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Paul looks confused. “What does living here have to do with anything?”
But there’s nothing more I can say. I wave my hand and turn for the rutted path that leads back to the farm. Paul stands, too, but I turn away, indicating as best I can that I need space—lots of it. My boots squish in the soft earth as I walk away from him. I can feel his eyes on my back, and it’s then I realize, too—I’ve forgotten the bouquet he made for me.
But I don’t turn to retrieve it. Really, he should give it to someone else.
27
LAURA
THURSDAY, MAY 4, 2017
After just an hour of my shift at the hospital, I step into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I’ve put on a lot of makeup to cover Ollie’s slap marks from three days ago, but I can still see the imprint of each red, angry finger. No one has asked me about it, though. I guess they all have their own problems.
Suddenly, dread comes over me.Freddie,my intuition pings.Something’s wrong with Freddie.Maybe Ollie has done something terrible. I’ve beenwaitingfor something to happen, for his stony, punishing silence to spill over into the anger he hinted at a few days before. And he knows Freddie’s my weakness. What if he decides to take out my betrayal on the baby? Would Olliedosuch a thing? Days ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of it. But now, I’m not sure. My husband is now both utterly himself—big, strong, relentless, emotional—and utterly a stranger.
I need to get home.
I tell my supervisor I don’t feel well and drive home so quickly I nearly rear-end someone on the parkway. As I open my front door, horrific possibilities of what I’m about to behold flood my mind.
But then I see Freddie in his Pack ’n Play in the living room.His babysitter, Lucy, kneels next to it, waving a plush spider in his smiling face. Both of them glance up at me as I walk in; Lucy seems startled by the frantic look on my face.
“Oh,” I cry, rushing toward Freddie and scooping him up. I’m swarmed with desperate, aching joy.
“Is everything okay?” Lucy stands and brushes off her jeans. “I thought you were going to be back at five.”
“I, um, I’ve come down with something,” I lie. “So I figured I’d come home. Sorry to drag you over here. I’ll pay you for the whole day.”
I press Freddie to my cheek, inhaling his sweet baby scent.
I write Lucy a check. She scoops up her things and heads for the door. “You need me here tomorrow, or do you think you’ll be staying home?” she asks as she steps onto the porch. “I don’t have class until five.”
I hesitate. “You should come, just in case.” It’s probably safer if I don’t tell the truth yet. I’ll call her tomorrow, early, and cancel.
After Lucy leaves, I catch sight of myself in the round mirror in the foyer. On the surface, I look fine. My hair is clean. My makeup isn’t smudged. The thick foundation over the slap is doing its job. I bring my hand up to touch it, wincing at the tender ache.
Time has stood still since everything went down. Ollie has barely spoken to me since he found out. For three nights, he has slept in our bedroom, while I’ve retreated to the pull-out couch in the office. This morning, he dressed quietly, babbled to Freddie, and then left without saying a word to me. The other shoe is going to drop—butwhen?
And I have questions.Ollie knew.He knew about Greg and me this whole time, but he said nothing.Why?Is it really because he didn’t want to believe it was true?You really think I’m that stupid?he’d said. And then, later:I’m glad that guy is dead.
He’d known when Greg’s Lolita e-mails broke wide. Hell, he might have thoughtIwas Lolita. And he’d known the night he sentme to the benefit alone. Whatelsedid he know that night? And where wasOlliethe night of the gala?
I’d come home from my near suicide attempt at 2:00A.M. Ollie hadn’t been here—I’d had to wake Lucy from the couch. I figured, of course, that he was still at the police station, working on the hack... but now I’m not so sure. If I’d idled my car for a little longer in Greg’s circle that night, might I have seen Ollie come along next?
I imagine the rage roiling through him after finding out about Lolita. Reading those e-mails, presuming I wrote them, imagining Greg and me doing those disgusting things. I picture Ollie pacing the floor, breathing through his nose, groaning. Did he worry about being made a laughingstock, a cuckold?
Am I living in a house with a murderer?
Fear shudders over me. Ollie’s motive is perfect. And he has the strength to overpower someone like Greg. It’s the perfect crime, too, because after all those e-mails breaking in the hack, Kit looks like the obvious suspect. How deeply are the police searching for other people’s motives? Is there any way they could find out about what Greg and I did? I remember, too, how cavalierly Ollie had said, “Oh, they’ll find the murder weapon.”
One thing’s for certain: I can’t stay here any longer.
I snap off the bathroom light and scurry into the living room again. As Freddie pokes at a small, plastic lion toy with noisy buttons, I locate my phone in my bag. My mother’s number is at the top of my contacts list, but my finger hesitates over the screen. What do I tell her? That we’re simply going to take a drive up north for a visit? Or maybe I shouldn’t call at all. Maybe I should just grab Freddie, pack a few things, and call her while I’m on the road.
I hurry upstairs to the baby’s room and start throwing things into a bag. Next, I scuttle into my bedroom. I open my closet and toss the first things I see into a duffel. It doesn’t matter what I bring, really. I can buy new things later.
And then I hear a cough.
I shoot up, the bag’s handles slipping from my fingers. I can just make out Ollie’s silhouette in the dim light of the hall. Fear shoots through me like fire.
