Chapter 16
Sixteen
Ellie
You left your door unlocked again. I could have let myself in last night.
I blink away my fear as I stare at the text message the next morning.
Wouldn’t it be easier if you just let me in?
As soon as the next text comes I swipe left on the message and block the number. I’ve blocked every message so far, but it
hardly matters when they keep coming from an anonymous source. I feel preyed upon; I feel targeted without any clear reason
why. Is this random? Is this because of my father? Maybe one of his disgruntled employees—someone he fired at some point.
Maybe even Jason returning to blackmail me after our affair.
My cell vibrates to life and another flicker of fear shoots through my veins. I glance down, prepared to find another message from an unknown number, when I see Aubrey’s name flash across my screen.
Awake yet?
I don’t reply, glancing at the clock to find it’s nearly ten a.m. I never sleep this late, but I guess I needed it. Splitting
the bottle of red wine last night with Aubrey probably helped. I crawl out of bed, wiping the sleep from my eyes as I stumble
to the bathroom. When I’m finished, I pad on bare feet out of the bathroom and nearly run into my husband.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” He plants a kiss on my forehead. “I was just about to bring you breakfast in bed.”
“That sounds good. No work today?” I turn to the kitchen, headed to the fridge for some orange juice.
“Finally caught up on the Allegiance case,” he says, referencing a company that my father works closely with. “You were dead
to the world when I got home last night. Found two glasses and an empty bottle of pinot in the sink—who were you drinking
with?”
“A friend,” I say, my brain still groggy with sleep and maybe a little wine hangover.
“A friend, hm?” He pulls eggs and bacon from the fridge while I pour orange juice from the carton. “Seems like you’ve been
hitting the wine hard lately—you sure that’s helping with everything that’s been going on for you?”
I narrow my eyes, watching as he cracks eggs into a bowl and then begins whisking. “It helps me sleep, so maybe.”
He nods, “I didn’t find any evidence of sleepwalking last night, so there’s that.”
I grit my teeth, pushing down the things I really want to say.
Now would be the time to tell him about the text messages from the stalker, but I don’t have the energy to be accused of being crazy and making things up this morning.
Plus, I’ve already deleted them. I can’t stand the thought of looking at them in my inbox every time I open my messages.
I guess the smart move would have been to save them for evidence, but the truth is I just want them to go away.
“So who’d you share the wine with last night, El?” He’s pretending to play it casual but I can hear the annoyance lacing his
words.
“Aubrey,” I answer.
“Really?” His jaw flexes with anger. “You like her?”
“She’s kind,” I offer. “You don’t like her?”
He doesn’t say anything, but his whisking turns aggressive. “I think you should be careful with a girl like that.”
“A girl like that?” I nearly choke on my laugh. “What does that mean?”
“It means . . . I think she has an ulterior motive. I think she wants to break us up.”
“Why on earth would she want to do that?”
“I don’t know, El, why on earth does anyone do anything?” He grinds fresh peppercorns into the eggs and then sprinkles them
with sea salt. “You’ve been dressing sexier since you’ve been hanging out with her—the red lipstick, the late nights, the
wine. You’re becoming someone I don’t know.”
“Is that a problem? You just want me to stay the same sweet little college student you married?”
“Um . . . kind of.” He drops a pad of butter into a warm skillet. It sizzles and melts instantly and then he pours the eggs
in after. He turns, facing me squarely. “You’re becoming a stranger and someone I wouldn’t even be friends with, honestly.”
“Really?” I shoot back. “That seems dramatic, even for you.”
“Even for me?” he scoffs.
I just shrug, thinking about what Aubrey said last night. Does he always have opinions on how you live your life?
“I hardly think I’m the dramatic one,” he spits out, turning back to the eggs with a spatula in hand. He turns the heat down
to low and starts pushing them around the pan. “Fuck—you always do this. Always try to make things bigger than they are. Can
you blame me if I just want you to myself?”
I don’t respond, because what is there to say, really? I know I’ve changed, but I like the woman I’m becoming. I feel a sense
of purpose and belonging that I haven’t felt before.
“You’re not home enough to care, Jack.” My tone is soft, submissive, just like he prefers.
“Nice—perfect. So it’s my fault then? I work too much trying to support us and put some money away and achieve some of the
goals and dreams we set for ourselves before we were even married?” His tone takes a darker turn then. “This is your fault,
you know? Always fixating on my work stuff, but what part do you play in this, El? If our marriage deteriorates it’ll be because
of this—because of your fixating and constant anxiety and unhappiness no matter what I do. You’re taking on too much—maybe
it’s work, maybe it’s this new friendship, maybe life is just too much for you. But all the sleepwalking and outbursts and—fuck,
you won’t even talk to me about taking medications, and you won’t admit that the sleepwalking has become a problem. What am
I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you destroy yourself? Now you drink bottles of wine at night to knock yourself out?
You want to know what I really think? I think you’re walking yourself right to the asylum with all of your bad decisions,
especially considering your family history.”
And there it is. The final death blow.
“You know what?” I am seething, feeling rage light a fire inside of me. My fingers start to twitch and my muscles tremble with anger. “You’re a piece of shit. You’re hardly the man I married, and it takes everything in me not to hate you for it.”
