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Jo rubbed Cleopatra’s ear. “But the way he said it—it left me with a different feel. Not like he was grasping for someone to share the blame with, but more like—I don’t know how to describe it—more like scorn. Like—the way you’d look at someone who was embarrassing themselves.”
Sophie stared down into the half-depleted martini. “Or the way people look at a wife who’s trying desperately to pretend her husband hasn’treallyfallen out of love with her.”
Jo’s mind flew back to the conversation she’d had with David the day before—had it really only been a day ago? “He called me yesterday, I was going to tell you the next time we talked. He wants me to convince you he just made a stupid mistake, and he’ll make it right if you take him back.”
Sophie gave a strange snort-snuffle-hiccup sound. “Did you believe him?”
Jo weighed out what he’d said. There had been a sincerity to his pleas that rang true, but also an accompanying cluelessness that rankled. “Here’s my opinion, which is probably worth what you paid for it. I don’t think David has fallen out of love with you. And I certainly don’t think he loveshermore than he loves you. I just think David will always love himself more than anyone else.”
Sophie stared off-screen for a moment, up toward the second floor of her house. “Even than the girls, you think?”
Jo squeezed her eyes shut against the pain of the truth. “Unfortunately, yes. Not to say he doesn’t love them, and you, dearly. But he’s never been the sort of man who can put his own needs aside. At least up until now. Maybe this whole disaster has jolted him out of that.”
“How likely do you think that is?” Somehow Sophie’s eyes were both resigned and hopeful.
Jo shook her head and heaved another large sigh. “I’m just as torn on that as I am on whether Bob’s lying to himself about how much he knew.”
“Hey, is everything okay?” Matt appeared at the kitchen doorway, voice thick with sleep.
Jo straightened up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m talking to Sophie. Go back to bed.”
“I should let you go,” Sophie said.
“No, it’s okay, I’m always here for you, night or day.” Jo glanced between her sister on the screen and Matt in the doorway, trying to read their reactions simultaneously.
“I know. And you’ve given me enough to think about for one night. Now go. Love you.” Sophie hung up without waiting for a response.
Matt crossed over to Jo, kissed her cheek, and sat down in the chair next to her. “Don’t worry about having woken me. I’ve been worried because you weren’t home yet, so I’ve been in and out of sleep.”
She studied his face—concern, but with an undeniable undercurrent of emotion. Her jaw clenched. With everything she was dealing with right now, she wasn’t sure she had the energy to take responsibility for someone else’s emotions. She needed to refuel for Ossokov, not deflect guilt trips and cater to yet another person’s needs—
She instantly chastised herself—she was being petty and selfish. “I’m sorry, I should have texted. And I know this is the third night in a row I’m apologizing for the same thing, and this is a bad start to us living together, but—”
“But what?” he asked, watching her closely.
She sagged back in the chair. “But nothing. No excuses. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He nodded slowly. “Did we move in together too quickly? I can ask David to find another place and move back to my house.”
She reached over and grabbed his hand, gazing straight into his eyes. “No, the timing isn’t the problem. I want you here, and I want to make this work. It all boils down to my fears, and the only way to get past the fear is to go through the process of dealing with it. But that’s not really fair to ask of you, so if you want to leave I completely understand.”
He smiled softly. “I have no problem learning how to be together with you. I just need to know that’s all this is.”
That’s precisely what Jo needed to know, too. And while she believed in the power of honest communication, she’d learned the hard way that spouting doubts when you weren’t sure they reflected reality was the fastest way to destroy trust in a relationship.
She returned the half-smile and squeezed his hand. “That’s all this is.”
DAY FOUR
CHAPTERFORTY-FIVE
Finding Murphy wasn’t hard—just a question of driving town to town to each of his regular hangouts until I spotted his car. He always parked in the back, most likely to keep anyone from spotting his car if they casually drove by. But my driving wasn’t casual, and I finally found him at The Tap Club in Philby.
I had to go inside to watch him. Not a huge problem; these weren’t the sort of venues that had extensive security set-ups, and the low-light conditions wouldn’t yield detailed footage. And I’d developed a few appropriate disguises—hats, nondescript clothes and big sunglasses that, even in the dark, fit right in.
I settled in to watch him one last time. There was a ritual to his drinking, predictable and sad. He sat, agitated and tense, like a man late for an appointment hoping the bartender will hurry his drink. Drinks plural, actually, because he usually ordered the first two as a pair. He threw back the first like a man who’d just escaped the Mojave Desert, each bob of his Adam’s apple also dropping his shoulders a fraction of an inch, until he set down the glass with nothing but a ring of foam slipping down the side. Then, after a moment’s pause, he’d reach for the second, more slowly this time, and drink off a third of it. This time he’d savor the beer, his eyes closing as the liquid eased down his throat and the alcohol infused his bloodstream. By the third drink, the tension in his face would go slack, and something that approached a smile would play at his lips. He’d get chatty with any fellow patron within easy talking distance, and tap the bar along with songs he liked. Sometimes he even put money into the jukebox and picked a song or two.
When he reached that point I honed in, physically hovering over the beer I’d ordered but hadn’t touched, an invisible filament pulling me to absorb what passed for peace in Steve Murphy’s world.
