39. Daphne
Daphne
Rickie is acting strangely, and it's stressing me out.
Yesterday he’d said he wanted to make dinner. But then he didn’t. I waited for him for two hours before texting to ask, Where are you?
Sorry! Library. I’ll be home late .
So I’d made myself a bean quesadilla, with a side of disappointment. Then I fell asleep in his bed at midnight. He came in so late I didn’t even hear him.
I mean, sure, he tried to make it up to me in the morning. I woke up to his urgent mouth on my nipple. Things escalated quickly from there, and I ended up on all fours, gripping the headboard, with Rick’s hand clasped over my mouth so I wouldn’t wake up the entire house with my moaning.
It had been a very effective distraction technique. Reduced to a whimpering heap of sexual satisfaction, I’d failed to inquire about his distant behavior the day before.
Now he’s right beside me in the old Volvo, driving me to Connecticut. Sitting here in the passenger seat as we cruise down 91 should feel like a big déjà vu for me.
But it doesn’t, because Rickie is so quiet. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? You haven’t said a word for twenty miles.”
“No, baby,” he says, his voice scratchy from disuse. “I’m fine.”
Feeling unsettled, I close my eyes and try to fight off a horrible sense of foreboding. I don’t take naturally to performing spy maneuvers at my former place of work. Just the thought of breaking into an office to peek inside a file folder has my good girl complex pinging like crazy.
Maybe I’m the only one who’s acting strangely.
But then I glance at Rickie, and see a worry wrinkle across his forehead that isn’t usually there. He’s keeping something to himself. I’m sure of it. “I swear, Rickie, I had a better sense of what was in your head that first time we rode together. When we were strangers.”
This comes out of my mouth sounding very bitchy. And I expect him to call me on it.
But he doesn’t. “Strangers are just friends you haven't met yet," he murmurs. “They taught me that at Sunday school once. Then I lost my memory. And I learned that strangers could also be people you have met before.”
The hair stands up on the back of my neck. “Did something happen this week? Another déjà vu?”
He hesitates for a beat longer than feels right. “Not a thing.”
"Are you okay?" I press.
In answer, he reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze.
And then says nothing for ten more miles.
"Can I put some music on?" I ask as the silence threatens to choke me again.
"Sure, baby girl. You go ahead."
I turn on the radio. But he doesn’t sing along this time.
* * *
Even though it’s a splurge, I booked us a room at the Harkness Inn, the nicest hotel I could afford. Now I glance around the luxe bathroom with its plush robes and bamboo fixtures, and I wonder what the hell I was thinking. This isn’t some kind of vacation, although God knows we need one.
There is no way I’m going to be able to relax until after this is all over—until I’ve brought some anonymous attention to Reardon’s cheating. Until I get justice.
It has to work.
Rickie is sitting on the bed, texting furiously. He doesn’t even glance at me as I parade past him in lace panties, opening my suitcase to pull out my blouse.
"Is there something wrong?" I ask as he taps out another message with his thumbs. “You seem preoccupied.”
“It’s nothing. Lenore always worries when I blow off an appointment."
"Your therapist?" I clarify. “You’re missing an appointment? We could have left later."
"Don't worry about it, Shipley." He still doesn’t look up. "It's fine."
But nothing is fine. There's an icy chill rising off him that I don’t understand. “Would you please tell me what's wrong? I'm already freaking out here.”
Finally he lifts his gaze to mine. “Please don’t panic. I don't want you to be afraid. Not ever. We can get back in the car and drive home if you want to."
“God, it’s tempting. But I can't do that. If I give up, he wins."
“Daphne…” Rickie’s beautiful face is grave. “I don't like you hanging yourself out there to fix a problem you didn’t create.”
“I did, though.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not true. Some people are just bad seeds. And it goes against everything I believe to let you walk in there and try to beat him at his own game. What if you can’t? What if he’s willing to do whatever it takes to win?”
Words fail me for a moment, because he looks so deathly serious. But then I find my voice. “If it feels like too big a risk, I won’t go through with it.”
He swallows. “Tell me your plan, then. We’re running out of time.”
“It’s very simple. I swear.”
I button the blouse, and then I tell him my plan.
* * *
Forty minutes later we're parking the car on the north campus.
It's the golden hour, so slanted sunlight infuses all the red brick buildings with a rosy glow.
I used to love walking around Harkness. I was so starstruck by this place, founded three hundred years ago.
This vaunted institution where presidents, icons, and Supreme Court justices were educated.
Being starstruck was my Achilles’ heel. I let myself be dazzled by a senator's son with a spray tan and a perfect smile. And then I paid the price.
Rickie slips his hand into mine as we approach the doors to the new wing. Normally you’d need key card access here. But there’s a young woman at the door with a clipboard. I hand her my invitation and she waves us right through.
We proceed into the atrium, where the party is held. The ceiling is three stories up and made of glass. Offices ring the space above us, the hallways open to the atrium below.
“Do you see him?” Rickie murmurs.
“Not yet,” I say, feeling shaky at the idea of coming face to face with Reardon. “But there’s his father.”
Rickie turns his head casually to take in the senator. He’s surrounded by well-wishers. The Halseys have money and influence. And when his son decided to get a degree in public health, he began shining both attention and cash on the place.
This is why I have to be careful. If you accuse the son of a powerful man, you can’t do a half-assed job of it.
“Let’s head right for the dean,” I whisper. “She’s over by that sculpture. And I need to say hello.”
His hand gives mine a squeeze, and I feel calmer. Rickie is a charmer. This part will go fine. He’s my rock.
“Daphne!” the dean says, turning to greet me as I approach. “How lovely to see you!”
“I’m so glad I could make it,” I say in an almost normal voice. “Dean Reynolds, this is my friend Rickie Ralls.” I introduce Rickie, who gives her a winning smile. And we make small talk about Vermont for a couple of minutes, until someone more important than I am wants her attention.
With that over, I make our excuses and I steer Rickie toward the wine and cheese, where I allow myself to be waylaid by a couple of research assistants who used to share an office space with me in our old building.
Rickie stands at my side, holding a glass of wine, and playing the part of the perfect date.
Until I feel him tense up and turn his body by ninety degrees, as if shielding me from something. When I glance past him, I find Reardon Halsey a few yards away, staring at me.
And if looks could kill, I’d be dead already.