Before I can think, I throw the full glass of orange juice in Jack’s face. He ducks but not in time; the liquid splashes across
his face and drips down his t-shirt, the glass landing on the floor before it shatters into a dozen pieces. I turn on my heel
and stomp out of the kitchen, Jack’s growl of frustration following me as I reach our bedroom and slam the door, locking it
behind me.
“Such an asshole,” I whisper, trying to calm my clamoring heart. I think back on all the love that we used to share, wondering
where it all went and when.
The sun is setting behind Low Library, casting everything in that soft, rose-gold light that makes even the sidewalks look
romantic. We’re walking slowly, neither of us in a hurry, our shadows long and overlapping as we move up the steps toward
my dorm.
I can still feel the sun on my skin. Still taste strawberries and brie on my tongue. But more than anything, I feel him—his
hand just barely brushing mine as we walk, like he’s asking permission without saying a word.
I steal a glance at him. Jack’s looking straight ahead, but his mouth is curved into that slow, secret smile. The one he wears
when he’s about to say something that will undo me.
I can’t help it. I laugh, quiet and breathless. “Why are you smiling like that?”
He turns his head. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve got a secret.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Oh yeah?”
He stops walking. We’re halfway up the steps, the hum of the city below us, but here it’s just the two of us—like the air
has gone still, waiting.
He looks at me for a long moment. Not intense, not aggressive. Just open. Like I’m the answer to something he didn’t know
he was searching for.
Then he says, “I was thinking about kissing you.”
My breath catches. My heart hammers. I manage a soft, nervous laugh. “Were you?”
He steps a little closer. “Yeah. I have been since the minute you ran into me in the library. But now . . . I really want
to.”
My cheeks are burning, but I don’t look away. I’m standing completely still. My lips parted, my pulse fluttering like bird
wings in my throat.
“Well,” I whisper. “What are you waiting for?”
His hand brushes my cheek, fingers grazing the edge of my jaw. It’s the kind of touch that asks—is this okay?—even if his
mouth doesn’t say it.
And I nod. Just once.
Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Careful. Like he’s memorizing it as he goes. His lips are warm, , the faint taste of champagne and summer
on his breath. I melt into it without thinking, without fear. Just feeling.
The moment stretches—weightless and golden—and when he finally pulls back, I’m breathless and smiling, blinking up at him like I’ve just stepped out of a dream.
“Wow,” he says softly, forehead resting against mine. “That was even better than I imagined.”
I laugh again—a real, bubbling sound that I didn’t know I was holding in. “You imagine things like this often?”
He grins. “Only with you.”
I look at him—this boy with the movie-star smile and the steady hands, the upperclassman who somehow noticed the awkward nerdy
girl with too many flashcards and not enough confidence—and I think:
Maybe this is the start of everything.
And as I walk into my dorm, his hand warm in mine, I’m not even nervous anymore.
Just hopeful.
Just in love.
Just his.
I sit on the edge of the bed, picking up my phone in an effort to distract myself. I shoot Aubrey a quick text message reply
and then open my email.
One new message from Kat greets me.
I’m filled with dread—but then I think of Jack’s accusations. The truth is I like the life I’m creating, one where I focus
less on the ways he doesn’t fulfill me and more on the things I can do for myself that will. I open Kat’s email and read the
brief message.
You have a date tonight. 9:30pm. 732 Amsterdam. See attached photos.
I groan as I open the two photos. The file name of the first reads “Julie.” Tears instantly well in my eyes when a young woman’s
face pops up. She’s in the hospital, her face beaten and bruised, the swelling so severe she’s unrecognizable. Whoever did
this to her deserves to pay. Deserves to feel the pain this woman must have felt. Her lip is split and bleeding; bandages
cover one side of her head, her cheek is sewn together with stitches, and one eye is swollen shut. She’d probably require
plastic surgery to fix what this man did to her. I close that photo and open the next.
My heart nearly stops.
It’s a man in a suit, thinning hair slicked back like a businessman’s, his smirk already making my skin crawl. And what’s
worse: I know this man. His face is familiar, but I can’t place it. I search the photo for any details; the only one is a
sign hanging in the background that says Association of Northeast Surgeons Gala. I move to my internet search window and type
in the name of the event. The first result that pops up is the website for the gala, and at the top of the website is the
same photo of the man who’s apparently my next target. The caption reads Guest Speaker William H. Terry, Surgeon General of
the United States.
I close the browser window and shut my laptop.
The gravity of this moment hits me like a bag of bricks.
This man is powerful, appointed by the president, and I’m supposed to go on a date with him, lure him into hurting me and then gather enough evidence to ruin his career?
For the first time I think that this isn’t just a game—this is high stakes, something that could ruin me.
. . . Spending time with powerful people like this could even be the end of me.
Everything in me wants to believe that this isn’t real, that whatever muddy situation I’ve found myself in is harmless, just
a matter of exacting justice on pathetic little men . . . but this man isn’t little. He’s accomplished, he’s in the public
eye, he has powerful friends—and for the first time I feel actual fear. I open my laptop again, composing a reply to Kat and
The Society.
I’m sorry, I can’t.
Kat’s reply arrives before I can even close my browser window and forget this ever happened.
You must. You’re her only hope. She lives on disability now and the report she filed against him was ‘lost’. Wear the dress
that’s being delivered to you. It’s red—his favorite color—he’ll find you.
My heart sinks as I realize what this is.
He thinks he’s hired a hooker for tonight.
And I’m it.