Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Ellie
“Fresh carrot juice aligns the chakras and balances the heart center.” The woman doing the juicing demonstration is swirling
the vibrant juice in the glass with a smile.
I have to suppress a groan. This hippie lifestyle is not for me—I’m not sure what Jack was thinking—only that he was desperate
to get me out of the house for the weekend, I guess. I’m sure he’s at the end of his rope, and since I’ve been refusing any
further treatment for the sleepwalking, this seems like a last-ditch effort to get me help. To be honest, though, I think
I’d rather be at an in-treatment facility for a week than try to smile my way through all this juicing for your chakras bullshit.
The woman drones on and I start to shift in my seat, glancing at the group of a half-dozen or so other women around me.
Is anyone else as tortured as I am? It’s been exactly three hours since I left the city, and already it’s taking everything in me to not call an Uber to get home.
I sip the small shot glass of beet juice that was passed out as soon as our group sat down, my eyes traveling out to the line of evergreens in the distance.
I’m only thirty minutes or so from Kat’s Westchester estate, Tempsford Manor.
I have half a mind to Uber over there and ask Kat directly about the delivery of milk and honey that was sent to my doorstep a few days ago, but then, Kat probably isn’t even there.
As far as I can tell, she spends all week long in the city doing charity events and lunches at chic eateries like Le Bernardin.
On second thought, though, maybe checking out Kat’s estate on my own is exactly what I should do.
I could feign ignorance to the staff if anyone caught me wandering around, investigating . . . what?
My thoughts are interrupted by a preppy thirty-something with a smile asking me if I want to be her partner for goat yoga.
“I—I’m actually not feeling great. I think I have to pass; thank you, though.” The woman wrinkles her nose at me as if I’m
speaking another language. I guess women like her aren’t used to being turned down. I add in my most enthusiastic voice: “It
sounds so fun though! I hope you love it!”
That seems to cheer her up because her smile brightens. “Hope you feel better soon!”
I nod, wave, and then stand from the chair thinking the sooner I get myself back to the city, the better. I move in the opposite
direction of the rest of the group, sipping their fresh beet and carrot juice as they saunter over to the goat yoga segment
of the weekend. As I make my way up to my bedroom in the boutique B more folders are spread wide open in various arrangements.
I catch sight of my father’s name on one of the top files and I can’t help but open the folder, my curiosity piqued. I flip
through the first few pages of paperwork, and then I shiver.
Check stubs peer back at me. Settlements made out to different women.
Receipts for endowments to Columbia University, and lastly, a paystub made out to my husband from Cayman National Bank.
Of course my father has an offshore bank account in the Cayman Islands—it’s probably not the only one—but does that mean that my husband also has one?
A sudden feeling of being na?ve washes over me.
I flip through a few more papers and find more stubs of checks made out to my husband—for staggering amounts. Most are more than his yearly salary.
And the worst part? Some are dated before Jack and I even met.