Chapter 52
Susan
Wednesday
On Wednesday morning, I pretend to be asleep when Jon leaves for work.
It’s not difficult; I’m shattered and headachy from the wine with Felipe last night.
My dreams were a montage of the three murder victims, the inscription on the bangle and Felipe’s statement that Aimee’s death was his fault.
He had rushed to reassure me that he wasn’t saying he’d actually killed her, but that something he’d done had triggered a chain of events.
I nudged a little to find out more, but he just shook his head and said it didn’t matter.
We’d parted ways soon after. Instinctively, at the entrance to Bar Four, I hugged him goodbye.
His arms closed around me and we stood there for a moment, locked in a strange, unspoken connection, my face buried in his collar.
His skin was warm, his smell old tobacco and fresh laundry.
The hug, different from Jon’s, comforted and saddened me both at once, reminding me of everything I was losing.
We pulled apart, promising to stay in touch.
· · ·
Bella, who was up three times overnight, is snoozing peacefully in her crib.
I pad over to peek at her skin and a huge weight lifts—she’s back to her pale-as-milk little self.
And realistically, she couldn’t have burned in that short space of time.
But I still can’t believe I left her so close to the edge of the umbrella or how quickly the shade moved.
If anyone knew—especially after the supermarket drama and the baby-monitor mix-up—they’d think I’m losing it.
I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to order my thoughts.
Am I losing it? Am I imagining things? The murders were real.
The texts were real. The broken window was real. And Jon’s affair is real…
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m over the other side of the bed, pulling open Jon’s night-stand drawers.
The gloves are off. There are too many elements of my life out of my control right now—at the very least, I need to know who he’s seeing.
There’s nothing in his night-stand, so I try his wardrobe next, going through his suit pockets once more.
Nothing. I’m down on the floor now, running my hand across the bottom of the wardrobe where he keeps his shoes.
My fingers close around a coin, a paper clip, and then a crumpled piece of paper.
I pull out the paper and smooth it on my lap. A receipt.
Dinner in Peronique in early July. French onion soup and mussels to start.
Fish special and filet steak for main. Pepper sauce on the side.
That’s Jon. The fish, needless to say, is not me.
Nothing against fish, just that I’d remember if I’d had a date night with my husband any time in the last four months.
Dessert—one chocolate bomb. Two spoons, no doubt.
I feel like throwing up. A bottle of Croatian rosé, organic.
Two espresso martinis. And then something that stops me cold.
Now I know who she is.