The Housewife(41)

“That sounds nice,” he says, depositing a file inside the safe and closing the door.

I watch his fingers on the keypad as he relocks it. 586413. I think.

“You can turn around now,” he says.

“I’ll be upstairs,” I sing.

I return to the kitchen and wait. Marie is still in the dining room doing her thing. About fifteen minutes later, I hear her footstep approaching. I quickly put the oven temperature back to 350 and walk out.





“Thank you, Marie,” Roy says gravely when Marie brings out the chicken.

“It’s my pleasure, Dr. Davies,” she says softly. She already spooned the roast vegetables into a bowl, and Roy passes it to me.

I poke at a potato, and I’m thrilled to see it’s very much on the firm side. I spoon a few very boring vegetables into my plate and pass the bowl back to Roy. For all his posturing, I can see from the expression on his face that he thinks assigning the cooking to Marie was a mistake.

Meanwhile, Marie’s face has pursed so that it looks like the end of an orange.

“Everything all right, Marie?”

She’s frowning at the cut chicken, the pinkness of it.

Roy stares at it.

“I…” she begins .

Roy leans closer, picks up his fork, and pokes at the chicken. “This isn’t cooked,” he says.

“But I cooked it for the right amount of time,” she says.

“But it’s not cooked,” he says.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Davies,” she mumbles. “I don’t know what happened…”

I drop my napkin and push back my chair. “I’ve got a beef and red wine casserole in the freezer. I can have it on the table in twenty minutes.”

And from the look of pure hate that Marie gives me, I know she knows.

But I don’t care.





25





Ever since I got that script from Dr. Kowalski, I’ve been eating Xanax like they’re bonbons. But this afternoon, I abstained. I wouldn’t even take an aspirin right now, or a sip of that chamomile tea Roy insists on drinking every night.

It is imperative that I stay awake and alert.

Later, once I am satisfied that Roy is asleep, I get out of bed as quietly as I can, shrug on my robe, and tiptoe down the stairs.

I unlock the door, walk into his office, and stand in front of the safe, my heart a little fluttering butterfly. I bend down. 5…8…6…4…1…3.

Error code.

No. It can’t be. I must have made a mistake. I try again.

5..8..6..4..1..3.

Error code .

I can’t believe it. After all this, I got it wrong? Really? I close my eyes and picture the scene. I can see the digits in my small compact mirror. 586413. That’s what it was. I’m sure of it.

No. Wait. Was it a 1? Or a 7?

I don’t know how many more attempts I have before this safe locks itself on me, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s probably three.

Which means this is my last chance.

I close my eyes, send Deb a silent prayer, then punch the code in again. 5…8…6…4…7…3.

Click.

I’m in.





The safe is filled with manila folders, maybe twelve of them, all neatly stacked on top of each other. I open the first one.

Patient name—Alex Dwyer. Inside are pages of scribbled notes torn from a yellow pad. There’s also a small USB thumb drive. I look up and listen, make sure that all is quiet out there. Nothing. I sit down at Roy’s desk and plug the drive into Roy’s computer. I turn it on, and I’m about to open the drive when Roy’s calendar pops up. It is filled with squares of different colors showing scheduled appointments.

I’ve never had the opportunity to go through Roy’s calendar before. I scroll back to the day Deb died. At 1:00 p.m., the first entry that afternoon, there’s a twenty-five-minute appointment with Mr. Penzick. At 1:30 p.m., there’s an entry for a Ms. Greenwood, fifty-five minutes long .

Then there’s another entry at 2:30 p.m. for a Mr. and Mrs. Henry, forty-five minutes, followed by a fifteen-minute break, then, at 3:30 p.m., an appointment with Mr. Travis.

I’m disappointed; I won’t lie. But what did I expect? The police already said he had an alibi for the time when Deb died between 1:30 and 2:30 p.m.

I close the calendar app and open the contents of the drive. There’s a video thumbnail. I click on it.

“How are you today, Alex?”

The video is taken from inside Roy’s office. He’s sitting with a notepad balanced on one knee. You only see his legs and hands, but it’s clearly him.

Across from him, someone is lying on a couch, but this person is positioned in such a way that you can’t see their face, only their legs, on one side.

“Okay, I guess.”

It’s a male voice. He shifts slightly.

Roy scribbles something. “And how was your week?”

I close the video and pull out the USB drive. I have no interest in Alex Dwyer or any of Roy’s patients. I put the folder down on the desk and move on to the next folder. Different name, also with a USB drive. I check it because you can’t be too thorough, but it’s the same: a recorded session with a client. I place the folder under the first one so that when I put them back, they’ll be in the same order. Then I open the next folder, and the next one, on and on until I’ve reached the bottom of the safe.