Chapter 16
Nora
TEN MINUTES AFTER Mel’s arrival in the kitchen I’m squashed between Mel and Jack in the backseat of Lucy’s red Jeep. Emily is up front in the passenger seat and Lucy is at the wheel. Becca had to go to work, but said we’d better keep her informed of any developments. Then she announced that my new code name for any texts about the case would be Monica and instead of using the word murder, we should say vacuum. The example text she verbally supplied went like this: Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help Monica hide the vacuum.
Lucy thought this was brilliant, but Jack’s face turned so red I thought his face might explode. “No texting about any of this! Period!” he shouted at the whole group. Sadly for him, they all thought his anger on my behalf was sweet rather than scary.
I myself am less sure what to make of Jack’s recent behavior toward me.
The thing is, Jack is a caretaker by nature. This is a byproduct, I presume, of growing up with a sister with Down Syndrome. He was always her advocate, her defender…her best friend. That’s right–friend. Jack has always been excellent at being someone’s friend.
So that’s got to be what’s happening here. He’s showing up for me today, going all out for me today, because he’s my friend.
I just wish I knew what to do with all of the feelings I’ve been feeling about my friend.
At least thinking about this is a nice distraction from the whole ‘I murdered someone last night’ business.
Not for long, though, since we are currently headed over to Ian’s house to talk to his wife about last night. Once everyone had calmed down about Mel finding out the truth, Jack said we had to get moving so that we could talk to the wife before the police got a chance. Then he insisted Mel stick with us for now, so that we could babysit her. More specifically, so that we could babysit her mouth.
The whole time we were having this discussion, Mel kept nodding vigorously along with what he was saying and forcefully pursing her lips together over and over. I’ve seen Mel blab secrets firsthand, so I’m fully aware of the threat her knowing that I’m the murderer poses to me, but honestly…it still feels good to have the truth out there. The way all of these women immediately sided with me, no questions asked, made me feel a sense of security I would never have expected to feel today.
I would hazard a guess that generally when you commit murder, the less people that know about it the better. But in my case, I like having this team of people around me.
Even if that doesn’t make practical sense.
It makes emotional sense.
Plus, them knowing meant that I got to change out of my green dress and into something a bit more well-suited to a murder coverup expedition. Along with the dresses (and my underwear) Jack also put a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved striped shirt in my suitcase, so that’s what I have on now. Jack changed too and looks impossibly good in a pair of faded jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I have a lot of special memories of working with Jack in his barn and almost all of them involve him in jeans and a flannel shirt.
And okay, sure, almost all of them involve kissing too.
So, yeah…anyway. Where was I? Oh, right. I’m okay with them all knowing. With not having to lie to them anymore.
Of course, Jack is far more agitated by the exponential growth of our murder cover up team, but I think he’ll come around to it eventually.
Everyone likes to be part of a team.
Besides, it’s not as if we’ll be ordering team uniforms or anything. It’s a secret team.
“What’s the plan when we get there?” Lucy asks from the driver’s seat. I know Jack would’ve preferred to drive, but then I pointed out that, given how he never exited the premises after entering, the guard from last night might have his picture on file, so he relented and agreed to take Lucy’s Jeep.
It’s not exactly roomy back here between Mel and Jack, but I can’t say I mind having my body pressed up against the side of Jack’s body. Besides that kiss after we were pronounced husband and wife, this will probably end up being the most physical thing to happen between the two of us on our wedding day.
Jack, who has been busy doing something on his phone this whole time, sets it down to focus on Lucy as he replies. “I just set up an appointment with a realtor.” Ah. That's what he was doing on his phone. Here I thought he might’ve just been trying to keep up his Wordle streak. “There’s a house for sale a few doors down from the Wharfman’s house,” he goes on. “You three are going to meet the realtor there under the guise of Emily being interested in buying it. I picked Emily,” he adds as Lucy opens her mouth presumably to ask this very thing, “because she’s a business owner. It's most believable that she’d be able to afford the house.”
“Oh.” Lucy’s mouth snaps shut around the word.
“Why does anyone have to look at the house?” Emily asks.
