“I’m no psychiatrist, but that kind of transference seems logical, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
She wasn’t. She had done the exact opposite by resolving not to blame Jeff for her adultery. “It’s not entirely unthinkable that Jeff was somehow involved. The detectives suspected him.”
“He was cleared.”
Yes, Emory thought, but only because I showed up alive.
Alice was saying, “Jeff isn’t the warmest individual, and, in fact, he can be a self-centered son of a bitch. But during one of our conversations while you were still missing, he told me he wanted to be an ideal husband to you, the kind that you deserve.” She paused, then added in a heartfelt whisper, “I swear to you, he couldn’t have harmed you.”
Panic attacks were sparked by traumatic events. Just as often they were brought on by imagined or manufactured terrors. Clearly Alice believed her suspicions were groundless. And perhaps they were. “I apologize for waking you up.”
“You know I’m here for you,” Alice said. “But I need to beg off. I have two scheduled C-sections tomorrow.”
Emory apologized for keeping her on the phone for so long.
Alice was still reluctant to hang up. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for listening.”
“We’ll talk again tomorrow. Get some rest. Things will look better in the morning.”
But in the morning, they didn’t.
She was dressed and waiting when Jeff arrived. He pushed through the door and exclaimed, “You look gorgeous!”
She forced herself to smile. “Hardly, but I made a few improvements.”
“That’s always been one of my favorite outfits.”
“It’s jeans and a sweater.”
“It’s you in jeans and a sweater.” He bent down and brushed his mouth across hers. “How did you sleep?”
She didn’t tell him about her panic attack or her conversation with Alice. But after it, while lying sleepless and agitated, she had made up her mind not to live in doubt and fear. She refused to harbor doubts about the man to whom she was married. She would ask him straight out how he knew about her sunglasses. She hoped he would have a logical explanation that would eliminate her misgivings and make her feel ridiculous for entertaining them even for an instant.
Briskly, he rubbed his palms together. “Got everything? Ready to roll?”
“As soon as they bring a wheelchair. You know, hospital rules. While we’re waiting, I want to ask about something that’s been nagging me.”
His smooth forehead furrowed. He took her hand and massaged the back of it with his thumb. “Judging by your expression, it’s something serious. What is it?”
Gathering her courage, she said, “Jeff—”
Her cell phone rang. Earlier she’d transferred it from her fanny pack to her handbag. She took it out, read the LED, and answered. “Sergeant Knight?”
Jeff dropped her hand, muttering a swear word.
“Hey, Dr. Charbonneau,” the detective said. “How’re you doin’ this morning?”
She was on the verge of blurting out You may have been right about Jeff after all. But instead, she said, “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it. Is your husband with you?”
“He’s standing right here.”
“Good. That’s good. Listen, something’s come up. Me and Buddy Grange would like to drop by the hospital before y’all leave for home. Is now a good time?”
The nurse appeared in the doorway, pushing a wheelchair.
Emory held up an index finger, asking her to wait for a moment. “What’s come up, Sergeant Knight?”
“Rather not go into it over the phone.”
Jeff. They’d discovered something that implicated Jeff.
“We’d rather talk to y’all in person,” Knight said.
A bit breathless, she said, “No need for you to come to the hospital. We’ll come to you.”