What they didn’t know was who told me about the deadly trials in India. Acelia has tens of thousands of employees around the globe; I had no doubt they wanted to extract the name of the one they were seeking from me.
I began making sure every one of my doors and windows was locked, even the tiny windows in my attic, even when I ran out for a quick errand.
A few days later, while I was walking down my street on an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon, gearing up for a run, a good-looking guy approached me with a wide smile. It was broad daylight. I could see my neighbor on his front porch. I felt completely safe. So I smiled back.
“I was wondering if you could help me,” the man began, and for a moment I expected him to ask directions. “I’m thinking about buying a house nearby, but I heard there were some breakins in the neighborhood.”
He moved closer and put a hand on my arm. I stiffened and pushed it off.
“Do you really think it’s safe?” he whispered.
“Get the hell away from me.”
“All we need is a name.”
Before I could scream or spray him with my can of Mace, he walked away.
I haven’t seen that man since, but I know Acelia won’t stop. They must be afraid that whoever told me could share the information about the faulty trial with others. And they’re probably even more concerned that individual could be continuing to gather destructive information about Acelia.
I still went for my run that day; Acelia wasn’t going to take that from me.
But as soon as I got home, I called the security company that sent me Derrick.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MARISSA
MARISSA PULLS THE PLUG from the drain and steps out of the bathtub. She towels herself off and massages a rich, buttery lotion—new to her store—into her damp skin. She slips on her terry-cloth robe and leans forward to wipe the condensation from the mirror. Matthew prefers her like this, with her hair pulled back and no makeup adorning her face. Perhaps it reminds him of the teenager he fell in love with, even though tonight she feels older than her thirty-eight years. She dots retinol cream onto her faint crow’s-feet and smooths balm onto her lips.
She walks into the bedroom and pulls open a dresser drawer. Her hand hovers above her favorite soft cotton pajamas. Beside them rests a midnight-blue silky nightgown. It’s Matthew’s favorite. She slips that on instead, even though the lace itches the sensitive area beneath her collarbones.
She switches off the overhead lamp and lights a candle. Then she removes her phone from its charger. She reads through her recent text exchanges with Matthew. His replies to her queries—Anything special you’d like for dinner? I could make salmon or steak tacos.… What time do you think you’ll be home?… Do you need me to pick up anything at the pharmacy?—have been brusque, when he has bothered to answer at all.
Her husband is one floor below her, probably watching television. She slowly taps out a new message to him: I’d love it if you slept in our bed tonight.
She stares at the screen. No response. She has no idea if he is ignoring her or simply hasn’t heard the chime on his phone. She’s about to replace her phone in its charger when three blinking dots form on her screen. He’s typing a reply. Then the dots disappear, leaving an empty space beneath her invitation.
Her husband isn’t ready to touch her yet, Marissa thinks as she blows out the candle and slides between the cool sheets. Avery promised there will be clarity about the health of her marriage in another couple of weeks, but right now, that’s hard for Marissa to believe.
She closes her eyes and tries to meditate, but her racing mind resists. Tomorrow she needs to proofread the forty-page catalog for the auction at Bennett’s school—a little task Natalie sprang on her—and talk to her accountant about her business taxes; it’s hard to say which task she dreads more. She turns onto her side, facing the empty spot in the bed Matthew used to fill. Her sleep has been fractured for weeks, and now, every time she awakens in the middle of the night, Matthew’s absence feels more pronounced.
She needs to do two other things tomorrow: First, call the florist to find out who sent those roses. Marissa has a suspicion, but she can’t believe he’d be so brazen.
She also needs to pick up a pregnancy test.
She doesn’t truly believe she could be pregnant, especially after she endured so many heartbreaking rounds of fertility treatments, but she needs to see a negative test stick to put her mind completely at ease.
The bedroom door creaks open and Matthew steps in. Soundlessly, she watches as he undresses, neatly hanging up his suit and tie in the closet and tossing his shirt in the hamper. Is he simply getting changed before returning downstairs? she wonders.