“That’s just how we’re going to get into the neighborhood,” Jack explains. “While you three are busy with the realtor, Nora and I will go talk to Connie Wharfman. That way Nora can just approach her as an employee coming to offer her condolences for her loss.”
“That makes sense,” Emily concedes. “But who are you supposed to be?”
“Her new husband,” Jack replies with a one-shoulder shrug that sends tingles down my arm from the contact. “There to support her.”
“Aww, yes, that’s a good story,” Lucy coos.
“Story being the operative word,” Mel breaks her self-imposed silence to say, then quickly pops her hand over her mouth. “Sorry!” she cries. “I’m not supposed to be talking. It’s just, I’m so angry that Nora has to go in there and pretend to be sorry that jerk is dead.”
“You knew Ian Wharfman?” Emily asks.
“I wouldn’t say I knew him,” Mel sniffs in disgust. “But I met him once and let me tell you, once was enough.”
“What did he do?” Lucy asks, intrigued.
“What didn’t he do? He yelled at Nora. Threw a fit about the coffee pot being empty. Yelled at two more people. Slammed his office door so hard the walls shook.”
“So he’s the guy I was looking for to be the temporary fall guy for his own murder,” Jack mutters wryly under his breath.
“I’m no expert on the human psyche,” Mel adds, “but to me it seemed like he was one of those people that try to get past their own insecurities by bringing everyone else down along with them. He was rude and mean.” She lets out a harrumph sound to emphasize her point.
“You thought Ian was insecure?” I ask in surprise.
Mel shrugs. “That’s how I interpreted his boarish behavior. I’m not saying I’m right, but does it really matter? Either way he was not a nice person. Not that day, anyway.”
I think back to the day in question. It stands out in my mind because usually when Mel and I meet up, it’s at my condo since I never really trusted her not to try and orchestrate a run-in with Jack. But that particular day she surprised me—for my birthday, actually. It was really sweet and completely unexpected.
Although Mel and I remained friends after my breakup with Jack, this last year we’ve drifted apart some. Largely, I think, due to her newfound romance with Anderson. He’s Jack’s best friend, and the overlap started to feel like too much on my end. Having her show up on my birthday had been such a nice surprise. At least until Ian had entered the scene raging about who knows what. He was a very extreme person. Almost manic with his mood swings. And that day he’d been in a particularly bad mood.
“He did have this thing about his hair,” I admit now. “Spent a lot of time obsessing over it. Combing it. Gelling it. You name it. If it has to do with hair, he did it.”
“That’s funny,” Mel muses. “I don’t remember him having much hair to fuss over.”
I purse my lips against a smile. “Exactly. He didn’t used to. Rumor around the office was that he got plugs. My friend, Stella, had a theory that it was a toupee but she couldn’t figure out a plausible excuse to test her theory. At least not one that wouldn’t get her fired.”
Lucy snorts. A laugh escapes my mouth too. I can’t help it; the idea of Stella trying to pull Ian’s hair off his head has always made me dissolve into laughter.
But I sober up quickly as Lucy turns into the entrance of Ian’s subdivision.
“Wait, what do I say again?” she asks in a panic. “I’m meeting a realtor?”
“Yes,” Jack says calmly. “Her name is Kennedy Harper. She said she already contacted the gate for us to let them know we were coming. Make sure you give Emily’s name.”
“Okay.” Lucy nods and rolls the car forward to the window.
“Good morning,” she chirps to the attendant sitting inside the booth. “Err, afternoon, I should say,” she corrects with a glance at the clock on her dashboard.
“Name,” the attendant replies in a monotone voice as he sets his phone down to look at Lucy.
“Oh, um, my name is Lucy. Lucy Stafford. I’m here with my friend Emily Montgomery to look at a house that’s for sale. My realtor, uh, Kennedy Harper, said she called ahead for me.”
The attendant nods. “Alright then. I’ll let Mrs. Harper know you’re already there when she arrives.”
