There was never a man from the gym.
This is the secret she still keeps: the man in the wedding photograph is the person with whom Marissa betrayed her husband.
PART
TWO
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AVERY
JUST A MAN I MET at the gym, Marissa had said during our first session.
It’s 9:45 A.M. right now, the time of day Marissa usually departs Pinnacle Studio and heads to Coco to open the store. I arrived early for Pilates and have been lingering on a mat, stretching, since the class let out. Pinnacle is quiet; the prework rush is over. A few guys lift barbells in the weight room, and another is tearing up the treadmill. The friendly manager, who came over to introduce himself yesterday when I was bending over the water fountain to get a drink, is in his office chatting on the phone.
They all seemed like possibilities at first. But nothing is clicking.
The manager told me his husband taught a HIIT class that I had to try. The weight room guys—who barely look thirty—seem hyperfocused on their routines. And the runner doesn’t even shift his gaze when an attractive woman in a crop top and leggings saunters by in front of his treadmill.
It’s more than that, though. I’ve gotten to know Marissa, and my gut tells me she isn’t the kind of woman to have a one-night stand with a mere acquaintance.
I’ll bet anything she’s still holding a big secret or two.
I hurry into the locker room and shrug on my light jacket—the first hint of spring is in the air, which I was especially grateful for on my early-morning walk with Romeo—then wave goodbye to the front-desk clerk （a college-age guy with a tattooed neck; Marissa would never go there） and push through the door, scanning my surroundings as I head back to my car.
As I pull into a parking spot across the street from Coco, I imagine I am Marissa Bishop: I’ve risen with the sun to make breakfast for my family in our luxurious kitchen. I’ve exercised and showered, and now I’m dressed for the day—let’s say in a casually chic pair of dark-rinse jeans, suede ankle boots, and a fitted blazer. I’m about to enter my charming boutique—my favorite creation, after my son—where I’ll chat with customers and select new inventory from vendors around the world. I’ll likely run out to pick up a salad for lunch, and during slow moments I’ll catch up on paperwork.
It’s not the kind of life I’d ever want, but I know it’s an enviable one for many women.
I’ve chosen this time of day to visit Coco because during our session last night, when I posed questions designed to better understand their daily routines, Marissa lamented that the upcoming school auction was infringing on her finely calibrated schedule. My cochairs want to meet after drop-off tomorrow, but that means I’ll probably get to Coco late.
Matthew had pointed out that although Marissa was feeling increasingly annoyed by Polly, this was another reason to keep Polly employed, at least for a little while longer.
Polly should be here alone. It will be simple enough to say I’m searching for a present for my stepdaughter.
I stroll down the sidewalk, past a coffee shop and a dry cleaner’s, my ears filling with the rush of cars passing by on Connecticut Avenue. I spot the royal-blue logo of Marissa’s store painted on its glass-front windows and step inside, triggering a bell that jingles merrily. A young woman who must be Polly is talking to a male customer toward the back of the store. They’re partially obscured by a pillar.
“Be right with you!” Polly calls, and her customer—tall, blond, wearing a dark suit—turns around.
It’s Matthew.
I take a step closer to them just in time to see Matthew grab what appears to be a document off a glass table.
“Avery? Long time no see. What are you doing here?”
It’s almost comical, the way he’s hiding the paper behind his back—like a little kid caught sneaking a cookie.
“Hi, Matthew.” I move closer to him with each word. “I suppose I could ask you the same question?”
“You two know each other?” Polly’s head swivels between us.
Instead of answering her question, Matthew responds to mine. He uses his free hand to lift up a bouquet of red roses from the table. “Thought I’d surprise Marissa. If anyone is going to give my wife flowers, it’s me. Unfortunately I forgot she has some auction thing at the school.”
Marissa mentioned her committee meeting just last night, but Matthew has a lot on his mind.
I take a closer look at him. He seems tightly wound, as if he just drank a triple espresso; his body appears rigid and his jaw is clenched.