“You called Polly?” This makes no sense: Matthew has only met her new assistant twice, maybe three times, tops. She doesn’t even think Matthew knows Polly’s last name. So how does he have Polly’s cell phone number?
Matthew smiles. “Polly knows how worried I’ve been about you. And she’s been worried, too. All those hang-ups. That crazy note.”
He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and brings out a white piece of paper, folded into quarters. As he smooths it out, Marissa sees it’s been taped back together, like a completed jigsaw puzzle.
She releases a small, high sound. The last time she saw that note, it was in pieces in the trash can at Coco. She’d assumed it was gone forever. Polly must have fished it out of the garbage and reassembled it, before giving it to Matthew.
Have her assistant and her husband been meeting in secret?
“I asked Polly to look after you,” Matthew murmurs. “Kind of be my eyes and ears when I’m not around. To help me keep you protected. She took my request very seriously. You know Polly; she’s nothing if not overly conscientious. I suggested she keep a log of all the hang-ups and other incidents, since someone is clearly obsessed with you. Just in case.”
Marissa begins to tremble. The kitchen has two exits: the door to the garage, and the opening that leads to the hallway and front door. A knife is in the block by the sink. Her car keys are in her purse, which is sitting on the end of the island, a few feet away. Her cell phone is upstairs, in the charger on her nightstand.
She catalogs all of this information instinctually.
The wine bottle is within reach on the island. The glass looks thick and substantial, and the bottle is nearly full. Her hand creeps out toward it while her eyes remain fixed on Matthew.
“I’ll get that.” He scoops it up. “I made sure to buy a case of your new favorite.”
Matthew picks up the bottle and begins to slowly turn it around to display the label. She doesn’t need to see it; she already knows it is the same wine Skip brought over.
Her husband no longer looks merely joyful. He seems filled with a triumphant glee.
You can never truly know what is inside another person’s heart or head, Marissa thinks wildly.
What was Matthew’s first clue? Maybe the rope; Matthew is highly attuned to details. If Skip left it in this nautical knot and Matthew saw it when he got home from his trip, his mind would have begun to whirl.
She’d buried the empty bottle of Malbec in the recycling bin, but Matthew had been the one to take the bin out to the curb. He’d know she would never drink an entire bottle of wine alone.
And those mixed nuts that Matthew just offered her. Marissa never ate them because they were so salty, and Bennett didn’t like nuts, but Matthew loved them. He often snacked on a handful or two at night. Would he have noticed the tin had been nearly emptied on an evening when he’d been out of town?
Yes, he would have.
Dread fills her. “How long have you known?” she whispers.
“Forever. Skip has always had a piece of your heart.” Matthew’s lip curls. “But in terms of you fucking him? I confirmed it the following night, when you went into the shower and left your cell phone in your purse. You were clever enough to delete any text exchanges between the two of you. But you didn’t think to erase the record of Skip’s incoming call. He phoned you at eight twenty P.M. on the night I was out of town, and you two talked for forty-seven seconds. Not long enough for a proper catch-up with an old friend, but more than enough time to invite one over.”
Matthew suddenly lifts his head, as if a noise has caught his attention. Then he looks back at Marissa and says, in a tone so conversational it’s chilling, “You didn’t think I was really going to take you away for an anniversary celebration, did you? It was so much fun to tell Skip about all my romantic plans for an overnight boat trip, though.”
Marissa begins to tremble. Matthew has been creating fictional scene after fictional scene. And she believed every one of them.
He was never the unaware, wronged husband. That was an illusion; a gifted con artist’s sleight of hand.
Blackness crowds her field of vision and she grows light-headed; she is on the verge of passing out. She fights the sensation with everything she has, grabbing the counter to steady herself.
“If you knew all along, why did you pretend?” she manages to ask.
“I’ve always been good at the long game. Especially when it comes to Skip. He thinks you’re pregnant, by the way. I told him so when I invited him over the other night for a drink. The look on your face when he dropped off all that chicken soup…”