Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Alicia
There’s an uneasy quiet to the house, the kind that hums under your skin.
The dull thud in my head and the queasy roll of my stomach feel like the morning after too much wine—only I didn’t drink last night.
I just didn’t sleep. After waking in the afternoon, I’d been disoriented—and lacked the willpower to shower again and blow out my hair.
So I pulled it back into a chignon, applied makeup, and chose a simple business casual outfit of loose jeans, a cashmere cream turtleneck, and a navy blazer.
It’s not my best outfit, but it’ll do to face Richard.
So far he’s refused my calls—sending only clipped texts that say we need to speak in person. Given he’s a lawyer, it always makes me uneasy when he refuses to put anything more than sterile, professional phrases in writing. That’s when I know he’s angry, or afraid, or both.
The traffic outside passes like any other weekday.
Upstairs, I have a million emails waiting.
I’ve put clients on hold today, giving myself a chance to fortify myself before I address questions and concerns.
Some clients may choose to select a crisis management firm led by a woman who isn’t herself in crisis, and I can’t blame them.
I’ve made my list of clients to call, and tomorrow morning, I’ll arrive at the office, hold a staff meeting to explain the situation, then begin making calls.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent years talking frantic people off ledges, drafting talking points and timelines.
Now I’m the one plotting my own damage control, waiting until I’m emotionally steady enough to listen without breaking.
So many times, my clients are the cause of the pain, and I’m the one counseling that an apology with a “but” isn’t an apology.
If I were to speak to my clients—or my staff—my apology would most certainly include an “I’m sorry for this inconvenience, but this is not my fault.”
I didn’t kill Matt. I had no part in his murder. But I did sleep with him and bury the truth for ten years. I’m not guilty of what they’ve charged me with, but I’m hardly innocent.
Another reason I’m holding off on calling clients is I haven’t decided how much I’ll share.
If I were to take my own advice, I’d come clean about the affair.
Someone out there clearly knows—it’s not like the detective uncovered DNA evidence from ten years ago.
He didn’t even acquire CCTV or hotel footage from ten years ago.
He spoke to someone—which means it could come out in the press with coverage of the trial.
It’s better to tell the whole story when I have my first call.
There’s a selfish part of me that still hopes it will stay hidden—that no one else ever has to know what I did.
Noah’s reflection appears in the front window panes a beat before his arms come around me, solid and sure, pulling me back against his chest. I sink into his warmth, my palms sliding over the corded strength of his forearms. At a time like this, it would be so easy to fall in love with him.
Of course, who am I kidding? I’ve been falling in love with him for weeks—a quiet look, an after-work drink, one steady heartbeat at a time.
I’m not sure how I’d get through this without him.
Will falling for him make his inevitable departure more painful?
Yes, it will. But there’s no doubt I need him now.
Christine’s coming over later . She doesn’t know exactly what happened—I don’t think. She’s likely heard rumors. Her most recent message said simply: I’m coming over this evening with vino. After dinner. See you at 8.
I gave the message a thumbs up. If there’s one sign of a true friend, it’s when you’re charged with murder and she arrives with wine.
If I had killed someone, she’d help me hide the body.
Not that I would ever resort to murder. Even on my worst days with Richard, I might have joked about unaliving him, might have even fantasized about an untimely demise, but I would never kill.
It’s disturbing to think others think I would—and it’s also disturbing that someone out there did kill and may be trying to pin the murder on me.
The car pulls into my drive, stopping right at the gate, and my grip on Noah’s arms tightens. There’s pressure on the side of my head as he presses his lips to my hair. I tap his arm and say, “Let me go greet them.”
“I’ll wait inside,” he says.
I don’t bother with a coat. I’m too numb to worry about chilly air or the drizzle.
Richard exits his BMW first. I catch sight of Stella holding an iPhone, her shoulders hunched around the glow. She’s rooted to the seat, hypnotized by the screen. For a second, I assume it’s Richard’s. Then I see the case—a sparkly blue thing she’d pick herself.
He closes his car door, and the slam of metal somehow ricochets through me. His eyes are cold, possibly bloodshot, the fine lines around them deeper. Like me, he hasn’t slept. Who told him? When did he find out?
I peer past him. “Is she getting out of the car?”
