Marissa isn’t getting a vote in this, she realizes, even though she’ll be the one cleaning up after dinner, and making sure Bennett is asleep early, and figuring out logistics such as where they’ll sit and whether it’s appropriate to serve drinks or food.
“Keep Monday and Thursday evenings at seven P.M. free for the next few weeks,” Avery instructs them.
Avery already seems to know how to handle Matthew; he’s nodding, responding to her succinct instructions.
Which means Avery probably also has a strategy for managing her, Marissa thinks.
CHAPTER THREE
AVERY
THE SKY IS PITCH-BLACK as I veer left onto Connecticut Avenue and head toward home, reaching for the bottle of water in my cup holder to rinse the sour taste of tequila from my mouth. The D.C. roads are quieter at this time of night—or technically, early morning—with just a few people straggling in and out of the bars and restaurants that line either side of the street. Most residents are asleep—including Derrick, the man I just left.
His scent lingers on my skin. Derrick’s cologne is too woodsy for my taste. If I were planning to have a long-term relationship with him, I might give him a bottle of my favorite brand. But neither of us is looking for a commitment. Still, the hours I just spent with him are among the most pleasurable I’ve passed all week.
At twenty-six, Derrick has retained the powerful physique and athleticism that earned him a full scholarship to the University of Maryland, where he served as a tight end on an undefeated team. Unlike a lot of good but not great college ballplayers, Derrick never labored under the illusion that he’d turn pro. After graduation, he found a job with a company that sells state-of-the-art security systems, ones that are much more expensive and comprehensive than those typically purchased by homeowners.
I met him fairly recently, when he came to my house to install mine.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text just as I reach my Cleveland Park neighborhood. I don’t dig into my purse to read it. It could be Derrick checking to see if I’ve made it home safely, or my stepdaughter, Lana, who has a fickle relationship with time. It could also be my mother, letting me know she’s extending her stay at the south-Indian ashram where she’s been ensconced for the past two months. I finish off the water in my bottle and turn onto my street.
My gut clenches as I realize something is off: my house is too dark.
The lamp on the table just inside my front door should be shining brightly. It’s set on a timer precisely so I don’t have to enter a shadowy home.
Just a few months ago, I would’ve blithely gone into the darkness.
Now I slowly pull into the driveway, my headlights illuminating my front porch. The wooden swing is swaying ever so slightly in the wind, but there’s no other sign of movement.
I’ve got Mace on my key chain, my bushes are cut too low to provide cover for anyone, and my alarm system is almost impossible to override. Still, I leave on the car engine and keep my headlights blazing while I step out of my old BMW and approach my front door, reaching into my purse for my phone.
My neighbors are close-by on either side, but their places are also dark, and on a cold night in mid-March, no one is likely to have a window open.
The bottom porch step creaks as I step onto it.
I reach my doorknob and test it. The lock is still engaged. I twist a key into it, then unlock the dead bolt. When I give the door a little push, it soundlessly glides open. I wait a moment, listening hard. I can’t sense a presence inside.
A table in my foyer holds a vase of red tulips, a shallow glass bowl, and the lamp. Down the hall to the left is my office; the living room is to the right.
I click the switch on the lamp, the sharp, sudden noise seeming to echo through the house. When it doesn’t come to life, I twist it again. Nothing. I touch my index finger to the bulb. It’s warm. I unscrew it and gently shake it, hearing the telltale rattle that indicates it burned out.
Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one, but I can no longer risk making those kinds of assumptions.
I flick on the overhead hall light, then walk back to my car to turn off the engine. My phone buzzes again as I reenter my house, and I instinctively glance down.
A text lands on my screen: Please. It’s an emergency.
Directly above it is the message that came in while I was driving: Sorry to bother you, but could you call me?
They’re both from Cameron, one of my first ten-session clients. Cameron is a sweet, shy thirty-two-year-old who completed his work with me last fall.
Cameron came to see me because he was having panic attacks. His first-session confession was clear, even though he didn’t explicitly state it: he was miserable in his marriage. His wife, Skylar, was a controlling, narcissistic woman who wanted to completely dominate Cameron.