Chapter Twenty-Five Tessa
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tessa
I don’t know how I get through the night with Gabe.
On the surface, everything’s normal: overpriced takeout, Jasper’s bath, bedtime stories, mindless TV, collapsing in our California king, Gabe spooning me, the rise and fall of his steady breath.
It’s all so painfully normal that I lie awake, disbelieving everything I know is true on a cellular level.
Gabe cheated. Regina is dead because of him. Aram too.
I lie awake for so long that I convince myself Judy’s a mastermind, a murderer obsessed with my husband.
She killed Regina out of jealousy. Aram out of spite.
She wants to cut off Gabe from the outside world.
As the contours of our furniture become visible with the morning’s first light, I convince myself I’m next.
By the time Gabe’s alarm goes off, I’m rattled, scrambling for how to defend myself, my family, from Judy.
Gabe leans over to kiss my forehead like he does each morning before he leaves to surf.
I feel nothing—not revulsion, not anger, not love.
Just an emptiness so vast I’m not sure I’ll ever climb out of it.
In his absence, the room smells of him, the sheets still crumpled from his body.
I run my hand over them, missing him, missing us.
In the full light of morning, I know Judy isn’t a mastermind.
That only makes me more anxious, because if it isn’t our unstable neighbor who’s after Gabe, I can’t begin to imagine who is.
A light blinks from the table on Gabe’s side of the bed.
His phone. He always leaves it at home when he surfs.
His home screen has a picture of Jasper and me from our rowboat on a summer day when the water was high and gleaming.
Since he can’t swim, I rarely take Jasper on the boat.
I can’t remember if we were at the ducky race or a movie or on a simple family outing.
From our smiling faces, you can’t know how nervous I must have been.
Even without remembering the occasion, I know my first instinct was to protect my son.
The phone gives me pause. Why would he leave it if he had something to hide? Because he knows I’d never look. Our iron-strong bond. He hasn’t needed to be careful because I’ve been so naive.
I even know his password. It’s the date we met. Again, it’s another example of the open, honest man I love. The smartest cover of all.
I start with his call log. There are too many area codes I don’t recognize to know what to do with them. He has two voicemail messages, both clients, both in the last twenty-four hours.
Someone named Sally called with news of her pregnancy. “It’s been so long, I didn’t think it would happen. Thank you, Dr. Irons. I don’t know what else to say but thank you. Okay, I have to go call my sister.”
I chide myself for the swell that rises in my chest. Gabe’s qualities as a doctor have never been in question.
The second call is more frantic, a woman named Denise, who’s in severe pain.
She thinks it’s ovarian hyperstimulation because of what she’s read online.
Nothing irks a doctor more than WebMD. I check back over his call log, and sure enough, there’s a call to Denise’s number, one minute and sixteen seconds in which he must have reassured her with his stabilizing rationale that has so often quelled me. Fooled me.
The folder for deleted voicemails is empty.
His text message log is equally sparse. Read messages from me and his sister, a chain with over one hundred unread messages from his med school friends that’s mostly about basketball, another with Aram.
I scroll through his conversation with Aram, too short given how often Aram contacted him, no texts relating to the patients they constantly discussed.
Gabe’s number one priority is patient confidentiality.
Well, number two, after getting them pregnant.
I’m not surprised he deletes any messages pertaining to them.
His email is the opposite of these other records, so overwhelming it has the same effect as being empty.
From the last twenty-four hours alone, he has at least one hundred unread emails—some spam, most from clients or potential clients so desperate that they’re reaching out to him directly instead of through the portal.
Cynthia reads through Gabe’s work emails, flagging any that require his response.
Only a handful bear that little red flag.
The others, Cynthia answers herself. This email is communal. There won’t be any secrets here.
Gabe has a personal email address, too, and it takes me longer than it should to find the Gmail icon in the Utilities folder.
Was he hiding it there? There’s a week’s worth of unread spam, punctuated by the occasional email.
A few hopeful, enterprising clients have found his personal email.
There are forwarded articles from his sister, evite invitations, and check-ins from one of his alma maters.
All unread. I scan quickly, certain there’s nothing here.
When I’m about to give up, one email gets my attention.
The subject reads “Reggie.” It’s from Aram, the day after Regina died.
Unlike the other emails, this one is marked as read. I hesitate, then open the email.
Gabe, Pick up your phone!!!! I’m freaking out. We aren’t safe. This is too much. We need to tell the police. Call me!!!
I read the short message over and over again, the fear and anxiety dripping from it like honey. Gabe ignored Aram’s fears. And now Aram’s dead.
I drop the phone back on the end table, trying to slow my racing pulse.
The baby rolls, the sensation bordering on pain, a knee or an elbow raising my abdomen in protest, reminding me that she’s there, that I need to shield her, even if I don’t know what from.
One thing feels crystal clear. This isn’t just about an affair.
Something else was going on between Gabe and Regina, Aram too.
Something that got Regina and Aram killed.
Something Gabe’s trying to ignore. Something he’s hiding from me. Something that puts us all in danger.