Their whole lives, but especially as they grew older, Park was the star, Perry was the backup. He was always fine with that. Perry had never been interested in having a crowd around him. He loved his camera, he loved his time outdoors, he loved his brother’s girlfriend. It was enough. He didn’t feel like he fit in—hell, who did fit into the high school ecosystem, really?—but he was happy, liked his classes, his friends. He dreamed of the world and was ready to get out there as soon as he could. A child, then, would have changed his trajectory dramatically, and he understood why Olivia had made the choice she had. If it would have been an upheaval for him, it would have been sailing the Titanic straight into the iceberg for her. A catastrophe for a young girl who’d slept with a boy only to wound her boyfriend.
He thought it was more between them, but when she’d given up and gone back to Park, Perry just assumed he was wrong. Now he wonders if the guilt defined her path as clearly as a runway of lights. Olivia was—is—a loyal person. The whole time they were together, he knew she felt guilty. Park got her first. Perry was always going to be second place.
Slap, slap, slap. His feet find a steady, comfortable rhythm. His mind calms. His heart, albeit broken, is steady and strong.
He is three miles in when headlights shine across the lot. The sun is almost down. He should probably head back to Lindsey’s. Regroup. The run has given him some clarity, at least. He doesn’t belong here anymore. This situation is not of his making, and it is getting out of hand. He has a life, an established life. And he has work to do. Major prep work for the climb. It’s going to be a bear, and he needs to have his head on straight.
You should talk to Olivia before you go, his monologue chimes in. You really should. Maybe she’ll want to leave with you, his heart chimes in, at which his brain laughs. What could possibly be different now than it was then?
He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t belong here, in their lives. They all know it.
He follows the fence line to the parking lot, hops over. A woman is standing by the car. It takes him a second to realize it’s the reporter who interviewed Park and Olivia. Erica Pearl. Her hair is in a ponytail; she’s wearing jeans and sneakers, a windbreaker. Street clothes. There are no cameras, no news truck, only an ancient Land Rover parked three slots away from Lindsey’s Tesla. Not even a purse, and he doesn’t see her cell phone, either. She has come empty-handed. Her eyes are swollen; she’s been crying.
“Go away,” he says, clicking the button to unlock the doors.
“Mr. Bender. I’m sorry to track you down like this.”
He stands tall. “No, you’re not. If you’ve found me here it’s because you followed me. I have no comment.”
“Sir, please. My job is on the line.”
“Then you shouldn’t have broken the deal you made with my brother’s lawyer. I can’t help you.” Perry yanks open the car door and slides in. The reporter gets her hand on the frame and holds tight as he tries to pull the door closed.
“Let go of the door. Now.”
Up close, he can see the steel in the girl’s face. Steel, guided by desperation.
“I know what he did.”
“What?”
He releases the door, and she wedges herself in so he can’t close it.
“I know what your brother did to that girl.”
38
THE HUSBAND
Park thunders down the stairs, glancing out the front door transom as he does. The vans still line their normally quiet street. Attractive, well-dressed reporters hold selfie sticks with cameras attached, talking into puffy black microphones. The neighbors are out, milling around, necks craning, curious. Being interviewed, damn them. They’re such lovely people. They keep to themselves, don’t make noise, always bring a nice dish to the neighborhood potluck. He’s always out in that shed in the back, though. Heaven knows what he gets up to in there.
His heart stings from Olivia’s accusations. It’s almost as if she hates him. His wife hates him. He has to get the hell out of here, but how? His car is in the garage, but the moment the door rises, the media will be on him. He can drive through them, though. Plow through them. Knock their sorry asses to the ground and grind the tires over their soft, pliable bodies.
He stumbles into the antique olive wood table in the foyer as he turns, making the lampshades tilt and knocking a small decorative glass bowl onto the floor. It hits the hardwood and snaps in half, the edges sharp. He hopes it isn’t expensive. No, he can’t drive yet. Way to go, Park. Got yourself smashed and now you’re a prisoner in your own home.
Maybe he should have left with Lindsey and Perry, the bastard.
Maybe he should have done a lot of things.
He wanders into the kitchen, double-checks the lock on the back door. Though it doesn’t matter much if Peyton Flynn has the keys and alarm code.
A thought permeates his alcohol-soaked mind. Change it. Yeah. He should have done that the moment they realized they were compromised. They aren’t secure in here, not at all. The media might keep Peyton from trying to get in, but if they leave, he and Olivia are sitting ducks.
Will he come for them? Will he try to hurt them? Kill them?
That’s one way to get through this—in a casket.
Park finds the security company information in the junk drawer and calls from the kitchen phone. After verifying his details fifteen ways to Sunday—Olivia is the organized sort and has the secure password printed on the pamphlet from the install—he tells them what he needs. The attendant is chipper. Clearly, she doesn’t know about the fiasco that’s happened today.
“Certainly, Mr. Bender. I’m happy to help you again.”
“Again?”
Rapid clicking on a keyboard. “Yes. I spoke with you last month when you added the new passcodes. How is your cold? I hope you’re feeling better.”
Dread builds inside him. “I didn’t talk to you last month. I didn’t have a cold, either.”
“That’s odd. I remember it clearly. You were having a houseguest visit, and you wanted them to have their own code so they could come and go securely if you weren’t there, but you didn’t want to give them your main code. It’s smart of you to do that, by the way. It keeps you more secure. I assume you want me to delete the secondary code now that they’re gone?”
Park’s buzz flees, chased away by the adrenaline rush. “What’s your name again?”
“Emily.”
“Emily. I’m going to have to call the police and have them talk to you. You probably need to loop in your supervisor, too. Someone impersonated me to change the security code, and I believe they’ve been breaking into the house.” A tiny gasp from Emily, who he can only imagine is feeling some serious panic about now. A feeling he understands; his own stomach is butterflies and cramps. “What other changes did the man make to the account?”
He hears typing. “You—he?—ordered new cameras. I show that they were delivered on Monday.”
“I never received any cameras. Anything else?”
“The door chimes are disabled. The delays—pretty much everything about how the system reacts to opened doors and windows was altered. I made notes. We always make notes. You—he—said you were concerned about a break-in down the street and wanted to make sure you were safe.” Typing again. “You also changed the safety passwords.”