Marissa thinks back to the first and only time Chris visited them in their new home. Dinner had gone fairly well; Marissa made sure to have Chris’s brand of Scotch, Cluny, on hand, and she served steak and baked potatoes, which was his favorite meal. The conversation never flowed easily, though. Then Chris went out to his car. Although by then he could have bought a fleet of fancy foreign models, he drove an old Buick LeSabre. It refused to start; the engine repeatedly sputtered but wouldn’t catch in the cold night air. Matthew went inside to call AAA, and when he came back out, Chris had the hood up and had gotten a toolbox out of his trunk. He was so focused on tinkering with the carburetor he merely grunted, No, when Matthew asked if Chris wanted Marissa to make him some hot tea.
After standing around for a few minutes, Matthew went back inside. By the time the tow truck had arrived, Chris had fixed the problem.
You can’t outsource everything in life, Chris had said. Though I guess you’re used to having other people clean up after your messes. He’d picked up his toolbox and closed the hood. The slam seemed to echo through the night.
Matthew had never again invited his father over.
“Bennett’s not going to feel the way I did,” Matthew says now, his voice fierce. “If he doesn’t want to play baseball, he doesn’t have to play baseball. We’ll do whatever he wants this afternoon.”
Marissa lifts herself up and kisses Matthew.
“I love you,” she whispers.
He kisses her back, deeply, as he pulls her closer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AVERY
I THRUM MY FINGERTIPS AGAINST my steering wheel, keeping watch out my window, while I speculate about the man who hurt Matthew.
When the Bishops rushed out in the middle of our session to go to the police station last night, Matthew promised to fill me in on what happened. I got a text from him a few hours later, letting me know he couldn’t identify anyone in the lineup, and that the police didn’t seem to have a real suspect.
As of now, it appears to be a random attack.
Still, I’ve decided not to wait until Monday to learn about the man Marissa slept with.
I reach for my cell phone and dial Marissa’s number. It rings a few times, as it did when I called earlier this morning, then goes to voice mail again. Last time I didn’t leave a message. Now I do, asking her to phone me back as soon as possible with the name of the person we discussed at the Chevy Chase Circle. Enough is enough. I need to check him out.
The front door of the house I’m watching opens, but the person who steps out isn’t the one I’m waiting for. It’s a tall, gangly looking guy with longish hair. He shifts his backpack higher up onto his shoulders and walks past me, never even looking in my direction. I shift in my seat and exhale, then glance at the dashboard clock: it’s a quarter past nine.
I should have pushed Marissa to tell me more that day about her infidelity when we stood in the middle of the traffic circle, but she seemed so broken and afraid that I merely told her not to worry, and that I’d handle everything. I regret this tactic now.
I’m beginning to wonder if Marissa emotionally seduced me—the way she probably seduced the man she slept with. And the way she must have seduced Matthew, too, all those years ago. Not overtly through her sexuality, as Natalie would, but with a subtle vulnerability. Marissa is gorgeous and fragile with her soft voice, delicate frame, and long-lashed cornflower-blue eyes. Her magnetism is quiet, but undeniable. Even Polly fell under her spell.
What if there never was another guy? Perhaps she’s been stalling because there is no name to offer up.
Marissa has already created one major fabrication—saying she slept with a near stranger from her gym—and it’s entirely possible her lies didn’t end there.
But what would be her motivation?
From early on, I’ve sensed the Bishops are more complex than my typical clients, and I’m still not convinced Marissa is the only one hiding something.
Matthew’s swift acceptance of me and my methods seems almost too compliant. Plus there was that phone call outside Mon Ami Gabi, and the revelation that he told Natalie, not his wife, about the lost business account.
Like his wife, Matthew seems almost too perfect.
If either—or both—of them is playing a game, I’m several moves behind, and I desperately need to catch up.
My day is jam-packed, with appointments stacked up: a meeting with my accountant to answer his many questions about my taxes, a visit from the mobile vet to give Romeo his Bordetella vaccine, and sessions with three clients, including a brand-new one. But one way or another, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.