Chapter 6
On Tuesday morning, Tucker had taken the early express train to meet a commercial real estate client near Bryant Park.
She remembered because she had gotten up at five-thirty to press his blue poplin shirt, the steam from the iron dampening her bangs while he stood in the kitchen doorway, sipping black coffee and complaining about the shift in autumn temperatures.
"Lissy?"
Tucker’s voice drifted through the archway, accompanied by the distinct, scraping sound of his dining chair sliding back over the hardwood.
Felicity’s reflexes acted entirely on their own.
She slipped the small triangle of paper deep into the front pocket of her trousers, her palm smoothing down the fabric so it didn't rustle.
She picked up a damp sponge from the ledger and began wiping down the clean quartz counter with long, rhythmic strokes that she hoped looked like the product of an ordinary, tidy mind.
Tucker walked into the kitchen, his tie now completely removed and his top button undone, giving him a loose, domestic air that looked entirely at odds with the knot tightening in her chest. He was carrying his empty wine glass and Brianne’s plate.
"You're hiding out in here," he said gently, setting the dishes down next to the sink.
He reached out, his hand sliding over the silk of her shoulder, his thumb rubbing the small notch of her collarbone.
"Brianne thinks she made you uncomfortable by bringing up my dad’s old habits.
You know how she is—she doesn't have a filter when it comes to the old days. "
"No, not at all," Felicity said, keeping her face turned slightly toward the cupboards so he wouldn't see the erratic pulse jumping in her throat.
She forced her voice into a soft, steady cadence.
"I was just thinking about the tart. Do we have the small dessert forks, or are they still in the dining room sideboard? "
"Sideboard, top drawer," he murmured, his hands lingering on her waist for a brief second before he stepped back. "I’ll go grab them. Don't overthink things tonight, okay? Just enjoy the evening."
He turned and walked back toward the dining room, his socks making a soft, sliding sound against the floor.
Felicity stood by the sink, her hand still resting on the damp sponge.
Her mind was a frantic, spinning compass, trying to find a logical explanation that didn't involve her husband lying to her face.
Tucker didn't read thrillers. He didn't order trade paperbacks.
If he had bought a book at a kiosk on Tuesday morning, why would he hide it?
Why would he leave the receipt in his grandfather's silver dish two days later, directly after looking her in the eye and denying he had ever seen the novel?
Unless he bought a different book, she thought suddenly.
Of course. That was the explanation. Tucker was always buying magazines or financial journals at the station newsstands.
A "trade paperback" could be anything—a collection of economic essays, a tax code guide, a true-crime book he’d picked up for himself and left in his briefcase.
The price point was completely standard.
The fact that The Inconvenient Wife had appeared on her nightstand on Thursday had absolutely nothing to do with a random newsstand purchase he made on Tuesday morning.
She was stitching fragments together, creating a pattern where there was only standard, boring coincidence.
"Felicity? Do you need help with the coffee maker?"
Brianne was standing at the edge of the kitchen now, her black turtleneck contrasting sharply with the white quartz island as she leaned against it. She had her wine glass cradled in both hands, her eyes watching Felicity with an expression that was entirely soft, entirely sympathetic.
"No, I’ve got it," Felicity said, turning around with a bright, manufactured smile. She reached for the espresso machine, her fingers moving through the familiar sequence of grinding the beans and locking the portafilter into place. "It'll just be a minute."
"You really do look exhausted, Lissy," Brianne said softly, her voice dropping into a low, confidential register that felt like a warm blanket.
She stepped closer, her perfume—that expensive, jasmine-heavy scent—drifting over the smell of the coffee.
"Tucker tells me you haven't been sleeping well since the storms started last week.
Is the house still feeling a bit... overwhelming? "
"It’s just large," Felicity said, keeping her focus on the digital display of the machine as the dark, rich liquid began to trickle into the porcelain cups. "And the woods are very close. In the city, you always know what the noises are. Here, every snap of a branch sounds like an event."
"It's the isolation," Brianne murmured, her eyes dropping to the counter for a moment before rising back to Felicity's face.
"Tucker loves it because it's his sanctuary after the firm, but he doesn't think about what it's like for you during the day.
I told him on the train ride up last week that he needs to make sure you're getting into the village more.
You can't just sit here with your books all winter. "
Felicity paused, a tiny, cold thread of curiosity pulling at her brain. The train ride up last week. "Did you take the express together last Friday?"
"Oh, yes," Brianne said, taking a sip of her wine with a casual nod.
"We had that client lunch on 42nd Street, remember?
We caught the four-fifteen back. He spent the entire ride complaining about the drainage on the driveway.
" She smiled, a warm, easy expression that seemed to radiate genuine fondness. "He’s so predictable, Lissy. Sometimes I look at him and I swear I’m looking at his father twenty years ago. "
The espresso machine cut off with a sharp, mechanical hiss.
Felicity set the two small cups on a lacquered tray, her hands completely steady now, the erratic panic from a few minutes ago hardening into a quiet, deliberate stillness.
Tucker hadn't mentioned taking the train with Brianne last week.
He had told her he was stuck in the city until six because of a late deposition.
It wasn't a crime, she reminded herself.
Employees at the same firm traveled together constantly.
They shared cabs; they took the same commuter lines.
There was no reason for him to detail every single train ride he took with a woman who had been his sister in all but blood since childhood.
To report it as significant would actually make it sound like there was something to hide, and there wasn't. There never had been.
"Here we go," Felicity said, lifting the tray. "Let's go get that plum tart before Tucker eats the whole thing himself."
"Lead the way," Brianne laughed, stepping back to let her pass.
They returned to the dining room, where Tucker had already set out the small silver forks and the dessert plates.
The rest of the evening passed in the same smooth, predictable groove that defined all their weekend visits.
They ate the tart, drank the rest of the wine, and argued half-heartedly about whether the foundation board would approve the live jazz trio or insist on the usual classical string quartet.
By midnight, Brianne had retired to the guest room at the end of the hall, as she often did on weekends, her heavy leather tote bag tucked neatly under her arm as she said her goodnights.
Felicity stood by the bedroom window, unknotting the slate silk collar of her blouse while Tucker moved around the room behind her, unbuckling his watch and setting it with a familiar, metallic clink on his own dresser.
"Bree seemed in good spirits," Tucker muttered, his voice thick with the early stages of sleep as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. "Though she’s right about one thing. You were incredibly quiet tonight, Lissy. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?"
Felicity looked out at the glass. The reflection showed her own pale face, framed by the dark canopy of the pine trees outside. Her hand reached into her trouser pocket, her fingers brushing against the crisp, folded triangle of the receipt.
"I'm fine," she said softly, turning around to face her husband with a calm, unblemished expression. "Just tired, like I said. Let's get some sleep."
He smiled, reaching out to turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into the deep, gray shadow of the autumn woods.