The desk bears signs of him, too. No laptop—he takes that to work each day—but there are several stacks of papers on each side of the blotter. I step closer.
There’s no kidding myself now about the appropriateness of what I’m about to do. The apartment was one thing; Guy’s office is a whole other story, a space he considers fairly sacred. Though he’d never fault me for popping in to grab a paper clip or an envelope when he wasn’t around, that’s not my plan today.
I also can’t miss the irony of my morning activities. After weeks and weeks of being a slug, I’m now Miss Energizer Bunny, totally invigorated by my task.
I cross over to the desk and search the surface with my eyes. The papers, I see, are all work-related—promotional brochures for the opera, schedules, spreadsheets of numbers, and a draft of a solicitation letter. The only semipersonal item is an orange Post-it on which he’s scribbled down the name and number of a restaurant we’d talked about going to this past weekend, before the murder upended our lives.
I’m not a hundred percent sure what I’m looking for. Maybe a receipt from a bar or restaurant he’s never mentioned. Or a note that suggests he and Eve were more than professional colleagues. But there’s absolutely nothing of that nature in view.
The desk has a narrow center drawer and two deeper drawers on either side. I start with the middle one. Neatly organized inside are basic office supplies—pens and pencils, a few note cards, and a box of staples. I search the other drawers next, but there’s nothing of significance in either of them. I’ve started to feel vaguely nauseated. I’m rifling through my husband’s desk, and I don’t like that fact at all.
Something creaks behind me, and I spin around, my heart in my throat. For a second I wonder if Guy has come home midday, hoping to talk things out, but I realize it’s just the house shifting, a sound I’m still growing accustomed to. I shove the last drawer closed and hurry from the room.
Descending the stairs, I realize I’m even more agitated than I was when I started on this sorry mission. Not only do I have squat to show for my efforts, I feel sullied by my spy mission.
In the kitchen, I spot a text from Guy on my phone: “Headed back from Albany. Home by 6. Please let’s talk.”
I still have no idea how I should respond. Part of the problem, I suddenly recognize, is that in my attempt to verify Guy’s trustworthiness, I’ve gone about things ass-backward. My search has entailed looking for clues that Guy might have deceived me, all the while hoping I’d never find anything. Even if Guy has been unfaithful, the chances of finding evidence are slim. It would probably be smarter to try to confirm the specific story he told me: that he sat down for a drink innocently enough, that he left the bar as soon as Eve came on to him, and that he wanted to find another caterer for our dinner but had no luck. And yet I can hardly show up at the Sorrel Horse Inn and ask the bartender if he remembers a disconcerted-looking forty-something-year-old man hightailing it from the premises one night as a haughty blonde sat stewing alone at the bar.
And then I think of a way to verify at least one aspect of the story. It won’t be hard, but I’m going to have to proceed carefully. I dial Guy’s office number.
“Hi, Bryn,” Miranda says, obviously having seen my name pop up on the screen. “Guy’s not here at the moment, but he’ll be back around two. Or you can try him on his cell.”
“I was actually calling to speak to you—if you’ve got a minute.”
“Of course.” Her tone is pleasant enough, though she hesitated ever so slightly—wary, I’m sure, of whatever I’m bound to say next. She’s Guy’s person, after all, and I’m always reminded in subtle ways that her loyalty is banked exclusively with him.
“I feel kind of morbid bringing this up, but I have to find a new caterer. I need someone for a dinner party I’m putting together myself.”
“Oh dear, yes, we’re going to have to turn up someone new ourselves.”
“I was hoping you’d have a couple of suggestions.”
There’s a pause, and I pray that she’s reaching for a folder, one that lists the names she mustered when Guy supposedly requested she find another caterer.
“Gosh, I don’t know,” she says. “We used Pure Kitchen so consistently. But I’m glad you brought it up. I need to hustle and figure out who we can count on in the future.”
Out of pure desperation, I give it one more shot.
“Um, I thought Guy had looked into backups at one point.”
Another pause. I hold my breath.
“Actually, that’s right,” she says. I can almost taste my relief. “He’d been thinking of making a switch for the dinner party at your home, but no one was free. I can give you the names of the places I tried, but I can’t really vouch for any of them. They’re just suggestions I found here and there.”
“That’s okay, it’ll be a start at least. Can you email them to me?”
“Of course.”