“Great, thanks!” Lucy says far too enthusiastically. Luckily the guard doesn’t seem to notice; he just buzzes us in, then sits back down in his seat, turning his attention back to his phone. Everyone in the car lets out a long, relieved breath as we drive through the space left by the open gate. Everyone but Jack, that is. He looks unphased. Like he knew the plan would work.
His confidence is unacceptably attractive.
I force myself to look away before I do something stupid, like give my husband a kiss.
Lucy parks in the driveway of a house so enormous it could double as a museum.
“Don’t tell the realtor,” Emily whispers, “that the business I own may be doing well, but not well enough to own a place like this.”
“This is going to be fun!” Lucy exclaims with a clap of her hands. “Touring a mansion like there’s actually a chance one of us could live here!”
We all step out of the car.
“Text me when you’re finished,” Jack tells them. “Or I’ll text you if we finish first.”
“Sounds good,” Emily agrees. Lucy is busy ogling the house and Mel is back to pursing her lips repeatedly, giving me the impression of a human jack-in-the-box that just needs one more turn of the handle before it bursts out.
“Don’t worry,” Emily follows my gaze. “I’ll keep an eye on Mel.”
“We should go,” Jack tells me. “Officer Moore could show up anytime.”
I nod and the two of us set off down the sidewalk toward Ian’s house.
“Are you doing okay?” Jack asks me as we walk. “Are you sure you can handle this conversation we’re about to have?”
“No,” I reply honestly; my palms have gone clammy and my heart is beating far too fast, “but we have to talk to her, right? Figure out what she knows before she talks to the police, so we can come up with excuses for whatever it is.”
Jack nods. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, “but yes.”
I shrug, trying to appear more composed than I feel. “Then there’s no point in wondering whether or not I can handle the conversation, is there?”
Jack stops walking, tugging me to a stop by my elbow. “The point of checking in was to let you know that you don’t have to put on a brave face for me, Nora. This is scary as hell. A nightmare come to life.” He blows out a long breath as he scans my face. “And although I may not be able to make this particular monster go away, I can at least help you fight it.”
I will myself not to cry at his words. I have to hold it together. Not trusting myself to speak with my emotions so close to the surface, I just nod in response.
Don’t even say thank you.
Or tell him that all of the monsters in my life seem smaller with him by my side.
Jack rakes a hand through his hair as he turns away from me and starts for the Wharfman’s house again. I skitter forward, hurrying to catch up with him and feeling like an idiot for not being able to communicate any sort of truths with this man.
People say the truth will set you free, but what if I don’t want to be set free from this man?
“Here goes nothing,” Jack says as we reach the front door. He presses the doorbell and I hear it chime through the house. I drag in a breath and as I exhale Jack’s hand slides into mine, comforting me without words.
Why is he such a good man?
This fake marriage would be so much easier if he wasn’t.
“Coming, darling!” a female voice calls from inside the house.
The door swings open a few seconds later, and Connie Wharfman stands before us looking outrageously expensive in an outfit that I could swear I saw in one of the issues of Vogue magazine I flipped through at one of my vendor’s medical offices last week. Her hair and makeup are impeccable as well and, though it falters when she sees the two of us standing there instead of whichever darling she was expecting, her wide smile pops quickly back into place. Basically nothing about her screams, my husband just got murdered!
Which could very well be because she doesn’t know yet. But still, hasn’t she at least noticed he’s missing?
Unless she doesn’t care.
That’s a sobering thought. To get to the point in a marriage where you don’t care whether or not your spouse comes home at night…not exactly what anyone imagines for themselves going into marriage.
My eyes flit to Jack, and my stomach turns at the very thought of him not coming home at night.
Which is ridiculous. We’ve been married for approximately two hours. I’ve never even experienced what it's like to have him come home at night.
The thing is—I don’t have to experience it to know how wonderful it would be. Coming home to Jack or having Jack come home to me…that sounds like the epitome of cozy perfection. Like that moment you sit down next to a roaring fire and the heat shoves away the cold. Or the feeling you get when you sit down at a table surrounded by your family. Or the all-encompassing warmth of a hug from a loved one. Or the softness of your pillow as you settle down for the night.
Jack is fire and family. He’s a warm hug and a soft place to land. He’s—no. No, no, no. I shake my head, pulling the plug on this dangerous line of thinking.
