Before #2
“Yes, but I found out from Scotty that Brooks had to leverage some position in his dad’s company right before the trip. It cleaned him out, apparently. Plus, his wife left him before we went to Tanzania. Scotty told me that, too.”
“You really think he’s capable of what you’re suggesting?” I asked.
It’s Richard’s turn to shrug. “I grew up believing that pretty much anyone is capable of anything. And Brooks…I’ve known him a long time and he’s always had some kind of chip missing.
I’m not sure most people notice, or they just think he’s odd.
Gretchen definitely doesn’t see it. But the whole nerd persona always struck me as a bit of an act.
Brooks is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Did you notice? ”
“I don’t know.” I had seen something, though, hadn’t I? When Brooks had come up behind me that day outside the dining tent. Something genuinely sharp and menacing beneath all the awkwardness.
“Maybe I’ll message Kito and see if he knows—he walked past them on his way to check on you.” He pauses. “Anyway, let’s get back to you in your pajamas and no shoes…”
“There was somebody in my apartment,” I say. “I got scared and ran out. Left my keys.”
Richard takes a step toward me. “What do you mean? Who was in your apartment?”
It sounds even worse now that I’ve said it out loud. “I don’t know. I started painting and then I heard a noise and…the window was open. I ran out the front door. I never saw who it was.”
“You left the window open?”
“No.” His clear blue eyes are so filled with concern it makes my chest ache. “That’s the thing—I didn’t. I specifically checked them before I went to sleep. I always do. They were closed. And locked.”
“That’s terrifying,” Richard says. This time he does put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it quickly. “This is the same guy, with the picture?”
I nod. “And he sent another one of us together.”
“Holy shit. Did you call the police this time?”
“No,” I say. I am on the verge of tears. “I can’t. I have to talk to a lawyer first. It’s a long story, but I signed this agreement, and I don’t think I can—” My vision blurs, tears running down my cheeks. “I’m sorry…”
Sorry that Richard isn’t mine. Sorry that I can’t call the police like a normal person. Sorry that I’m standing here in some other woman’s home, with her husband.
“You don’t need to apologize to me.”
“What if he sends the pictures to your wife?”
“I’d rather he didn’t.” He hesitates before moving his hand down to my upper arm. “But if it happens, we’ll deal with it.”
A part of me loves hearing this. But a bigger part of me knows that I deserve better. What am I doing?
“Has he asked for money?”
“Not yet,” I say. “He does seem unstable, though. His messages are just really…They don’t even make any sense. Why threaten me, when I’ve stayed quiet all this time?”
“You’re right: It doesn’t make sense. Which seems all the more reason to call the police.”
“Maybe I will.” Richard flashes me a skeptical look. “I mean it. I just need to get home, get dressed.”
He shakes his head like he is shedding the thought. “You know, Gretchen will be out for the whole day. Won’t be back until late.”
He smiles at me then. It’s not a simple smile.
“I need to leave,” I say, the words both a shield and a sword.
Richard seems to consider pushing, thinks better of it. He nods as he removes his hand from my arm. And I feel relieved. “Let me at least get you a pair of flip-flops. From one of the girls’ rooms, maybe. I don’t think Gretchen wears them.”
The way he mentions his wife so casually is destabilizing. It’s making me feel like I’ve imagined the part of this that’s wrong. Or maybe I’ve just imagined the whole thing.
But the reality is that the soles of my feet are raw. And I could use some shoes. “Yes, thank you,” I say. “If you have some you don’t mind me borrowing, that would be great.”
“Okay, but please just sit back down. Drink the glass of water, for God’s sake,” Richard says as he walks into the foyer. “I’ll be right back.”
My mouth feels like it’s lined with fleece. I pick up the glass and drain it quickly, head over to the sink to refill it. Tucked in a corner of the counter, there’s a little bag from Cartier. Jewelry bought for his wife, waiting there for her to open in their home.
“Got ’em!” Richard calls out as he returns, beaming. He’s gripping a pair of flip-flops as he crosses over to the kitchen table where I’ve been sitting, staring at that Cartier bag. Wondering how I got into this mess. “These were my daughter Elizabeth’s.”
“You’re sure she won’t miss them?”
“They’re ten-dollar flip-flops, Frankie. You can keep them,” Richard says. “Also, she’s never here. She’s in some kind of cult.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Thank you,” I say. My heart is pounding as I slip them on. “Can I use your bathroom before I leave?” I want to blow my nose, maybe splash water on my face. I need to pull myself together.
“Of course.” He motions down the hall. “There’s a powder room right there.”
—
The little bathroom is comically gold. A teeny tiny explosion of vulgarity in a world of otherwise tasteful restraint—gold-leaf wallpaper, gold-framed mirror.
At least the toilet is not gold. There are no tissues or toilet paper in sight.
I check underneath the small vanity. Nothing but pricey room spray and even pricier hand soap.
Maybe the wife isn’t so perfect, after all.
There’s a closet across from the toilet. No toilet paper there, either. As I’m closing the door, my eye catches on a Goldman Sachs gym bag at the bottom of the closet. The bag is partially unzipped, exposing something that isn’t gym clothes. I crouch down for a closer look.
Cans of spray paint—red, yellow, blue. The same three neon colors that were used to destroy my studio.