Chapter 59
Liz could hear nothing but the rush of blood in her ears. She had read each of the messages, eyes widening, as words like Dublin . . . hotel room . . . Liz can never find out . . . danced across the screen.
She blinked. Shook her head.
No.
Please . . . Oh God. No!
Patrick had known Joni for almost as long as he’d known Liz. He respected Joni, made her laugh, was protective of her, would stand up for her—but Liz had always told herself that he wasn’t attracted to her.
Why had she chosen to believe that? Last summer a women’s magazine had crowned Joni “the Sexiest Woman on the Planet.” She and Patrick had laughed about the article in the kitchen while making quesadillas.
Now she lifted her gaze to Joni, whose face was white, lips dry.
“Dublin,” Liz whispered, understanding. “When I went back to the hotel with a migraine, you two . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
She remembered being backstage, her migraine already sending lights dancing in front of her eyes, as she’d told Joni she couldn’t come to the after-party. Joni had looked crestfallen, so Liz had said, “Patrick will party with you!” She’d offered him up like a consolation prize.
Patrick had turned to Liz. “Sure you don’t want me to come back with you?”
“I’ll get a taxi. Stay! Party! Please. You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”
It hadn’t taken much persuasion. Patrick had always liked to party.
She was happy for him to roll in late, then wake hungover and affectionate the morning after.
So she had sent the two of them off, Joni glimmering in her gown and stage makeup, Patrick so solid and handsome at her side.
And she—stupid, na?ve Liz—had taken a taxi back to the hotel, with no idea that she was holding a lit match to her marriage.