Chapter Twenty-Nine. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
I stare at Professor Woods’s photograph over his bio on the Marquis University faculty page. All the girls think he’s hot, Alex had said, and I can see why: He’s got that hipster scruff combined with a muscular physique and soulful brown eyes.
Not my type, though. He actually gives me the creeps. There’s something calculated in his appearance, from his artfully tousled hair to his thin leather necklace. I continue reading his bio: Woods is married to Associate Professor Elizabeth Harris, who teaches applied psychology at Marquis.
So they’re in the same field. From the outside, her life looks enviable. But it could explode at any moment, just like mine.
It would’ve been easy for Josh Woods to replace Alex’s picture on the student ID with his own and hold it up for Benjy’s half-hearted perusal. He didn’t even have to change the androgynous name.
If there’s a link between him and one of the four women that drove him to want to possess the files, it can’t be Betty. He’s less than half her age, and given her isolation, they never would have crossed paths.
I’m still glaring at his photo when a text chimes on my phone. It’s from Danny.
Warm relief floods my body. He was the real reason I couldn’t sleep last night. I kept imagining what they’d done to him to get my phone number.
I’m sorry for everything, his text reads.
I start to ask how he’s doing, like I have every time we’ve communicated, then I backspace over my words. I stare down at his name and let my mind wander back to our first date two years ago.
It was a Saturday morning, and I had absolutely nothing to do.
All my friends were married and doing cute couple things like going to a farmers market or brunch.
I thought about hitting the gym or catching up on errands, then impulsively decided to check out the Meetups in my area.
Several were taking place that day: a hike, a trivia happy hour at a pub, and a gathering to fix up the home of an elderly couple who’d fallen on hard times.
Bring a rake, wall paint, sponges, and cleaning supplies—or just a willingness to help. Let’s give back to this decorated Vietnam veteran and his bride of fifty years, the notice read.
When I showed up at the dilapidated house with a can of neutral paint and two brushes, volunteers were already cutting the lawn and clearing away brush.
Danny stood on the rickety front porch, matching people with jobs.
Within ten seconds of meeting him, I felt my gaze drifting down to his left hand to check for a ring.
“The plumbing repairs in the kitchen should be done soon,” Danny told me. “After we scrub the walls, it’ll need fresh paint.”
He looked down at the two brushes in my hand and plucked one for himself.
“Mind if I borrow this?”
We spent the day side by side, transforming the old, stained walls with a creamy ivory hue, then went out for Thai food afterward.
Six months later, I awoke to find Danny staring down at me.
He asked what kind of engagement ring I wanted, as if our marriage were a given.
I tried to match his casual tone, but I couldn’t stop smiling.
A cushion-cut stone on a classic gold band, I told him.
Nothing big or flashy. But when he knelt down on one of our favorite walking trails, in his outstretched palm was a vintage ring featuring a huge teardrop sapphire.
My ring is the one thing of value I’ve never sold. I told myself it was my last-ditch safety net in case of a catastrophic medical issue or other crisis.
But if I’m going to help Danny, I need the money. I type a response to my ex-husband: I need to sell my engagement ring. Where did you buy it?
Three dots appear, then vanish.
I think the store shut down, sorry. You won’t be able to return it. You could try to pawn it if you want.
What a strange reply, I think. Why would he suggest a pawn shop?
Then the realization hits me: The store didn’t close down. It probably never existed.
Danny worked as a real estate agent. He had access to lots of houses.
Because I did our laundry and always checked pockets, I discovered a few things he must have pilfered: a dozen oxycodone pills wrapped in a tissue, a valuable old coin, a TAG Heuer watch.
None of these items were in a case or original packaging, but Danny always had an explanation: He’d lost the watch before we’d met and had just discovered it in his gym bag; the coin had been mixed in with others he’d gotten from a convenience store clerk; the pills belonged to a friend who was trying to kick his addiction and had relinquished them to Danny.
Of course he stole them, probably to fund his growing gambling addiction.
Just like he stole the sapphire engagement ring with a few tiny scratches on the band that I told myself added to the vintage charm.
Was anything about our marriage real?