
“Ollie,” I say again. “What are you doing?”
He bunches up my dress and fumbles at the waistband of my underwear. “Let’s make another baby.”
