“I considered calling an attorney, but I was afraid it would look suspicious to go in there all lawyered up. And besides, I have an alibi for the night of her murder. I was with Nick, remember? We went to that event at the dance museum, where thankfully about sixty people saw me.”
Was that the night of Eve’s murder? Yes, I remember now. Guy had been hijacked by Nick, and later, after he arrived home, we ate leftover chicken tagine in the den.
“The cops must have been pretty curious about why you hadn’t brought up the drink when they were here last night.” A snideness has crept into my tone, but I don’t care.
“I said it hadn’t occurred to me at the time. They were so focused on the crazy phone call you told them about and what that might mean.”
I stand there trying to process everything. My glance wanders to the steam still shooting from the pot of boiling water. Guy follows my gaze.
“You were putting dinner together. Gosh, I’m so sorry, Bryn.”
“I’m not actually in the mood to eat anymore.” And I’m not. I’ve totally lost my appetite. “You’ll have to help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”
“Let’s sit at the table at least and keep talking.”
“No. I just want to be alone.”
I turn off the flame below the pot of simmering water. Guy reaches out, grasping me gently by my arm.
“Bryn, please,” he says. His touch, both smooth and strong, seems suddenly foreign. I pull my arm away. “Don’t run off. We need to talk this through.”
“What more is there left to say? Unless you haven’t told me everything.”
“I know you’re angry, and you have every reason to be. I’ve totally sandbagged you with this. But please step back and see this for what it is—a dumb little mistake. I had what I thought was a business drink with a woman who turned out to have something else on her mind. I did nothing to encourage her. Yes, in hindsight, I wish I’d told you, but you’ve been in a bad place, and I was afraid of making it worse.”
His voice is calm and reassuring, the Guy I’m so familiar with, and there’s a temptation to let that voice soothe me now. Yet part of me resists, and I’m not sure why.
“I don’t know what to say, Guy, I really don’t. I have to think about this. And right now, at least, I really want to be by myself.”
I walk through the house, out to the screened porch. Outside, the trees make a swishing sound as the leaves stir from a breeze.
My stomach is roiling. I ask myself for the first time if I’m overreacting, perhaps due to the vulnerability I’ve felt since the car accident and my anxieties over the nursemaid role Guy’s been relegated to. Since my husband has never given me a reason to distrust him, shouldn’t I simply accept his story as true? But here’s the problem: I don’t like his story.
Maybe he did hightail it from the bar the moment Eve came on to him, but I don’t get why he allowed himself to be bamboozled into a date to begin with. He’s too savvy for that.
I stare into the night, but what I’m really doing is looking inside my head, zoning in on a moment from my own life. There was a time, pre-Guy, when I said yes to a drink with a male colleague, assuming it was a friendly thing, and then realized, a beer and a half into the evening, that it wasn’t just a drink after all. Through both his tone and his body language, this guy had begun to launch heat-seeking missiles in my direction, attempting to discover how receptive I’d be if he came on to me full bore. Dumb of me, I remember thinking. Dumb for not having seen it coming.
On one level it seems unfair to fault Guy for the same kind of poor read on a situation that I’ve been guilty of myself.
And how can I blame him for not wanting to divulge the experience to me? Because of my never-ending funk, he’s been on eggshells with me, and it’s no wonder he’d want to avoid triggering any turmoil—like the kind we’re in right now.
And yet Guy’s confession gnaws at me. I’m bugged by the way he looked off when I asked if he’d cheated, a micro-expression of evasion nearly too fast for the eye to detect.
There’s something else, too, now shoving itself in my face. I’m remembering the words Eve spoke when I challenged her about the money: Why don’t you ask your husband? Was there more to that comment than I ever imagined?
A sound pierces my thoughts. It’s Guy’s footfall on the stairs in the hallway. He’s either wolfed down a sandwich or skipped dinner entirely. I’m conscious suddenly of how exposed I am on the porch all by myself, with Guy on the second floor and only a hook lock on the screened door. Eve may not have been killed by one of the waiters, but there’s still a vicious murderer at large.
I back up from the screen, spin around, and hurry from the room. Once I’m in the living room, I shut the door and shove the bolt into place.