Someone Else's Husband(29)

A flash of memory—and of pain. My bare knees cracking against the cold tile when he flipped me over and shoved me down. How I’d thought, in a moment of shock, that a house as nice as Noah’s parents’ should have warmer, softer floors.

Noah grew up in a Georgetown mansion, his father a partner at some law firm, Sinclair something, which must have been a big deal, the way Noah said the name. His mother was rich by profession. Noah wasn’t out yet with his family, so he’d asked me to come stay for the holidays, standing in as his girlfriend to keep his mother from foisting every “respectable single young lady” in his direction. With my own mom scheduled to be working most of the break back home in Leadville, it was an invitation I couldn’t pass up.

The Kings’ black-tie holiday party was like nothing I could have even imagined growing up. It was filled with successful, sophisticated people, professionally designed Christmas decorations, and servers passing endless fizzy cocktails and canapés (I was pretty sure that’s what they were called). I was seventeen and drunk within seconds. But ecstatic. I could have just walked around looking at the fancy people all night and that would have been bliss. I was Cinderella finally invited to the ball.

But then I met eyes with him. Standing alone. Leaning back against the wall, chin slightly lifted. Staring at me like he’d just spied a miracle.

Immediately I felt special, precious. Singled out. He was hot, too, sharp cheekbones, piercing eyes. A halo of certainty that felt like magic even from all the way across the room.

“You look lost,” he said in my ear sometime later. I was standing at the bar fearful someone—like maybe Noah’s parents—would boot underage me for ordering a drink.

When I turned and our eyes met, I had to grip the edge of the bar to keep upright. I’d been cursing myself for the past hour for losing sight of him.

“Oh, no.” I laughed nervously. “Just trying to…” And then I gestured at the bar as if I’d never ordered a drink for myself. At my age, this wasn’t far from the truth.

He smiled with half his mouth. And I felt for a perfect, endless moment like I was the only person at the party. The only person in the world.

“The lady will have a glass of white wine,” he said to the bartender—which seemed wildly sophisticated at the time rather than cheesy—then turned back to me. “And I’ll have a whiskey.”

Back at the police station, a pretty, petite brunette in a well-fitting uniform finally walks into the waiting room. She brushes her short hair out of her huge dark eyes. Looking at her, I feel confident she will understand what it is like to be stalked. “Ms. Callahan!” she calls, looking around.

“Yes, hi, thanks, um, that’s me,” I stutter, waving weakly.



* * *



—

She leads the way to her desk, motioning brusquely for me to sit in the chair alongside it. She doesn’t seem like a woman who likes her time wasted.

“What can I help you with?” She reaches for a pen and flips open a pad. “The one-two-four room said this is some kind of harassment?”

I nod as my cheeks flush. Shame. I still feel that, don’t I? Ashamed about being here or for what happened all those years ago, I’m not sure. “Someone is harassing me.”

“Uh-huh.” She takes notes but seems unimpressed. Fair enough. People are getting stabbed and shot and assaulted in New York City even as we speak. “How?”

“How?”

“They showing up at your place of work, your home? They threatening physical violence?”

“Oh, well, no. He, um, sent a text. The threat is implied.” I pause. This sounds silly now, ridiculous, even. I dig out my phone. “You can look at the messages if you want.”

She takes my phone, frowning as she scrolls through the messages. Taps on the photo.

“This picture?”

“He’s married. We haven’t— Anyway, it seems like this person is threatening to say that we’re having an affair.”

“Uh-huh.” She looks unmoved.

“Harassment is a crime, right? Stalking? He’s following me. Sending texts.”

“Listen, I hear you, I do. If it continues and he escalates, it could even be blackmail.” Her tone is sympathetic, if tired. “With just this…I’ll write up the report and tell you I’ll look into it. But—” She gestures to the packed station. “You can see what we’re dealing with here. I’m just being real with you. Without imminent danger, could be a while before you hear anything. And by a while, I mean maybe never.”

The one thing I know from all those years ago is that the Senator will stop at nothing to protect his career. I was scared back then—that was why I signed the agreement, took the money. I’ve been trying so hard not to think about it. To avoid facing it. But, God, I’m going to have to tell Richard about the photo. About the fact that someone is threatening to tell his wife. That I’ve dragged him and his family into this unseemly mess. It’s just so humiliating.

I look around at the bedraggled crowd—it’s hard to tell the victims from the criminals.

“But what if there is imminent danger?” I ask. And it isn’t until I say it out loud that I realize I’m afraid that there is much more at stake than Richard’s wife seeing the photo.