She removes the travel case she uses for her jewelry, tosses it into the bag. Reaches deeper inside. What she’s looking for is under the set of pearls she inherited from her grandmother, a choker comprised of sixty-five three-millimeter perfectly matched white pearls as exquisite as it is old.
The space is empty.
Her old journals are gone. The photo of Melanie Rich that was left at the Jones build, the one she snuck from her purse into the safe, is gone. And with them, a worn envelope, containing a single-page letter, addressed but not stamped.
Before she can panic fully, Park shows up in the closet.
“What are you doing on that ladder? My God, Liv, get down.”
She slams closed the safe door and presses the Lock button. It bolts securely with a throaty electronic whisper, and she carefully gets down off the small ladder. Her heart is pounding.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Park demands, waving a hand toward her suitcase.
“Leaving,” she replies.
“You’re in no shape to drive.”
This infuriates her even more. Park doesn’t say no, don’t go. He doesn’t say Olivia, please, let’s talk. He simply comments on her state of intoxication—which happens to be low at the moment, the adrenaline making her completely lucid.
“Get out of my way.”
“Why are you so mad?”
She stops dead and stares at him.
“Really? After all these years, you have no idea why I might be upset? God, Park. You really are something.”
She manages the zipper on the bag, but tying her sneakers is a bridge too far. She finds an old pair of Birkenstocks and slides them on her feet.
“Is it Scarlett? Come on, Olivia. You aren’t being fair. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“Did you even think to check if I was okay with you hosting a tea party with those strangers?”
“Strangers? Scarlett is my daughter.”
The dagger is brutal and swift, and leaves her incendiary.
“They’re complete strangers. They could be lying. You have no idea.”
“She looks like my mother, Liv. And Lindsey.”
“How nice for her.”
“What’s wrong with you? I’ve never known you to be petty before.”
“Petty?” Olivia laughs. “Yeah, you caught me, Park. That’s what this is, me being petty. After all the lies, you dare to push me even further? Throwing your biologicals in my face? Enjoy them.” She moves past him into the hall, ignoring the ache the weight of the bag is causing in her neck and arm.
“Honey, you can’t just leave. Peyton is out there. It’s too dangerous.”
She pays no attention to him, bumbles down the stairs, the suitcase smacking her left knee. Her purse and keys are on the table in the foyer; she gathers them and heads out, ignoring the startled looks of the two women in the living room. She goes straight out the front door, punches in the code to raise the garage door, pops the trunk on Park’s BMW, and throws in the bag before sliding gingerly behind the wheel. She’d much rather drive her Jeep, but it must be at the shop getting the windshield fixed.
Park stands on the porch, at the top of the stairs, watching, no longer trying to stop her, his expression unreadable. Is he happy she’s leaving? Maybe. He has a new family now. Why would he need her?
She flips him the bird and is off.
Screw Park Bender. She is not going down this road with him again.
The drive takes a little more than seven hours. She frets most of the way. Not only because she’s pretty well certain that her marriage is over. The journals are one thing—it’s possible they’ve simply been misplaced, that they have somehow gotten mixed up with Park’s. She has carried them with her for decades, started when she was little and working her way into adulthood, then marriage. She has one by the bed that she’s been using for the baby making records, but that she could happily burn. There will be no more baby making. She is never going to put herself through that again. She will live her life, free, happy even, eventually, and be childless. The world will not end if she doesn’t have a warm, snuggly, fragrant being to commingle with. It just won’t.
Her heart breaks a little. She stands the pain. Relishes it. She is being forged; she will be stronger on the other side.
No, it’s the letter that she’s worried about. That’s something she would never, ever remove from its hiding place.
Olivia stops once, south of Montgomery, Alabama, checking her phone at the gas station she finds just off the highway. Park has texted several times, but she ignores them, instead sends a note to Annika Rodrigue, apologizing for the late hour and that she is taking her up on the offer to redo the house. Annika is, unsurprisingly, thrilled.
Yippee! We’ve already headed back to Nashville, so you’ll have the place to yourself. All I ask is no grass mat. It’s just too ironic for me. The rest is up to you. What do you think we can do with 150k? Though I did promise a blank check…
Perfect. No grass mat and a starting budget of $150,000 leaves a broad canvas to play with. She’ll be able to source materials from new places along the beach, will live in the reno, as much of a pain as that is. This is freedom, she reminds herself. The media will have no idea where you are. Six weeks, maybe eight, and you’ll have most of it finished. Then, and only then, will you talk to Park. And Perry is off your radar for good. You just can’t drag him into this again. It’s time to go it alone.
She feels a spike of pain thinking about losing Lindsey but knows in her heart of hearts her best friend is going to side with her brothers. With her family. It’s what Olivia would do in her place.
The pain and planning settle her. She eats a granola bar and drinks a Coke Zero to stay awake the rest of the way. It’s after two in the morning when she arrives, yawning and exhausted, her shoulder throbbing.
Annika’s house is in Alys Beach, a popular place to have a second （or third） home among the Nashville aficionados of the 30A beaches. A European-style enclave, the houses are nestled together as if they were perched on a Mediterranean hillside instead of the flatlands of the Gulf’s beaches. The exteriors are a pristine Greek white; the interiors are designed by a veritable who’s who of Olivia’s world. Honestly, she’s been dying to get down here and make her mark. Who knows, maybe she’ll move here, live among the white-peaked homes and sparkling blue waters.
She finds it—the biggest one on the street, naturally; Annika is made of money and then some. The code works. She stumbles into the foyer, drops her bag, makes sure to lock the door behind her. In the darkness, she can hear the ocean lapping against the shore. She follows the noise out onto a deck that juts over the house-edge of an infinity pool. There is a boardwalk just beyond the gate; solar lights glow along the wooden path to the beach. The air is soft and sultry, smells of brine and limes and a hint of mold, that unique scent only found oceanside.
She inhales deeply, letting the aroma and the calm permeate her body and skin inside and out.
Yes, she can escape here. Leave her marriage, leave her business, leave her friends.
Leave her life.
Start over.
41
THE MURDERER
He’s always loved open spaces. The peace, the quiet, the stillness. He stands at the entrance to the rundown barn, watching the afternoon unfold. Birds chirp and flit in the trees. A frantic carpenter bee buzzes industriously by the door. A barn cat slinks through the tall grasses by the rusted tractor, happily stalking field mice that she brings back to his bed at night, dropping their half-eaten carcasses on his rough pillow before curling up on his legs, sated and purring under his ministrations. The day has been warm, the humidity heavy and thick, the sun traversing a hazy blue sky.