AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“No, that can’t be right. Nina doesn’t walk.”
I would have expected this pushback from Meredith, but the comment comes from Mariana.
I stare at the housekeeper, who, until five minutes ago, I would have called a friend.
“That’s what happened,” I say. “I’m sorry—but that’s exactly what happened. I’m not lying.”
Tristan shakes his head and returns his focus to his wife. Mariana’s focus funnels to Tristan.
I look over my shoulder.
Meredith is gone.
15
The day of the stroke ...
Meredith
“Are you sure she’s gone?”
“Yes. I watched her leave this morning before I left.”
Tristan slides a brass key into the front door of their brand-new three-million-dollar home. It will be my first time seeing it. He is so excited to show me, giddy like a child,. It makes me smile.
“Where did she go again?” I ask.
“A woman’s retreat in Arizona, for spiritual healing. I booked everything for her, packed for her, arranged her schedule once there, everything.”
And yet Nina still doesn’t appreciate him. Selfish, selfish bitch.
When Tristan pushes open the door, I gasp. I can’t help it. The home is stunning—the windows, the gleaming wood floors, the leather, the beams of light reflecting off everything.
“Tristan,” I whisper breathlessly.
He turns to me with the biggest ear-to-ear smile I’ve ever seen.
I grab his face. “I am so—so—proud of you, baby. You did this.Youdid.”
“Thank you.”
“Show me around!” I can’t hide my excitement. It will be my home one day.
One day.
Tristan grabs my hand with such vigor that I want to make love to him right there on the floor of the fancy foyer. I can’t remember the last time I saw him this happy. It’s because she’s gone, I think. His wife’s crazy, dark, depressing energy has been removed from the home, albeit temporarily.
Tristan leads me to the great room. It is then that we notice the dozens of pieces of paper that litter the hardwood floor.
I gasp, but this time it’s not because of amazement.
“Oh my God.” Tristan stares down at the photos of him and me. Each are from our midday rendezvous, either him arriving at the motel or leaving. He is wearing a different outfit in each picture, which means whoever took these photos has been following us for a while.
A knot forms in my throat when I see a picture of me, standing in the doorway of the motel room, gazing longingly as Tristan is driving away.
“Meredith.”
The tone of Tristan’s voice sends a chill up my spine. I follow his gaze to a collage of photos in the center of the pile. One is of us having sex on the motel bed, one is of me on my knees, the others, various stages of intercourse. The best I can tell, these were taken by a long-range camera that had zoomed in on the slit in the curtain.
