Chapter 18
Eighteen
Ellie
I don’t check my email for the next three days. I don’t dare. I’ve avoided the newspaper headlines, avoided Aubrey, and even
Jack—which hasn’t been hard because he’s been escaping to work since our last fight. I’ve done my best to cover my tracks—disposing
of the knife I used to slice up the Surgeon General in a dumpster off of 73rd on my walk home and washing the little red dress
soaked in blood three times. I don’t know how to cover up a crime, but I did what I could.
Truth be told, I’m afraid to check my email for a few reasons: one because I don’t want to know what happened after I left
that bar, and two because I’m afraid of my next target—afraid because there are never any instructions on how to deal with
these encounters. I’m left to my own devices, and maybe carving up the Surgeon General went too far. But I didn’t kill him.
I just left him with scars that will last a lifetime. I’m particularly pleased with the fact that if these men try to report
me, there will be mutually assured destruction. The Surgeon General can’t report me without disclosing the reason behind my
mutilation.
Now, three mornings later, I’m feeling restless.
I’m supposed to go to work this morning, but I’ve already emailed and taken the day off.
My anxiety has hit new levels, and engaging in the mundane, crunching numbers and pretending to be poised, sounds unbearable.
Plus, I can’t handle the watercooler conversations about the Surgeon General if it hits the headlines.
So instead, I’ve perched myself on the sofa with Netflix and ice cream, healing from the horror I inflicted on one of America’s most prestigious appointed officials.
Part of me wants to tell everything to Aubrey. I want to hear her tell me that it’s worth it—that what I’m doing is justified—but
I’m just not sure anymore. I’m so lost in my new position with The Society that I can’t see right from wrong.
The door to the apartment opens then, and Jack interrupts my thoughts. “Hey—still not feeling well?”
I brace myself for his scrutiny, keeping my words short. “Still under the weather.”
“Heard there’s a bug going around—I’ll have to keep my distance from you, Typhoid Mary,” he says.
I don’t laugh. He has no idea.
“I was just about to get some work done from home.” I stand, heading in the direction of the bedroom.
“Hey—wait—funny question.” He sets his laptop bag down on the dining room table, “Did you hear about that scandal with the
Columbia professor?”
I push a hand over my head and sigh. “The New York Post article? Yeah, I saw that.”
“Did you know him?” Jack crosses his arms, leaning against the kitchen island as he watches me.
“No,” I reply. “He was in the law department, right? I never went to that side of campus.”
Jack nods. “Huh.”
“Did you know him?” I turn the question on my husband.
“I think I had him for a lecture once—seemed like a good guy.” Jack busies himself with something in his laptop bag.
“Did you forget some files here?”
“Stopped by for a shower and change of clothes. This Allegiance case has me burning the candle at both ends.”
I nod, unwilling to say more. Normally I would ask how he’s been lately—I’d be the soft, nurturing wife he’s used to—but I
don’t have it in me. Not anymore. It occurs to me then that I’ve been overextending myself and showing up for this man as
my best representation of the picture-perfect wife, and why? Jack hasn’t shown up for me like the doting, protective husband
I would expect. Not now, maybe not ever. Why should I be expected to give one hundred percent when he doesn’t even show up
fifty percent of the time? Not physically and certainly not emotionally. In truth, I’ve been living like a single woman for
a long time, in bed with pajamas and takeout by eight p.m. most nights while he does God knows what all week long.
“Since you’re home, do you wanna get some lunch, maybe?” he asks.
I pause on my way to the bedroom, letting my hardened gaze linger a few extra beats. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh, right.” A frown flickers across his face. “Let me know if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.” A chill threads through my words.
He doesn’t say anything else. I walk to the bedroom, letting the door close quietly behind me.
Looking for a distraction from our strained interaction, I open my laptop and navigate to my email.
I’ve been afraid to check my inbox the last few days fearing a new assignment from Kat, but I can’t avoid it forever.
The only new message that isn’t spam is from The Society.
The timestamp is late last night. I open it as feelings of dread swirl in my stomach.
Friday. 9 Doyers Street. 8pm. Corner booth. Further details to follow.
My heart hammers as I plug the location into an internet search bar and find that it’s an exclusive cocktail bar named Apotheke
in Chinatown. And just like that, I have my next assignment. I close my email and sigh. I’m not sure how long I can keep up
this juggling act of a double life with Jack. I shove that thought to the back of my mind, though, thinking that he spends
most of his nights away from home, wining and dining clients at restaurants and bars around Manhattan or pouring over case
files fifty city blocks from our bed.
I blink away tears as I think about how dull and domesticated my life with Jack has become, like we’re living in a constant
state of barely tolerating each other. Is this all that’s left of us? A future that looks like the past, no new adventures,
only loneliness and farewells and death to look forward to? We’re together and maybe that’s all there is. Maybe that’s enough.
But something unsettled rattles inside of me.
But what if it’s not?