Chapter 26
Before
Ava sat across from me waving a martini glass. “Tippi, anyone home?”
Her bracelet glinted in the light of the overhead lamp, capturing my attention. I sipped my own drink, hurriedly. “Sorry. Zoned out for a minute.”
“Everything okay?” Oliver, beside me, squeezed me closer to him. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
“If she’s anything like this one,” Preston said, nuzzling Ava’s neck, “she’s busy daydreaming about the big day.”
Ava squealed. The reaction made me nauseous.
The last thing I wanted to do was embark on a double date. We’d invited the others to join, but Marlowe was still dodging calls in the wake of the dress fitting, and Constance had reached the point in pregnancy where being around a bunch of drunk people was torture.
The Social Club was an invitation-only bar on the Upper East Side.
Patterned wallpaper in a creamy dark green shade, low-hanging lamps that swung sporadically when patrons got too clumsy, billiard tables in the back.
Preston scored his membership back in his MLB days and was always eager for an excuse to show off his credentials.
It became a go-to spot when couples went out, and tonight we were celebrating.
“Here’s to your final work trip,” Preston said, clinking his glass against Oliver’s. “No more traveling salesman.”
“That’s the plan.” Oliver beamed, squeezing my waist once again. “After the wedding, we’ll have a fresh start in California, take the brand to new heights.”
“I’m sure California will keep you both busy.” Ava made a mock crying face, fanning her fingers at me. “I only wish you weren’t moving so far away!”
“It’s not forever,” I said, my lower lip trembling. Instead of imagining our chic wedding in two months’ time or what new career prospects lay ahead or the dreamy Los Angeles weather, all I could think about were the syringes and insulin I’d found in our closet.
There are multiple reasons he could have had them in his possession.
Maybe he acquired extra syringes for Marmee’s sake or mistakenly brought back a vial after one of the many visits to her house.
It’s possible the items were related to Danielle, too, old remnants from their life together.
He’d lived with the woman for years; it’s natural he’d have access to her medical supplies.
Still, sinister thoughts swarmed like angry wasps buzzing inside my brain.
What if those syringes were somehow connected to Danielle’s death?
Her mother insisted Danielle had died from an insulin overdose.
I found the very thing that killed her stuffed into the back of our closet, the recency of the discovery making me shudder.
You’ll never have to worry about her again.
Familiar shame swam through me. This was my fiancé I was thinking about.
My best friend. Oliver was the most serious relationship I’d ever had, and I was throwing all that history out the window, for what?
A conversation with the grieving mother of his ex-wife?
A pack of syringes stuffed into the back of our closet?
In recent days, I’d been scrutinizing Oliver’s past without any care or consideration for the consequences.
The photograph that remained singed into my memory was of Oliver’s first wedding day, the bride and groom exiting the church doors.
Big smiles, bright eyes, pellets of rice dancing in the air around them.
No one would look at the couple in that photo and imagine their story would end in divorce, or, more tragically, that the bride would die when she was in her thirties.
After scanning the photos and information I’d uncovered, I couldn’t help thinking of how multifaceted Danielle appeared to be. Creative and adventurous and independent. Nothing like the sad, mentally ill woman Oliver had described.
People often have a type. Blond or curly-haired or petite.
Oliver’s type, it seemed, was wealthy women who came from small families.
Of course, that’s the cynical analysis, something an amateur sleuth might develop in an old film. Oliver could have fallen in love with two women from overlapping backgrounds. That didn’t prove anything nefarious.
I recalled Danielle’s demeanor when she cornered me at the coffee shop. The urgency in her eyes, the desperation in her voice.
“Tippi, join me at the bar?” Ava said, pushing at Preston to move out of the booth.
“Sure,” I said, grateful for an escape. It wasn’t until we walked away from the table that I finally felt like I could breathe.
“Are you okay?” Ava asked, as we settled at the far end of the bar. “You’re acting weird.”
I pushed the hair off my shoulders, inhaled deeply through my nose. “I’m not trying to be. Oliver leaves for Atlanta in the morning. I keep thinking of everything I’ll need to get done while he’s gone.”
“Are you sure something else isn’t bothering you?”
