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Rage floods me. So that’s how I get a rise out of him, then, by insulting Kit.
“You gave Kit a diamond bracelet,” I hiss in his face. “I found it in your car—I thought it was for me. But she showed up to work with it on today, plain as day, the moron.” He steps back. The blood has drained from his face. “I can track down the receipt from the jewelers to prove it. I’ve heard the police like proof.”
“Stop talking about the police!” Patrick cries. His jaw is twitching.
“Did you kill Greg to get him out of the way? Or did Kittellyou to do it?”
“For all I know,youkilled Greg!” Patrick stabs a finger at me. “You’re crazy enough to! You fucking drugged her at that event—I could tell the police that! Who’s to say you didn’t rush back to her house and stab him to frame her? Maybeyouwantedherout of the way!”
I scoff. “What?” I’m astonished Patrick has come to such a crazy conclusion. Has he been mulling this over since I told him about drugging Kit? “Good try, but I have witnesses putting me at the benefit the whole night. Don’t try and pass this onto me.”
“But I didn’t do it, either.” His eyes are pleading, suddenly. “I swear, Lynn. Iswear. Please don’t talk to the cops.”
“Stop seeing her, and I won’t.”
I give him a level gaze. I hate that, so far, he hasn’t denied that he’s seeing Kit. Maybe he doesn’t see the point. And maybe I don’t even really care. I just want the upper hand.I want Patrick under my spell again. Like things used to be. He thrives under my spell. Hesoars.
It gives me a perverse rush just thinking about it. Before I know what I’m doing, I drop the knife, lurch toward him, grab the sides of his face, and kiss him hard. I feel his body resist at first, but then he lets me in, cupping the back of my head, pushing his groin into mine. I dig my fingers into his upper arms. I’m kissing him with the passion of someone who has the control but also as a relieved wife. He’s mine.
I’m the first to push away. Patrick pants lightly, his eyes searching mine. But where he is flustered, overwrought, our kiss has steadied me. Sex has always done that.
“I’m your wife,” I say evenly. “I’ll keep it a secret. But I need you to stop seeing her. Otherwise, I’ll ruin you—in ways you don’t even know.”
Patrick nods weakly. His posture has even changed from a few minutes before—his face is more open, and he stands erect, like an eager dog waiting for his next command.Herehe is, I think. The man I married. The man I know.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I ask, my voice a coo.
Sadness flickers across Patrick’s features. “I-I don’t want to break up our family. I don’t want to lose our kids.”
“You don’t have to, darling. As long as we have a deal.”
He gives a head bob and falls into me. I wrap him in my arms. “It’s okay,” I coo, stroking his hair. “I know you didn’t mean to do it. You’re just confused. You’ve just lost your way.”
“I did.” Patrick has his head in his hands. “I guess I did.”
There’s a confession in there for sure. I catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room and give my reflection a victorious smile. Actually, take away a few faint wrinkles around my eyes, and I look young, badass, and in charge. Some things never change.
A creak startles me awake. I look around the bedroom and wait for my eyes to adjust. The fan whirs in the corner. There’s a rustling sound off to the left. “Patrick?” I call out.
I hear swishes of fabrics, cracks of joints. Then I see Patrick’s shape looming on the other side of the room, watching me. Startled, I sit up in bed. “What are you doing?” I ask groggily, pushing aside our mountain of pillows.
His dark form twists away. “I can’t sleep. I’m going for a run.”
His voice is cold, empty. I check the clock on the nightstand. “It’s almost eleven at night.”
“I got water,” Patrick says. “You want some?”
He thrusts a glass under my nose. There’s not much I can do but take it and drink. The water is cold and refreshing for my cottony mouth. I swallow three gulps, four. I offer it back to him, but he waves his hand, already heading for the door.
“Patrick.” I leap up to follow him. “Don’t go.” Intuition tugs at me. The killer might be out there. Ready to jump someone else. “Stay here. Run on the treadmill. We have a whole home gym downstairs.”
“I need fresh air. I’ll be fine. See you in a bit.”
And then he’s gone. I stand in the dim hallway light, rubbing my eyes. Out the window, I catch sight of Patrick cutting across the lawn, hands on his hips, the reflectors on his sneakers glowing. But he doesn’t head toward the pavement. Instead, he circles around to the side yard, like he’s going around back. That certainly isn’t his normal running route.
For a long minute, nothing happens. But then, what seems like a year later, the lights of his car flash on. I watch as his SUV backs out of our driveway and rolls quietly around our circle.
My skin prickles. Of course he isn’t going for a run.
