“Lay it shiny side up, buddy,” Chris instructs Bennett.
If it weren’t for the way Chris treated Matthew, Marissa might actually like her father-in-law. As it is, her feelings toward him are mixed.
“Okay, Gramps,” Bennett replies. “So the shiny side should face the shiny sun.”
“That’s right. Now find the big pole that’s going to hold up the tent.… No, not that one. It’s the one to the left.…”
Bennett lifts up both of his hands to see which index finger and thumb form the letter L, a trick he learned from a teacher.
Out of the corner of her eye, Marissa spots a familiar figure approaching the park. She stiffens. “I need to get something from my car,” Marissa tells Chris. “Would you mind watching Bennett for a bit?”
Chris waves her off, and Marissa hurries to intercept the new arrival.
Chris’s presence today serves a dual purpose: bonding with Bennett and affording her the chance to slip off, unnoticed.
The voices of the group fade as Marissa walks farther away, toward the wooded area by the playground equipment.
A few parents are pushing kids on swings or soaking in the sun on benches, but no one takes any notice of Marissa as she passes by, to where Avery waits.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Marissa begins. Seeing Avery here brings the tumult of last night rushing back, and Marissa’s stomach twitches.
“We’ve got a lot to cover, so talk fast.” Avery folds her arms. “What happened after I left?”
Marissa fills Avery in on everything: her soak in the tub and the memories of that summer, the games, and the soup delivery. From her position in the park, Marissa can’t see Bennett or Chris. She is gripped with the same irrational fear she felt right after her massage, the one that compelled her to rush to Bennett’s side.
He’s fine, she tells herself. He’s with Chris. And Chris knows how to handle himself. At seventy, he has the strength of many men half his age. Chris doesn’t go to a gym or play golf or tennis, but whenever there’s manual labor to be done—fifty-pound bags of mulch to spread around his yard, or a dead tree that needs to be cut down—he works unceasingly until the job is complete.
Because Avery doesn’t react when Marissa tells her about the soup delivery, Marissa keeps talking nervously. “I know I shouldn’t have lied to you about Skip, but I never thought he’d become … such a big problem.” Marissa realizes she is wringing her hands together, and she forces herself to stop.
“What is it? No more secrets.”
Marissa clears her throat. “The note that was slipped under Coco’s door … I reviewed the security camera footage and recognized the person who delivered it.”
Marissa can’t see Avery’s eyes beneath Avery’s dark sunglasses. It’s impossible to know how she is feeling.
Avery fired her as a client once before; now that she knows Marissa has been keeping more information concealed, will she walk away again?
Marissa is in too deep; she has to keep going. No more secrets. “It was a man named Ray. He’s homeless, and he often sits on a bench down the street from my store. I talked to him and he told me someone had paid him to do it.”
“Who?”
“Ray didn’t get a name.”
“And?” Avery snaps.
“And in addition to paying Ray, he gave Ray his gloves. I recognized them because they’re the same gloves I bought Skip for Christmas.”
“How do you know they’re the same pair?”
“They’re blue leather. They’re very distinctive.”
Avery is silent for a moment. “Did you ever doubt it was Skip who left that note?”
Marissa shakes her head. “No. The moment I saw it, I knew.”
Marissa wishes Avery would remove her glasses so she could gauge her expression.
“I’m going to ask you something really personal now,” Avery finally says.
Marissa nods. She resists the urge to look back and crane her head to try to glimpse Bennett through the trees.
“Are you pregnant?”
“What?” Marissa gasps. “No! Why would you think such a thing?”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.” Marissa is not going to explain the details of her cycle to Avery, but she can say with 100 percent certainty this is true. Marissa’s cell phone vibrates in her pocket, but she ignores it.
“Well, I have a feeling someone suspects you are.”
Who? Marissa begins to ask, but the word dies on her lips. The image of the opaque CVS bag, the one that contained her pregnancy test, bursts into her mind. “Polly! Did she tell you I was?”