These are the thoughts of a woman in love, and I refuse to be in love with my husband.
With that in mind I paste on a smile of my own and greet Connie Wharfman. Actually, first I adjust my smile to sympathetic mode, then I greet her. After all, I’m supposed to be here to offer my condolences.
“Hi, Connie, you may not remember me, but I’m Nora, one of your husband’s employees. We met at the birthday party you hosted for him here last year.” She only blinks at me in response, so I press on. “Anyway, I just heard about what happened to Ian and, well, I wanted to come over and tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”
More blinking. I open my mouth to say more, but she finally decides to speak.
“I’m sorry, my loss?” The cheerful voice we heard as she came to the door is gone. Now she sounds cold and distant. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Oh.” I falter. So she doesn’t know about Ian. At least that’s the public stance she’s taking. Something’s off, though. She can’t seem to focus on either me or Jack, instead her eyes are darting around, bouncing from me to him and then behind us. And her hand on the door is turning white from the strength of her grip on it.
She’s definitely nervous about something.
“Our apologies,” Jack speaks from next to me, his tone serious. “We assumed you knew, since the whole company knows.” He clears his throat, feigning discomfort. “This is extremely difficult news to deliver and we’re so sorry to have to be the ones to tell you, but it seems as if there’s no avoiding it now…” He draws a deep breath, then with the gentle finesse of someone well-seasoned at delivering news of this nature, says, “Mrs. Wharfman, your husband was found dead last night.”
Connie Wharfman’s answering gasp is reminiscent of Lucy’s overly enthusiastic thank you to the gate attendant. Meaning it sounds fake.
Did she know? She must’ve known. Hers is not the face of someone surprised by the news she was just given. An actress she is not. But why would she pretend not to know? That doesn’t make sense.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks her. “Do you need to sit down? Perhaps I can get you a glass of water?” He goes to step inside, but she holds up a hand, stopping him.
“No, no. Thank you, but I’m fine. I just need a minute.” She reaches a shaking hand up to her temple and shuts her eyes, breathing deeply. “Ian. Dead,” she whispers to herself. “I can’t believe it.”
“You actually don’t seem all that surprised,” I blurt out before I can think better of it. Connie’s eyes snap open. It’s clear that I’ve woken the beast.
“I’m sorry,” she sneers, “have you lost a husband before? Or what exactly gives you the right to tell me how I should or shouldn’t act upon finding out that my husband is dead?” This last word comes out at a shriek.
Here’s the thing. I know her words should make me feel chastened…I really don’t have any right to say how she or anyone else should respond to such awful news. Only…this is all wrong. I can feel it in my bones. Connie Wharfman knew her husband was dead. She knew, but it didn’t stop her from putting on some of her nicest clothes and making plans with someone she calls, darling.
Still, I attempt to look appropriately remorseful in response to her admonishment. I must not do a very convincing job of it, though, because she keeps on me.
“Wait a minute, I remember you. My husband’s little office pet. Always prancing around him like a puppy, eager to please.”
This is a gross misrepresentation of my behavior at work. So much so that I can’t help but laugh.
I know.
Not a good choice.
In my defense I turn it into a cough pretty darn quickly.
But not quickly enough.
“You think my husband’s murder is funny?” she snaps.
“Woah, woah, woah,” Jack interjects. “Murder? Who said anything about murder?”
“W-well, you did, of course,” Connie sputters. “That’s why you showed up uninvited to my front door, isn’t it?”
“We showed up to your front door uninvited to express our sympathies about your husband’s passing,” Jack replies smoothly. “I don’t believe either of us said anything about him having been murdered.”
Connie’s brow furrows, then smoothes. “It was implied,” she declares loftily.
Jack and I exchange a look. I can tell his mind is on the same track as mine: Connie not only already knew Ian was dead, she knew he’d been murdered. But again, why lie about it? We already know who killed him and it wasn’t her.
Unless of course she’s the one who moved the body. This last thought chills me.
“Did Ian come home last night?” I ask her, changing the direction of the conversation. Let’s see how far she’s willing to take this lying game she’s playing.