“She got a new phone,” he says, as if that explains everything. “She’s…enthused.”
“We agreed—no phone until she’s fifteen.”
“It’s better that she has it,” he says flatly. “I can track her if I need to. And you can call her.”
I reel back—but the car door opens and Stella’s excited voice intervenes.
“Mom—I got a phone! Dad took me to the Apple Store!” She bubbles out of the car, practically bouncing, but halfway to me she slows, eyes flicking between our faces. She’s too perceptive to barrel through tension like it isn’t there. “Mom? Are you mad about it?”
Richard’s glare is threatening. I swallow—this isn’t the time to fight this battle.
“No, hon. Surprised, but not angry.”
“Stella, go inside and pack your bag. I need to talk with your mother.”
“Pack your bag?” My voice sharpens. I want him to hear exactly how little sense that makes.
“I explained you have a lot going on this week,” Richard says, voice clipped, the strength of his tone brooking no room for argument. “She’ll stay with me. Until you’ve got more bandwidth.”
His plan is to lie to her? And to hope she doesn’t find out from someone else? I open my mouth—breathe. “Stella, why don’t you head in. I’ll come talk to you upstairs.”
“You didn’t know,” Stella says, looking at her dad with eyes that question—because whether he wants to admit it or not, she’s not the little kid who accepts everything he says without question. His plan isn’t going to work. “What’s going on? I knew it was weird that you’d be too busy for me.”
“I’m never too busy for you.” I pin Richard with a look sharp enough to stab. If he’s going to lie to her, he needs to learn how to do it better. “But I do need to speak with you—and it may be best if you go to your father’s for a few days.”
This isn’t how I would handle it, but I will grant Richard that I don’t know how my next few days will go, and along with my workload for my company, I also need to manage working with my defense team.
Hopefully I’ll stay out of the press’s eye—I’m not a public figure.
I just often work with public figures—but I work with them enough that it won’t be shocking if a reporter recognizes my name and wants to explore a story.
Stella surprises me by wrapping her arms around me and looking up, concerned. “You’re not sick or anything, are you?”
Jesus, Richard. My heart punches my ribs. That’s where her mind goes first—illness, not headlines.
“No honey,” I say, rubbing the side of her face, then bending to kiss her head. I pop her on her butt. “Head on inside. I’ll be there in a minute, and I promise you I’ll explain everything.”
She’s slower, but she’s got her phone in her hand, and by the time she’s at the front door, she’s looking at the screen.
She steps into the house, leaving the door cracked open, and I start to yell after her to close it, but don’t. Richard’s scowl rakes over me and I can’t tell if he’s royally pissed or if there’s a degree of concern.
“I didn’t do it,” I say—half wondering if his anger stems from a belief I would do something like that and put our daughter’s life in a vise from the repercussions.
“I know,” he says after a beat, jaw tight. “But you did have an affair.”
We stand there, a wall of cold silent accusations between us.
I don’t need to ask when he learned about the murder charge, or even what he knows.
He’s a lawyer—he has friends. It’s the same way I had a heads up about a warrant for my arrest being issued.
It’s the same way I have an idea about what evidence they believe they have—the detectives aren’t tight-lipped.
Or hell, maybe it’s someone on the prosecutor’s team.
“I had an affair too,” he says, and there it is—the card he’s been holding. For a moment I just stare at him, then the truth slips out, simple and bare.
“I know.” We never weaponized it in therapy. Maybe because I was guilty too.
His gaze lifts to the sky, then back at me. “I always loved you.”
The words knock the breath out of me—that’s the last thing I expected from Richard today. We agreed once that we’d always care, that we weren’t in love. Now, with murder charges hanging over my head, he chooses “always loved.”
I look up at him—really look at him. Does he want to go into this right now? We said as much in painful couples therapy sessions. Of course, as painful as those sessions may have been, neither of us told the whole truth.
A Rivian pulls up to the curb and parks. Jessica hops out, but pauses, her gaze flitting between Richard and me.
“What are you doing here?” Richard asks, sounding almost as angry at her as he is at me.
“I thought I might be able to help,” she says, heels ticking over the walk. When she reaches him, her hand glides over his arm. “I wanted to be here for you, baby.”
I step back, giving them their moment.