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“Oh dear,” I say.
But my sister doesn’t answer. She shakes her head with disdain. After a final glance in my direction, she zips up her jacket, and ducks her head. “I’ll see you later,” she says, and hurries out to the street.
I watch her rush across the avenue, my head propped in my hand, my feelings all over the map. In the past week, I’ve basically found out everyone in my world is a stranger. I love Willa for doing this for me.
But I hate what she’s figuring out.
After I pay my bill, I walk around campus. The sky is a cloudless blue, but the temperature hovers somewhere around the fifties, which, after the beautiful weekend, has thrown everyone into an impatient funk. Students hunch around in big coats with frowns on their faces. Two girls in running shorts shiver outside Starbucks. Everyone seems to have taut, tense expressions. Are theyallaffected by the hack?
A stream of kids emerges from the science building, and I assess the faces, bracing myself for a run-in with Raina. But she isn’t there.
I try to imagine Greg systematically Venmoing Raina cash for college tuition. If she’s telling the truth, it’s certainly a noble gesture on my husband’s part, and we had enough money that I didn’t even notice thousands of dollars going missing. But why hadn’t Greg justtoldme about it? Was he that afraid that I’d jump to conclusions andget the wrong idea? But if he reallywasn’thaving an affair with Raina, why would he hide it?
Unless, of course, hewashaving an affair with someone else. Maybe he didn’t want to arouse my suspicions in any sort of way, and he figured it was better not to say anything about Raina, even if the whole transaction was innocent.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and tense. Someone pulls me into an alleyway between the buildings. I let out a muffled cry, preparing to fight.
But when the person spins me around, it’s Patrick Godfrey holding my forearms.
“What the hell?” I wrench away from him. Light shines in from the street, but no one has seen him pull me into the alley. “W-Were you following me?”
“I need to talk to you,” Patrick pleads. He’s wearing a dark gray suit and shiny loafers but no coat. “It’s important.”
I step toward the sunlit sidewalk, stabbing a finger toward the building across from the bar. “Have you forgotten your wife works right up there?”
“Come for a drive around the block with me, okay? It’ll take five minutes.”
There’s something in his posture that tells me he isn’t going to take no for an answer.Unbidden, my thoughts flip back to our hot, hurried kisses in that elevator. I whisk the image away.
“Fine,” I decide, hating myself a little for giving in. “Five minutes.”
Patrick’s car, a white Acura crossover, smells like basil and fresh leather. I climb in tentatively and buckle my seat belt. Patrick’s hands tightly grip the wheel. He’s wearing a wedding ring today. The sight of it sickens me, even though I know it shouldn’t. At a stoplight, I consider jumping out. This is a bad idea. I need to keep out of trouble.
Patrick grabs my arm as if he senses my hesitation. His eyes arepleading. “There’s this thing that I found out that’s been weighing on my mind. I feel like you should know.”
I cast my mind about for answers: He’s going to say something aboutus.Maybe he’s leaving his wife. Maybe he’s never felt a connection like the one he felt with me.
The light changes, and he hits the gas hard, shooting us back in our seats. “You know that benefit last week?” he asks.
I almost laugh. “You mean the one I got home from and found my husband dead in my kitchen?”
He tugs awkwardly at his collar. “Yeah.”
I study the print shop whizzing by, then a sandwich place.
“I was watching you,” Patrick goes on. “You seemed... well, you seemed drunk.” He holds up his hands in quick apology. “Not that I blame you. That night was a shitshow, and I’m sure my showing up there didn’t help any. So I left, figuring my absence might help. But now I’m just wondering... how much did you drink that night?”
At first, I’m annoyed—what business is this of his? He doesn’t have any right to judge my life. But the question makes me uneasy, because I realize how specific it is. I stare at the blinking LED lights on the dashboard. “I only had one martini that night—well, that I can remember. I guess it hit me strangely.”
“Does that often happen?” Where is he going with this?
“No.” I peek at him. Is he trying to gauge if I’d been drunk when we kissed in Philly?
“And did you get the drink yourself, or did someone get it for you?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. His eyes are on the road, but I can tell he’s steeling himself for my answer. “Your wife did, actually.”
And then it’s like a light goes on—for me, and for him, too. Patrick looks crushed. When he turns to me, I think I know what he’s going to say before he says it.