Connie stiffens. “Not that I saw, but I was out myself until almost midnight.”
“And that didn’t alarm you?” Jack asks. “To get home so late yourself and have him not be here?”
Connie shrugs. “It wasn’t unusual for him to work well into the night or even to spend the night at the office. I thought nothing of him not coming home. Anyway, why are you asking all of these questions? You’re not the police. Don’t tell me the pair of you are playing amateur sleuths on this case.” She sniffs, looking my way. “Darling, I don’t know what my husband may have told you or promised you, but it was all a lie. He was never going to leave me for you or promote you or do anything of the sort. So let the dead rest and move on with your pathetic little life.”
She goes to close the door, but Jack puts up a hand, stopping her.
“Excuse me,” he growls, “but that’s my wife you’re speaking to, so I’m going to have to insist that you be more respectful.”
Seriously, what is this man trying to do to me? He’s been dropping the my wife’s left and right, like some sort of romantic whack-a-mole; just when I think I’ve pounded down the feelings caused by one utterance of the words he goes and says them again.
Truth be told I’m not sure I ever actually squashed down the feelings from the last couple of times he said it.
Which means I am so going to lose this game.
Zero prize tickets for me.
“Your wife?” Connie starts up with her strange blinking again, then coughs. “My mistake, I suppose. I simply assumed she was another one of Ian’s play things.”
Eww. Eww, eww, eww. I suddenly need a shower. There’s a horrible part of my brain that is busy running through all of the women at my office wondering if any of them have had dalliances with Ian. Stop! I command myself. That is not a path I want to go down. I really like most of my coworkers. Sure Frank is a bit persnickety and Cleo–my main competitor for the plastic surgery route–still acts as if we’re in high school and she’s the queen bee, but overall it’s a good group of people. You don’t put up with a volatile boss like Ian for long if you don’t like your coworkers.
“You assumed wrong,” I tell her, being sure to hold my head high. Something ominous flickers in Connie’s eyes; there and gone so fast I can’t be sure if I imagined it or not. Either way it leaves me feeling chilled to my very bones.
If she is the one who moved the body, would that also mean she knows I killed her husband?
Dread pools in my stomach and instinctively I grab hold of Jack, needing his steadiness to anchor me.
Immediately his gaze drops to me in concern and next thing I know his arm is wrapped around me, holding me snug against him, his body a load-bearing wall to my saggy ceiling. I almost sigh from the relief of it.
“Do you think my wife could have a glass of water?” he asks Connie, and I don’t even try to stomp down the feelings this time. Instead, in what I can only call a moment of weakness, I let myself bask in them.
I never even wanted to be someone’s wife, so it makes no sense that the words affect me this way. Yet here we are.
“No,” Connie says flatly. “It’s time for you both to go.” She peers behind us. “How did you two get here anyway? I don’t see your car.” A hand pops up to her waist.
“We parked down the road,” Jack supplies quickly. “Accidentally drove past your house on our way in, then decided to walk rather than turn around.”
“I see.” A catlike smile creeps onto her face. “And here I thought perhaps you’d hopped the fence.”
Jack’s body tenses against me but he doesn’t release his grip on me. I know he must be panicking about her insinuation that she knows about the sweatshirt of his that got stuck on the fence last night, but despite that he’s still taking care of me. Putting my well-being above his own.
I do not deserve this man.
I never have and I never will.
But at least I can try and be there for him in this moment the way he has always been there for me. I snake my arm around his back and let my hand rub up and down it in what I hope is a soothing motion. Then I lift a foot and tap one of his feet with it before setting my foot back down flush against his—restarting our old game of footsy.
I literally feel the tension ease back out of his body. His back muscles uncoil, his shoulders relax, and his foot nudges mine right back.
This is serious business, this conversation we’re having with Connie Wharfman. But that darn foot nudge has sent my mind far, far away from here to a place where Jack and I are in love again. A place where I’d fully be allowed to indulge the desire to kiss him that’s building inside of me.
Although, in present day reality I am his wife, as he keeps reminding everyone. So a kiss really wouldn’t be so wrong.
No. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to recalibrate. Knowing that I have a calming effect on Jack is messing with my good sense. It’s like I’m drunk with power.
And drunk people are notorious for making bad choices.
Time to sober up.
I step out of Jack’s grasp (and the fantasy land it transported me to) and toward Connie, smiling sweetly at her as I say, “Well, this has been…interesting, but we really should be going. Someone actually broke into our garage last night. We’re headed to go file a police report about it.”
Her nostrils flare and her left eye twitches. “Your garage. How odd,” she says tightly. “I can’t imagine what anyone would want to take from a garage.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure you can,” I reply, fake smile still tacked on. Jack tugs me by the elbow, seeming to sense that I’m going a little rogue here. Better to get me off this property before I come straight out and accuse her of stealing her husband’s body and putting it on my front lawn.
Yup, not a discussion I need to have right now. I let Jack pull me away and focus on keeping my mouth shut despite the burning need to know if it was her.
Jack practically carries me off her front porch in his haste to get me out of there. “Keep it together, Nora,” he says in a low voice as he propels me forward. “You can’t just outright accuse her of moving the body. Sure she might get in trouble if it comes out she moved it. But, as I’m sure you can guess, the punishment for tampering with a crime scene is nowhere near as severe as the punishment for committing actual murder.”
“So you agree with me?” I hiss back as we reach the sidewalk. “She has to be the one that moved it, right? But why? And how? She’s so small.” I glance back over my shoulder to check my memory of her, but Connie has already shut the door.
“She couldn’t have moved it alone,” Jack agrees. “And I don’t know why either.” His voice is a more normal volume now that we’re out of range. “Obviously they had a weird marriage. She knew Ian cheated on her. Then again, maybe she was cheating on him too. Who was this darling she was expecting instead of us?”
“Could be a lover,” I agree. “But she called me darling too. So it could also just be a friend.”
Jack nods, then sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. I look away, not wanting to get caught staring at the muscles of his forearms or his thumbs. Yes, that’s right. I said thumbs. Call me crazy, but there’s something inexplicably sexy about a man’s thumbs sticking out of his jean pockets.
I can’t explain it.
I think it might just be science. A chemical reaction of some sort. I’ll figure out a testable hypothesis about this after I get away with murder.
“Either way,” Jack hedges, “who makes plans to go out on the day after their husband is murdered? Not a grieving widow.”
“Yes,” I counter, “but maybe a widow who is pretending she doesn’t know her husband was murdered does make plans. After all, making plans supports the idea that she didn’t know he’d been murdered.”
“Even though she absolutely did,” Jack mutters darkly.
“Agree.”
We walk in silence for a minute, both lost in our thoughts.
“What do you think she’s going to say to Anderson and the others when they come?” I ask tentatively.
Jack inhales deeply before answering. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Hopefully she’ll tell them we came to chat with her, since that’ll make it look as if we’re investigating the murder. And who investigates a murder when they already know who did it?”
“Yeah, that’s true.” I hadn’t considered that potential bonus of going to talk to Connie. I just thought Jack wanted to know if she knew about his sweatshirt and the car. Speaking of which… “We never asked her about Ian’s car!” I exclaim.
“Yeah, I know.” Jack is unconcerned. “I didn’t want to call attention to it. I left it in the driveway last night and it’s not there now. That means someone, her presumably, moved it into the garage. I couldn’t ask about that, though, without her wondering how I knew about his car being in the driveway in the first place.”
“Ah.” I nod. “Of course.” I run my bottom lip through my teeth, a nervous habit of mine, then say the thing I’m desperate to get off my chest. “Just so you know, she was way off base with what she said about me. Calling me an eager puppy and suggesting I’d had a fling with Ian. I like my job and I’m good at it. I would never try to use my feminine wiles, or whatever you want to call them, to get ahead.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Jack says with a dismissive snort. “I never would've thought otherwise.”
“Oh.” There’s a warm feeling spreading from my heart to my whole body. “Well, okay then.” I nod. Then I nod again. I shove my own hands in my pockets so my arms don’t do what they’re begging me to do and throw themselves around him in a hug. Reckless abandon. That’s what that would be.
