“Did you follow me here?” he asks. There’s an edge to his voice.
“No, I didn’t follow you. Your attorney left a message on the answering machine. He said someone was insisting you come in again. Is that the police?”
“Yes, they want another meeting,” he says, his tone softening. “Later today. I know I promised to keep you in the loop, but at the same time I didn’t want to alarm you for no reason.”
“For no reason? This affects me, too. Why do the cops want to see you?”
His shoulders sag as if in resignation, and my body tingles with fear. Something is coming. Something is coming that will change everything.
“The cops—they’ve been looking at Eve Blazer’s phone record. You know, her calls and texts. From what the lawyer’s gathered, they’re curious about times we contacted each other.”
“Wh—”
“It’s all easily explained. The woman did a lot of events for the opera company, and that meant phone calls between the two of us.”
“But wouldn’t that be Miranda’s job—to talk to the caterer?”
“She was in contact with her generally. But Miranda, as you know, leaves at six each day, so when there was a dinner, I might have to call Eve myself—if I was running late, for instance.”
My mind almost hurts from exertion, and I realize that it’s the result of trying to listen to him on two different channels. I’m focusing not just on his words but also on what might lie beneath or between them, whether there’s an odd choice of phrase that could suggest an alternate meaning to what he’s saying. It seems utterly absurd, like I’m attempting to decipher a letter from my husband written in code.
“So you want me to believe these were all business calls?”
“Yes, absolutely. And even if for some reason the cops want to misconstrue them, I was with Nick the night of the murder. There’s no way they could consider me a suspect. ”
A word darts across my mind. One Guy said a couple of moments ago.
“What about texts? You said they looked at texts.”
He glances down at the sidewalk, and then back up with brows raised. My breath freezes in my chest.
“Unfortunately, from what I can remember, there’s one text they might take the wrong way.” He grimaces. “It was perfectly harmless, but you’ve seen how Corcoran is.”
“Tell me,” I demand.
“I don’t recall the exact words. Eve was confirming a menu with me, and she asked if I wanted a dish she’d fixed once before or had I found it too saucy, and I said something back to be cute. It was stupid of me.”
“What?”
“Just something dumb. Like . . . like You know I’m a fan of saucy.”
The words feel like a slap across my face.
“That’s not dumb or cute, Guy. That’s sexual.”
“Bryn, please, it was just a silly thing I wrote off the cuff. You’ve bantered with male colleagues, haven’t you?”
The truth begins to hammer at me, insisting I acknowledge it.
“You cheated on me, Guy, didn’t you? I need to know.”
Instinctively, he glances off and then, at light speed, looks back. My heart sinks.
“Admit it,” I say. “You slept with her.”
“Bryn, no. I already told you. There was nothing between me and Eve. You’ve got to believe me.”
But I don’t. His story is like a liar’s tale, unraveling a little each day, rendering disturbing new details every time he’s forced to discuss it. There’s the way he looks off, too, afraid to meet my eye. And the text to Eve. It disgusts me to think of my husband sending a message like that to another woman.
“I want you to move back to the apartment, Guy. At least for now.” The words come out of my mouth without me even having consciously thought them. I don’t regret what I’ve said for a second. “I need time by myself, to think.”
“Bryn, you—”
“I’ll be back to the house in an hour. You can use the time to grab what you need and go.”
I yank open the passenger door, hitch myself across the seat, and start the engine. As I pull out, I see him in the rearview mirror, his eyes riveted to the car as I drive off.
Without any plan at all in mind, I drive downtown and then keep going on Broadway. A McDonald’s appears, and I turn into the lot, find a spot, and park. Within seconds the overwhelming smell of greasy french fries and cooked beef permeates the inside of the car, intensifying the queasiness I feel. I quickly roll up the window.