I step back into my office and riffle through my files, but they appear untouched. I check my other drawers, including the ones in my desk. Nothing seems to have been moved.
I glance at my safe, but there’s no way Skip could have cracked the code; it’s fingerprint activated. My laptop is in my bedroom, so he couldn’t have installed spyware on it. I stand in the middle of the room and circle around slowly, considering the possibility that Skip had really been searching for the bathroom after all, then I spy the appointment calendar I keep on top of my desk. I log appointments on my phone, too, but I like having the physical reference as a backup. A striped ribbon that had been neatly nestled between the book’s pages marking the current day is now askew, as if someone had flipped through the pages.
There’s no good reason I can come up with for why Skip would be searching for details about my schedule.
I pick up the calendar and examine it closely. These days, surveillance techniques are so sophisticated that tiny cameras can be applied anywhere.
Nothing is affixed to my calendar, though. I search the entire room, running my fingers over every surface, checking the window blinds, and even peering up into the air-conditioning vent.
When I’m finally satisfied the room is clean, I sit down at my desk and review what I know about Skip. He told me he’s a commercial real estate developer, and that he owns a town house in the Palisades neighborhood in D.C.
I log into my laptop and plug his name into a search engine. There are dozens of mentions of Steven Pierce. I click on one of the hits, an article that appeared in a local glossy magazine called Washington Life. Accompanying the brief piece is a spread of photographs from the Allison Gala at the Four Seasons Hotel last September. Skip appears in one, wearing a tuxedo and smiling directly into the camera, and the caption confirms his name and occupation.
I scroll through another dozen hits until I’m certain he checks out. Skip appears to be exactly whom he claims; I can’t find a single loose thread. I finally stand up and walk out of my office, flicking off the light. But throughout the rest of the night, I can’t stop seeing Skip standing in that doorway, like an intruder.
My heart tells me Skip is a decent guy.
My gut tells me to never go near him again.
CHAPTER TEN
MARISSA
MARISSA FINDS HERSELF HUMMING as she leans toward the bathroom mirror to apply a creamy lipstick, one that complements the rose-colored silk sheath she picked up at Coco’s today. Her personal favorite of the many dresses in her closet is a black knee-length one, but Matthew prefers her in softer hues. He also loves how her legs look in high heels, so she slides into a pair of bone-colored pumps, even though she has been on her feet most of the day running errands and taking Bennett to a birthday party at an indoor trampoline park.
She desperately wants for tonight to go well. Matthew is still avoiding her, but Avery’s instructions mean they’ll have to talk over dinner. It’s reassuring to have their agenda predetermined. Marissa spent most of her spare moments today sifting through memories, finding the ones that seem right to share. She’s conscious of Avery’s critique from their first session—That’s an Instagram post—so she’s doing her best to ensure the emotions contained in the remembrances are textured and honest.
The doorbell chimes as she reaches into her side of the closet for a wrap. Bennett’s sitter, Hallie, must be here.
Unless it’s another mysterious delivery, her mind whispers.
The sender of the roses never came forward, and after her initial call to the florist, Marissa decided not to pursue her inquiries further. Surely it ended there, she tells herself.
Marissa steps into the hallway and hears Matthew say something and Hallie respond with laughter.
Marissa exhales and heads back into the bathroom to spray a bit of Matthew’s favorite perfume into the air and walk through the mist. She’s almost as nervous for this date as she was before their first one, more than two decades ago.
She picks up her clutch and wanders downstairs into the family room, where Bennett and Hallie are ensconced on the couch, the board games Marissa set out on the coffee table ignored in favor of Bennett’s Nintendo Switch.
As Marissa walks into the room, she catches sight of the back of their heads and freezes. Hallie has cut her waist-length hair; now it skims her shoulder blades. Hallie’s hair is dirty blond and straight and shiny, just like Marissa’s childhood friend Tina’s used to be. Now it is the exact same length as Tina wore it, too.
A memory slices through Marissa: Tina flipping her hair as she stood on her bed and sang along, completely off-key, to Mariah Carey’s “Vision of Love,” while Marissa danced around and provided backup.