Not today, reckless abandon. Not today.
But check back with me tomorrow.
Jack, never being one to wax poetic, doesn’t say anything more about it. Instead he circles back to Connie’s potential role in moving Ian’s body.
“I think we should look more into who may have moved the body and why,” he announces. “Who could have helped Connie? And what was their goal? To pin the murder on you? Well not exactly pin,” he amends with an apologetic grimace.
“You can’t pin a murder on the murderer,” I agree, attempting to keep things light. No need to dwell on the fact that I’m a killer…only one jury of my peers away from imprisonment. “But yes, perhaps she, or whoever it was, moved the body to my front lawn to make sure I wouldn't get away with what I did. The question is how did they know what I did in the first place?”
Despite my best efforts, my voice is shaking. Apparently my body has decided now is the time to have a trauma response. My blood feels as if it is zipping through my body at an unprecedentedly fast pace, my thoughts have turned incoherent, and I’m not sure that there’s any part of me that’s not trembling. When spots flood my vision I pull to a stop and fight to get air into my lungs.
I’m only vaguely aware of Jack drawing closer to me. The internal war going on inside me is taking up too much of my attention. My chest is so tight.
There’s pressure on my shoulder and I know it’s his hand trying to pull me out of the darkness, but it’s pitch black in here.
“Nora. Nora.” His voice crying my name sounds distant and scared. I’ve scared him. I’ve scared steady, dependable, always-in-control Jack. Oddly it’s this thought that starts to push away some of the panic. I can’t let Jack be scared because of me. Not when he’s the person that has always made me feel safe and secure. The person who has always made me feel brave.
Pushing away the despair squeezing my lungs I use all of my mental strength to tunnel in on Jack standing in front of me. No wait, he’s not standing in front of me. I’m not even standing anymore. I’m on the ground and he’s kneeling in front of me, eyes locked on my face.
“Nora,” he repeats my name. “Can you hear me?”
Slowly I nod and a rush of air bursts into my lungs causing me to shudder.
“That’s right, breathe,” he urges. A second later he moves behind me so that his legs straddle me and his chest presses into my back. He lifts his arm to encircle me and just like that I’m in a cocoon of Jack.
I’ve seen him do this to Joy. It’s not a romantic, cuddly thing, but rather an attempt to provide sensory relief. The force he’s putting on my body is intended to have a calming effect, much like a weighted blanket.
Only, now that I’ve gotten my breath back I’m feeling a lot calmer. Which means this embrace of his is giving me all the romantic vibes he’s not intending. This is very much a cuddle session I am enjoying being a part of.
Jack smells good—better even than the bottle of Dove shampoo I keep on my bedside table—and his arms are strong around me. His breath is warm as it stirs across my hair, and a happy sigh drifts out of me before I can stop it.
His whole body freezes and now I’m panicking for an entirely different reason. He definitely heard that.
I fully expect him to pull away, to scooch himself back, hop up to standing and zoom away. Maybe even suggest we go annul this marriage before I get any misplaced notions about the two of us being a real couple who do real couple things.
But he does none of these things. Instead we simply sit there, his arms remaining securely in place around me.
Perhaps I should be embarrassed that the two of us are just sitting in the middle of the sidewalk of a very ritzy neighborhood, but I’m too busy enjoying these minutes spent in my happy place. For the last three years this was a place I could only close my eyes and imagine, but right now it’s a reality. So, sorry, ritzy neighborhood people, but I’m staying put.
Heck, I’ll stay here for 15 years if I have to, just so I can claim squatter’s rights and take permanent possession of this man.
Wait, no. That sounds kind of weird.
And way off-brand for me.
I’m not supposed to want to be married for real. And I’m definitely not supposed to want to be married to Jack for real. That is way too dangerous a path to go down.
If only Jack had changed for the worse these last three years, but if anything he’s gotten better. He was always thoughtful and sweet and competent in a way that made me feel completely taken care of. He was always funny and strong and crazy handsome. But now he’s all of those things and he’s the man fighting on my behalf. How am I supposed to stop myself from loving such a good man?
