“Why would Polly think that?”
“After Skip and I—well, I knew the odds were very slim, given my fertility issues. But I had to make sure. So I picked up a test and used it at work. The result was negative. But then Polly started acting strangely. She wouldn’t even let me pick up a pillow. I finally got it out of her that she saw the kit in the trash can.”
By the time Marissa is finished recounting the story, Avery is shaking her head. “So you explained to your overly solicitous assistant that you aren’t pregnant?”
“Yes. And she appeared to believe me. Did she tell you otherwise?” Marissa’s heart is pounding; she is so angry that if Polly were here, she’d not only fire her on the spot, she’d have trouble restraining herself from slapping Polly across the face.
“Have Polly and Skip ever met?”
“Polly and Skip?” Marissa feels dizzy under the onslaught of questions. She doesn’t want to be here, trying to untangle the horrible mess she’s created. She should be with her son, watching him pitch a tent for the first time. If only she hadn’t answered her phone that night when Skip had called, saying he was in the neighborhood. If only she’d said she was tired, instead of telling him to stop by, that Matthew was out of town but she’d love to catch up. If only she hadn’t drank half the bottle of wine he’d brought …
Marissa forces herself to consider Avery’s question. Marissa needs to make sure the information she gives is true. “No. Polly hasn’t worked for me long. Skip has never been to the store during that time. At least that I know about.”
The sun dips behind a cloud. The young-looking father sitting on the bench stands up and collects his children, leaving only a woman pushing a baby in a stroller back and forth. The baby is crying, a tired, drawn-out sound that borders on a whine. His noises are drowning out the faint voices of the Cub Scouts, and Marissa quashes the urgent desire to run back to Bennett.
Avery shifts topics. “Polly said someone has been calling the store and hanging up when she answers. It’s pretty obvious who the mystery caller is. Is it possible that he didn’t hang up once? That he and Polly spoke?”
Marissa shrugs. “I have no idea. Truly.”
She feels her cell phone vibrate in her pocket again. “Sorry.” She pulls it out and stares down at the notification: another missed call. There’s no name for the contact—Marissa erased it weeks ago—but she recognizes the number as Skip’s. Marissa’s chest tightens. “It’s him again.”
“Don’t answer. Until I figure out how to handle Skip, I don’t want you to talk to him.”
Marissa turns the screen so Avery can see it. Along with the missed call is a text: Just checking in to see how you’re feeling.
“Why is he so worried about—” Marissa’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispers as the realization hits her: Avery’s personal question, Skip’s overattentiveness, Gabe’s chicken soup. “Skip thinks I’m—”
A child’s shriek cuts through the air.
Just as Marissa could pick Bennett from a lineup based on scent, she can recognize his cry even from this distance.
“Bennett! I’ve got to go!” She races back toward the makeshift campground.
In the time she’s been gone—how long could it have been? Seven minutes? Ten, tops, she assures herself—a medley of tents have been constructed, and the Scouts, in their identical uniforms, are swarming around. Where is her son? she thinks frantically.
Finally she spots the back of Chris’s hunter-green jacket. He is huddled with a few other adults, including the troop leader. Bennett is in the center of the group.
“Bennett!”
He turns around. He is pressing a handkerchief to his thumb.
“I don’t think he needs stitches, do you?” she can hear the leader asking as he opens a first-aid kit.
Marissa’s pulse slows; Bennett isn’t badly hurt. He isn’t even crying. “What happened? Sweetie, did you cut yourself whittling?”
“This is going to sting just for a second, okay?” the troop leader, peeling back the handkerchief, tells Bennett.
Marissa leans over and puts her hand on Bennett’s shoulder. She wants to take him in her arms, but the other children are watching, and she knows Bennett is trying to keep his composure.
The leader pours a bit of iodine on the cut, then begins to bandage it up. “Next time you’ll use a regulation pocketknife, right?” The troop leader winks at Bennett.