Even through the closet door I can feel the magnetic pull of his charisma.
I was holding on to the hope that Emma would begin to create distance between her and Richard tonight. But after only a few minutes in his presence, she seems to be wavering.
Through the keyhole, I can see their clasped hands. His thumb is gently stroking her wrist.
I want to leap out of the closet and wrench them apart; he is swaying her. Luring her back to him.
“Besides, Maureen has to come over so I can show her my wedding dress.” That dress is now hanging six inches to my left; Emma tucked it in here so Richard wouldn’t see it. “Plus we have those fun wedding errands. You don’t think I’m going to let you do the cake tasting alone, do you?” she continues in a playful voice.
This is the opposite of what should be happening. The Emma of right now is a completely different woman from the one of twenty-four hours ago who asked me, as we stood in this same room, how Richard could be so wonderful yet so brutal.
I cannot hold my position any longer. I slowly lift my right knee off the floor and plant my foot gently down. I repeat the motion with my left leg. Inch by agonizing inch, I rise. Dresses and shirts engulf me, silky fabrics sliding across my face.
A hanger clinks against the metal rod, the sound as delicate and precise as a wind chime striking a single note.
“What was that?” Richard asks.
I cannot see anything.
His citrus scent surrounds me, or am I imagining it? I suck in a shallow inhalation. My heart pounds violently. I am terrified I will pass out, my body thumping against the closet door.
“Just my creaky old bed.” I hear Emma shift, and miraculously, the bed squeaks. “I can’t wait until I only sleep in yours.”
Again, I am stunned by her lightning-quick subterfuge.
Then Emma says, “But there is one thing I need to tell you.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?”
She hesitates.
I sink back down to peer through the keyhole again. I wonder why she’s drawing out their conversation. She knows how clever Richard is; doesn’t she want him out of the apartment before he figures out she isn’t really sick?
“Vanessa called me today.”
My eyes widen and I barely suppress a gasp. I can’t believe she has set me up again.
Richard barks an expletive and violently kicks the wall next to Emma’s dresser. I feel the vibrations through the floorboards. I see his fists clench and unclench.
He stands facing the wall for a few moments, then he turns around to look at Emma.
“I’m sorry, baby.” His voice is strained. “What bullshit did she tell you this time?”
Emma has chosen to believe Richard. The act she has been putting on was to trick me. I can call 911, but what will the police think if Emma and Richard tell them I broke in here?
Emma’s clothes are suffocating me. There’s no air in this small closet. I’m trapped. I feel the grip of claustrophobia descend as my throat tightens.
“No, Richard, it wasn’t like that. Vanessa apologized. She said she’s going to leave me alone.”
My head is swimming. Emma is so far off any script I could have anticipated that I can’t even guess at her intentions.
“She’s said that before.” I can hear Richard breathing heavily. “But she keeps calling and coming to my office and writing letters. She won’t stop. She’s insane—”
“Honey, it’s okay. I really believe her. She sounded different.”
My legs feel as if they’ve turned to liquid. I have no idea why Emma created this pretense.
Richard exhales. “Let’s not talk about her. I hope we never have to again. Can I get you anything else?”
“All I want to do is sleep. And I don’t want you to get sick. You should go. I love you.”
“I’ll pick you and Maureen up at two tomorrow. I love you, too.”
I stay in the closet until Emma opens the door a few minutes later. “He’s gone.”
I bend and unbend my legs and wince. I want to ask her about the unexpected turn in her conversation, but her face is so expressionless that I know she only wants me out.
“Can I wait a few minutes before I leave?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Let’s go into the living room.” I catch her sneaking appraising looks at me. She’s wary.
“What are we going to do next?”
She frowns. I can tell my use of the word we chafes her. “I’ll figure it out.” She shrugs.
Emma doesn’t get it. She doesn’t seem to feel any urgency to call off the wedding. If Richard can be this compelling in a brief visit, what will happen when he feeds her bites of cakes, his arm wrapped around her waist, and whispers promises of how happy he’ll make her?
“You saw him kick the wall,” I say, my voice rising. “Don’t you see what he is?”
This is so much bigger than just Emma. Even if Richard lets Emma go—which I’m not convinced he’ll do—what about all the many ways in which Richard hurt me? And the woman before both of us, the dark-haired ex who couldn’t bear to keep that gift from Tiffany’s? I am now certain he hurt her, too.
My ex-husband is a creature of habit, a man ruled by routines. Whatever stunning piece of jewelry that glossy blue bag contained was his apology; his attempt to literally cover up an ugly episode.
Emma does not know that I intend to save any woman who could become Richard’s future wife.
“You have to end it soon. The longer it goes on, the worse it will be—”
“I said I’ll figure it out.”
She walks to the door and opens it. I reluctantly step past her.
“Good-bye,” she says. I have the distinct feeling she plans to never see me again.
But she’s wrong about that.
Because by now I know I need a plan of my own. The seed of an idea was planted as I watched Richard’s explosive flash of anger at the mention of my name, my fictitious call. It takes shape in my mind as I walk down the blue-carpeted hallway, following the path Richard took only minutes ago.
Emma thinks Maureen is coming over to see the wedding gown tomorrow, then they’ll go cake tasting with Richard.
She has no idea what will really happen.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
The pages of my brand-new life insurance policy unspool from the printer.
I clip them together, then slide them into a manila envelope. I have made sure to select a plan that covers not only my demise from natural causes, but also death and dismemberment from an accident.
I place it on my desk, beside the note I’ve penned to Aunt Charlotte. It is the hardest letter I have ever written. In it I’ve left information about my bank account with my swollen new balance so she can easily access it. She is the sole beneficiary of my life insurance policy as well.
I have three hours left.
I pick up my to-do list and mark off that task. My room is clean, my bed neatly made. All of my belongings are stored in my wardrobe.
Earlier today I also checked off two other items. I telephoned Maggie’s parents. And then I called Jason.
At first he didn’t recognize my name. It took him a few moments to remember. I paced during the pause in which he made the mental connection, wondering if he would acknowledge our past encounters.
Instead, he thanked me profusely for the donations to the animal shelter, then caught me up on his life since college. He told me he’d married the girlfriend he’d met on campus. “She stuck by me,” Jason said, his voice thickening with emotion. “I was so angry at everyone, but mostly at myself for not being there to help my little sister. When I got arrested for drunk driving and went to rehab—well, my girlfriend was my rock. She never gave up on me. We got married the next year.”
Jason’s wife was a middle-school teacher, he said. She’d graduated the same year as me. That was why he went to her ceremony at the Piaget Auditorium and stood in the corner. He was there to support her.
My guilt and anxiety had concocted a lie. It was never even about me.
I couldn’t help but feel sad for the woman who let all that fear shape so many of her life choices.
I am still very afraid, but it is no longer constricting me.