“Excuse me, can I help you?” An uptight, nasally voice speaks from above us and I look up to see a woman with a tight bun and even tighter facial skin (botox anyone?) glaring down at us.
I’m about to apologize, but Jack speaks first. “No, we’re good, but thanks.” He releases me and immediately I miss his nearness. A second later he offers me a hand up. I’m avoiding eye contact with the disapproving woman, but Jack keeps on chatting with her, unperturbed by her ire. “Beautiful weather we’ve been having, am I right? You take care now.”
“Miscreants,” I hear the woman murmur as we walk away from her.
“Have a nice day!” Jack calls with a wave back at her. His cavalier attitude is contagious, and I find myself boldly looking back to see how she’s handling his dismissal of her irritation. She’s standing there with her hands on her hips, eyes on us like a hawk to its prey. My own gaze hitches on something just beyond her, and I stumble over my feet.
“Whoops, you okay?” Jack reaches a hand out to steady me.
“There’s a car in Connie’s driveway,” I hiss and his head jerks back to see for himself.
“A black Explorer,” he murmurs. “Not exactly a distinctive car.”
“I’ll say,” I agree. “Half the people at my company drive black SUVs.” I know this because it makes my grandpa’s old truck stand out that much more. Not to mention, just last week Stella got into it with Frank because he accidentally got into her car instead of his. Of course he realized his mistake when the car wouldn’t start, but since he’d already put his uncovered coffee cup in the center console, sloshing liquid across it, Stella was not happy.
In my opinion the whole thing could’ve been avoided by locking her car doors, but sometimes Stella just likes to be mad.
As we watch, the door of the house’s double garage opens and the black SUV glides inside–right next to the white BMW already parked there. Ian’s BMW.
“So she definitely moved the car,” Jack mutters.
“Yup,” I agree.
“What are you two whispering about?” Botox woman demands. “Casing the houses, are you? I’ll report you to security if you don’t get out of here. This neighborhood is going to the pits when we can’t even keep hoodlums like you out. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Please do report us to security,” Jack replies cheerfully, pulling his badge out from his back pocket and flashing it her way. “Tell them Detective Reynolds says hello.”
The woman’s face immediately colors. “D-detective. Oh my. Has there been a crime? Am I in danger?” Her hand flies to her heart and if the muscles of her face could still move themselves I think her eyes would widen.
As it is there’s very little difference in the expression that was on her face before Jack’s pronouncement and the one on her face now.
“Let’s just say, if I were you, I wouldn’t be hanging around out here in the open,” Jack says ominously, looking around us as if at any moment a murderer might appear out of thin air. She doesn’t need to hear anything more. We watch as she turns on her heels and scuttles away, back into her house.
“Nicely played, Detective,” I tell him as the door shuts behind her. He grins down at me and an unexpected shyness settles over me. Before Botox woman interrupted I’m pretty sure we had a moment. Like a connecting moment. But what if I misread things? Perhaps he was still playing the protector and was only trying to make absolutely certain that I was okay after my panic attack.
“You’re okay, right?” he asks, supporting this latter line of thinking. “Things got a bit intense for you back there.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, reaching up and tucking a stray hair back just to have something to do with my hands. “Thanks for your help, though.” I keep my gaze fixed on a spot just above his shoulder, not daring to look him in the eye.
“Nora,” he begins, then breaks off. Silence stretches between us and finally I can’t take it anymore, I look straight up at him. Unspoken words pass between us as his gray eyes hold my green eyes captive. They say eyes are windows to the soul and right now Jack’s eyes are revealing what I could swear is longing. Maybe even a longing for me–I want to grab hold of the window ledge and hoist myself up for a better look, just so I can be sure. But then he blinks and just like that the window is closed.
“We’d better go get the others,” he says. “I’m sure Officer Moore will be here any minute and I’d rather not get trapped in a discussion with him about all of this.” He looks over his shoulder one more time and I follow his gaze. The garage door is shut.
Who was driving the black SUV? And what are they doing at the Wharfman’s house?