Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Ellie
I wake with a jolt. My heart hammers and my throat is dry. I search my memory for a dream or a nightmare that woke me, but
I can’t remember anything. My arm is throbbing and the bandage feels damp, like it needs to be changed. I think again that
maybe I should have gone to the hospital for stitches, but I can’t face the fact that I might be hurting myself at night,
on top of everything else.
Correction: I am hurting myself.
I push out of bed, finding the sheets are damp with sweat. Whatever I was dreaming about must have been stressful. It’s not
even two in the morning and I feel like I’ve been asleep for days. I rub the sleep from my eyes and make my way to the bathroom.
I splash my face with cold water and then make quick work of changing the bandage on my arm. My stomach growls, reminding
me that I didn’t have anything to eat all day. I pad to the kitchen, the realization hitting me that despite the fact that
Jack hasn’t been here much at all these last few months, it’s still weird to wake up in the middle of the night and not have
him here.
This is what being single feels like, I think.
No one else to remind you to eat dinner or to drive you to the emergency room when you have a sleepwalking episode that turns bloody.
I grab a bottle of Advil from the cupboard and swallow two of them with orange juice, then hunt through the fridge for anything to eat.
I decide on a sandwich and pull mustard, sliced turkey, and cheese from the drawer and a loaf of sourdough from the bin.
I move to the kitchen island and pull a butter knife from the drawer, turning back to my bread on the counter before my eyes land on something unusual.
I gasp, the knife falling from my hand and clattering into the sink.
It’s a gun. A shiny, gunmetal-colored handgun lying in my sink as if it belongs there. Or as if someone had been cleaning
it and then just stepped away for a moment.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, leaning closer to inspect the weapon. Maybe it’s fake, I think. But nothing about this gun looks
fake. My fingers tremble as I reach out to touch it, but then think better at the last minute. I’ll need to call the police.
I’ve never been around guns, and to my knowledge neither has Jack. What if I’m wrong, though? What if this is just another
secret he’s been keeping from me?
My legs go weak and I plant a hand on the counter to keep myself from falling. My arm is suddenly throbbing again, right along
with my brain. What is going on? Did I do this?
And then I think of the threatening note that came with the box of cream and honey earlier.
If you don’t do this, you’ll regret it.
Is this what they meant? And then a more terrifying realization hits me: either I did this while I was sleepwalking . . . or someone was in my apartment while I slept.
Fear throttles my system.
Did Jack do this? Aubrey? Or could it be the person who’s been stalking me? Or maybe it was a member of The Society—just how
much pull do those well-heeled women have?
I leave the gun where it is, return the sandwich stuff to the fridge, and then go to my laptop and open the news tab. It takes
me exactly two minutes to come across a headline that’s less than an hour old. The New York Post is reporting that the CEO of a Fortune 500 company was gunned down outside of his townhome on the Upper West Side just hours
ago. I recognize the building, now cordoned off with police tape. Investigators are lingering around the front doors. A quick
skim of the article tells me that no perpetrator has been identified and the only thing they know about the crime is that
the CEO was shot at close range with a handgun. A handgun that hasn’t been found.
I close my laptop, not bothering to read more as a chill of awareness works its way through me.
I don’t need to read anything else because I have a feeling I know where the missing handgun is: in my sink. I just don’t
know who it belongs to, or who put it there.
The only thing I know for sure is that someone is trying to frame me for the kind of crime that will dominate the headlines
for weeks.
I suddenly wish my husband was here for a hug, to tell me that everything is going to be okay.
That I didn’t do this and that there is some reasonable explanation for a handgun to find its way into my sink in the middle of the night.
But even if he did tell me what I want to hear, it would all be lies.
Because there is no reasonable explanation.
My door locks automatically with a keycode required for access.
It’s unlikely someone let themselves into my apartment just to plant a weapon and leave.
No, the most obvious explanation is that I was sleepwalking and found the gun somewhere.
I remember waking up to the sweat-soaked sheets, my heart pounding as if cortisol had been shuttling through my system for hours—almost as if I’d been out running a midnight marathon.
I go to the bathroom, taking in my reflection in the mirror. I look disheveled, strung out—ike a junkie who hasn’t slept in
days. I flip on the cold water and splash my face again, hoping to wash away the stress, hoping that the next time I look
in the mirror, the girl I used to know will be standing there looking back at me. The one with an easy, boring life.
But when I look up, there’s only me. With blood on my hands.