Chapter 7
You won’t be here much longer.
I can’t get the words out of my head. She sounded so confident. Could Roy have said something to Marie? It doesn’t seem likely. Surely if Roy is finding aspects of our marriage difficult, he wouldn’t confide in the housekeeper, would he?
And yet, I can’t help but feel like Marie knows something I don’t. Is Roy thinking of breaking up with me?
I know he thinks I’m jealous of Deb, but I can’t imagine that my jealousy is enough for him to decide he wants to move on. After all, I’m an excellent housewife, and not to toot my own horn, but I think he’d be hard-pressed to find someone as accomplished as me.
Still, last night when we went to bed, despite our argument, I expected that we would make love like we always do, but instead he turned away from me and said, “I’m really tired, Jodie.”
And I felt a swirl of panic inside me. I spooned him and whispered in his ear. “I love you.”
And he didn’t say anything right away. It took a few seconds for him to say it back.
“I love you, too.”
I have to be better, try harder, that’s all.
And definitely keep my mouth shut. I haven’t found what I’m looking for yet—proof that he killed Deb, or had her killed—even though I have cleaned every inch of this house.
I have looked inside every possible nook and cranny, every drawer, every shelf, every book.
I know where everything is, and I know when something is out of place.
I could mentally catalog every piece of furniture, every oriental rug, every work of art, every poignant photograph of Roy beaming at Deborah on a beach somewhere.
It doesn’t help that I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’m thinking contract with the hired hit man? Life insurance policy on Deb? A confession, maybe, scribbled late at night on the back of an envelope after too many Scotches?
Don’t be silly, I chide myself. Nobody uses envelopes anymore. But I need something, anything that I can take to the police to get them to reopen the case.
And the one place I haven’t been able to search is Roy’s office.
Roy runs his psychology practice in his office in the city, but sometimes he’ll see patients here, those who require extra discretion. It’s also where he likes to review his patients’ notes. He says he works better in the quiet and warmth of his home.
But Roy locks his office when he isn’t home.
“It’s because I keep some confidential patient files in there,” he’d said when I asked him why.
I would break into his office if it weren’t for Marie who is always around, always checking on me, like she’s worried I might pocket the silverware when no one’s looking.
After Marie leaves, I go upstairs and slide my hands under the mattress.
It’s where I keep my special notebook, the one where I log everything I find that might be useful, which unfortunately, so far isn’t much at all.
In between the pages I pasted articles about Deb’s death that I printed from the internet. I read one at random.
BEVERLY HILLS TRAGEDY: PSYCHOLOGIST’S WIFE FOUND DEAD IN SUSPECTED SUICIDE
BEVERLY HILLS—The wife of prominent psychologist and bestselling author Dr. Roy Davies was found dead in the couple’s Beverly Hills residence late Monday afternoon in what authorities are calling a suspected suicide.
Deborah Davies, 29, was discovered in the hall of the couple’s Camden Road estate with a fatal gunshot wound. A registered firearm belonging to Dr. Davies was recovered at the scene.
The body was found by the family’s longtime housekeeper who arrived at the residence at 3:25 p.m. Emergency services were called immediately, but Mrs. Davies was pronounced dead at the scene.
Sources close to the family say Mrs. Davies had been struggling with mental health issues in recent weeks and had become increasingly reclusive.
Dr. Davies, 42, is best known for his bestselling self-help titles, including The Broken Mirror: There’s Nothing Wrong with You, So Why Can’t You Love Yourself? and Addicted to Love: Why We Crave What Hurts Us Most. Dr. Davies has not released a public statement at this time.
“This is an incredibly tragic time for the Davies family,” said a spokesperson for Dr. Davies. “We ask for privacy as they grieve this profound loss.”
Police confirmed that no foul play is suspected at this time, though the investigation remains ongoing. Toxicology reports and a formal autopsy are pending.
I’ve read this article so many times that the paper is starting to tear at the creases.
And every time I think, that’s the problem.
Everyone is so busy going on about the wonderful Dr. Davies that they barely check to see if he murdered his wife.
And the other thing that makes me boil, that makes my teeth grind and my jaw hurt, is that in every one of these articles, there’s more about him than there is about her.
How thoroughly did the police check the Ring camera?
How many hours of footage did they look at?
Zero. They just decided it was suicide and that was that.
I slip the article back between the pages, close the notebook, and slide it back under the mattress.
And then I go downstairs and resume snooping, going over the same places I’ve been over a hundred times. I check Roy’s office door because why not, especially since Marie is out, and my heart stops.
I can’t believe it.
It’s unlocked.