I dropped my head against the desk, kicking myself for sending this draft to my agent without thinking it through. The details were all steering far too close to home. But maybe I could get away with tweaking it a little.
I dove back into the manuscript, picking apart what I had written so far, making subtle changes to the characters and setup: The problem husband is an accountant working for a high-profile mob boss. He also happens to be super wealthy with a sizable life insurance policy that will go to his wife. Sometime between the first drink and the drugged one, my heroine realizes the wife never transferred payment into her offshore account as agreed upon. Too late to change direction, my heroine loads her mark into a utility van and drives him to the underground garage to let him sleep it off. The assassin steps outside to call the wife, to tell her the job is off for nonpayment. Meanwhile, someone else slips in behind her and uses a silencer to put a bullet between the husband’s eyes. Determined to seek a vigilante-style justice and solve the mystery of who murdered her mark, she investigates his death, pairing up with an unsuspecting hotshot detective to stay one step ahead of the police and tracking down the runaway wife in the process.
Yes, I thought, cracking my knuckles over the keyboard. Yes, this felt like it could work! There was nothing in this story about hot young bartenders who studied law, or real estate agents who stole other people’s husbands. There were no subplots involving lewd photos or extorted hush payments. No mentions of custody battles or starving authors doing questionable things to pay their bills.
Hours passed. My fingers ached and my mind felt weary. Smells started wafting from the kitchen—baking bread and steamed vegetables and the buttery, rosemary-coated skin of a roasting chicken. Night fell outside my window to the clank and clatter of silverware downstairs, the slide of the high chair from the table, and the hand-vac as Vero tidied up after dinner. No one knocked on my door. Three fresh chapters later, I jumped at the bright ring of my cell phone.
Steven’s number flashed on the screen, and I contemplated not answering.
“Hello,” I said, rubbing my eyes as I registered the time. The kids were probably already in bed. I hadn’t even kissed them good night.
“Hey, Finn. ’S it a bad time to call?” A slur smoothed over the worn edges around my name. I wondered how many drinks it must have taken for it not to sound like a curse coming out of his mouth.
“Why?”
“Just needed to talk.” He sounded tired, and maybe a little defeated, and I hated myself for the soft spot in my chest that still managed to ache at moments like this, even after all he’d done.
“You okay?” I turned off my monitor and sat in the dark, listening to liquid bubbling down the neck of a bottle and his hard swallow on the other end of the line.
He coughed. Said in a rough voice, “I don’t know. Maybe. Not really.”
The fact that he’d called me instead of his fiancée told me a lot, and at the same time, opened the door to so many more questions. A year ago, we were together, all four of us under one roof. Why’d he have to go and screw everything up?
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Theresa,” he said. “I’m worried I made a mistake.” I held my tongue, biting my lip to keep from saying the harsh things I wanted to say. “I was stupid to trust her. She’s hiding something. I don’t know exactly what it is, but…”
“But what?” I asked cautiously, afraid of scaring him away. “Why do you think she’s hiding something?”
He hesitated. Took another swig and swore under his breath. “I found cash in her underwear drawer. A lot of cash, Finn. And some cop called the house the other day looking for her. When I asked her about it, she got all defensive and refused to talk.”
“Maybe there was nothing to talk about.”
“I don’t know, Finn. She’s got this new big-shot client. She’s with him all the time. She says he’s only looking for property, but I’ve seen the guy and he’s…” Steven’s voice trailed.
“Attractive?”
“Sleazy’s more like it,” he grumbled. “I looked him up, Finn. He’s into some shady shit. What if he gave her all that cash? What if she’s planning…？” Steven fell quiet.
“To leave you for someone else?” In the silence, a siren wailed, and I heard it in stereo, loud outside my window and more faintly through his cell phone. “Where are you right now?” I pushed my chair from the desk and crossed the room, peeling back the blinds to find Steven’s truck parked outside. He waved sheepishly through the window. “Hold on,” I told him. “I’m coming out.”