Ava’s face was open, patient. Searching for truth. In that moment, I felt she wanted to know more, but the opportunity passed.
“Let’s take one more shot,” she continued, signaling the bartender. “Loosen you up a bit.”
“Fine, but then let’s close out. I’m ready for bed.”
She ordered two shots of tequila and presented her name to close the tab.
Most of my friends in their thirties were like me, ready for pajamas by nine o’clock.
Ava and Preston were always ready to party.
As much as they talked about wanting to start a family, sometimes I wondered how children would fit into their cosmopolitan lifestyle.
Looking back at our table, I spotted Oliver and Preston deep in conversation. The former swung back and released a hearty guffaw while the latter bent forward, laughing. Weeks ago, a night like this would have served as another confirmation that Oliver fit into my world effortlessly.
Now, whenever I looked at him, the knot in my stomach tangled under tension.
I thought of Oliver’s reaction after he learned Danielle had contacted me, and then again when I confronted him with news of her death.
He’d said Danielle’s mother had broken the news to him; meanwhile, she insisted they hadn’t spoken for years.
I kept asking myself, if Danielle’s mother didn’t tell him Danielle died, how did he find out?
And then there was the way she died. It seemed unlikely she’d administer a lethal dose given her history with the disease.
Then again, accidents happen. There’s no telling what state of mind she was in on the night of her death.
Had she been drinking? Was she distraught?
Oliver had mentioned her suicidal ideation often.
Maybe Danielle knew exactly what she was doing when she chose to fill the vial, plunge the needle into her flesh.
“Drink up,” Ava said, handing over the shot. The stringent liquid burned my throat on the way down.
“Excuse me,” the bartender said, raising a finger to get our attention. “Do you have another card?”
“It’s already on file,” Ava said, before slipping a slice of lime into her mouth.
“Didn’t go through,” the bartender said, ignoring a trio of giggling girls fighting for his attention.
Ava’s eyes bugged. “I’m a total idiot,” she said, unzipping her wristlet. She handed over another card right away. “We closed that account.”
The bartender took the new card, sliding over a receipt moments later.
I watched Ava as she wrote her signature, noticed the subtle shake of her hand.
Ever since Danielle died, I’d been so preoccupied with my own thoughts.
I’d barely reached out to Marlowe, stopped attending doctors’ appointments with Constance.
I had hardly even spoken to Marmee. And now Ava was acting weird.
“Are you okay?” I asked, repeating the same question she’d asked only moments ago.
“Totally,” she said. “Looks like I’m spacing out, too. Maybe an early night would do some good.”
The men stood as we returned to the table.
Oliver wrapped his arms around me, and I had to fight the urge to pull away.
That reaction followed us home. We slipped into bed, and when his hand slid beneath my pajama pants, I feigned a headache.
His touch, which once ignited me with desire, made me recoil in revulsion. It was a restless night’s sleep.
When I finally woke up, it was late in the afternoon. Oliver was already dressed, his carry-on packed and resting beside the bedroom door.
“I didn’t think your flight was until tonight.”
“You know me and airports. I like to get there early,” he said. “And I thought maybe you’d want to grab lunch before I left?”
“My head is throbbing,” I said. “Must have drunk more than I realized.”
He sat on the bed. “If something else was bothering you, you’d tell me, right?”
I pulled deep, wearing a smile that would wipe away any concerns he might have. I didn’t need Oliver questioning my intentions.
“I’m going to miss you, that’s all,” I said, leaning close to him. “I’m glad this is your last trip before the big day.”
“You and me both,” he said, leaning in to kiss me on the lips. I held my breath, didn’t release it until he was gone.
Suspicion roused me into restlessness. It was impossible to continue living with Oliver and planning our wedding like these thoughts didn’t exist. Loose threads dangled before me; my nature beckoned me to tug.
I’d already been through our closet. Nothing rang alarms other than the syringes, a startling enough discovery on their own.
My next best bet would be exploring his digital landscape.
Thankfully, Oliver left his laptop behind when he traveled for work, insisting most business was conducted with clients at the hotel bar—that was certainly the case anytime I traveled for film or literary conventions.
If he needed to send an email or access a sales report, all the data was available on his phone.