I slip on my shoes and reach into my purse for my sunglasses. “I’ve got to go. How much longer are you planning to stay?”
“I’m actually about to go, too. I just need to take care of a quick thing here, then I’m going to pick up a few more items for tomorrow night and head home.”
“One more question. Do the police have any more leads on who might have attacked you?”
Matthew shakes his head. His bandage is gone now; the only evidence of his assault is a faint bruise near his hairline. “Not that I know of. Since I couldn’t identify anyone out of the lineup, they weren’t able to make an arrest.”
I say goodbye and walk down the pier, taking in deep breaths of the cold, fresh air.
As I head up the ramp and pass over the retaining wall, I think about various scenarios: Someone could have followed me here. I already know, thanks to the man who came after me in the garage and the fake client who entered my home, that Acelia employs far-reaching ways to get to me.
Or maybe Matthew was the target. Someone could have crept onto the boat hoping to find him alone.
I’m still not convinced that random attack against Matthew was purely random. Anyone can be hired to do just about anything to us. Even Ray, the homeless guy who hangs out near Marissa’s store, was paid to deliver a threatening note.
I take a final look behind me. Matthew is still standing there, watching me go. Or maybe he’s just taking in the air, too.
I’m passing by the Watering Hole when I spot a small white object in the path the jogger just traced. It’s probably nothing. Still, I veer left and pick it up.
It’s a slip of paper, folded in half.
It’s a bit crumpled, but it looks too pristine to have been here for longer than a few minutes.
When I unfold it, I see the name and address of a restaurant called the Whistler Bar & Grill printed on top. It’s in D.C., on Sixteenth Street. Lower down, in the middle of the receipt, two charges are listed:
Cluny and soda, $6.99. Then again: Cluny and soda, $6.99.
It’s the brand of cheap Scotch that Matthew said his father drinks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MARISSA
“NOW GO WASH that chocolate mustache off your face before it becomes permanent,” Marissa teases Bennett as she unlocks the door leading from the garage to the kitchen.
“You’re home!” Matthew calls out, getting up from a stool at the granite island, where he has been reading the newspaper. He’s wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt and his cheeks look a little ruddy. He seems relaxed and happy; Marissa supposes he solved the work crisis.
“How was the Cub Scout thing?” Matthew ruffles Bennett’s hair. Before Bennett can answer, Matthew spots the gauze wrapped around Bennett’s finger. “What happened to your hand?”
Bennett glances over at Marissa, then down at his sneakers and shrugs.
“What happened?” Matthew repeats, this time asking Marissa.
Marissa walks around to the other side of the island and sets down her purse on the stool next to the one Matthew just vacated so she can avoid her husband’s eyes. “Just a little cut.”
The last thing she wants to do is to explain to Matthew that his father had given their eight-year-old an adult-size pocketknife. Not when it seems as if Matthew’s icy feelings toward Chris are just beginning to thaw. Plus, she knows this admission will inevitably lead to questions about how Marissa, who should have been by their son’s side （but was instead a couple hundred yards away talking to Avery）， allowed it to happen.
“It’s not a big deal. I didn’t even cry,” Bennett chimes in.
Marissa looks at Bennett’s sweet face and feels bile rise in her throat. She and Bennett have formed an unspoken alliance; they’re complicit in a lie.
Kids are perceptive. They model what their parents do, not what they say. What is she teaching her son?
She isn’t being a good role model for him at all, especially not today, when she’s seething with anger toward Polly and trying to put on a happy face for her family.
Marissa promises herself she will clean this up later and explain the full story to Matthew, but in the moment she merely nods. “He’s okay.”
All she can think about is getting to Coco and confronting her big-mouthed, interfering, infuriating assistant; she can’t be drawn into a long discussion now or she’ll crack under the pressure of her mood.
“So what’s on the agenda for this afternoon?” Matthew asks.
“Look, do you guys mind if I run out for a bit?” Marissa gives Matthew a wink. “I want to pick up something from the store to wear tomorrow night.”