Polly nods proudly. “At first I couldn’t place him, but then I realized who he was.”
Get to the point, Polly! I want to scream.
“He’s this homeless man, Ray, who usually sits on a bench down the street from our shop. He always has these funny signs. Do you think he’s the one who is obsessed with Marissa? I know she buys sandwiches for him sometimes.”
I blink hard, trying to sort and categorize what I’ve just learned. If I trust the information Polly has given me—and it should be easy enough to verify—I’ve just learned something crucial: Matthew and I aren’t the only people Marissa has lied to; she blatantly deceived Polly about the contents of the video camera. Marissa must have known for days who put the note under the door.
Anger sweeps through me; she conned me. Again.
The theory I’ve been playing around with—that Marissa never actually had an affair—could be bolstered by this new information.
Perhaps Marissa asked the homeless man to leave the note. Maybe she is arranging for the calls Polly has been answering at Coco. Marissa could even have sent herself flowers, timing their arrival so that Matthew and I would be there to witness it.
If Marissa created this elaborate scenario to try to cast herself as a victim and get attention from her husband—or for some other, more sinister reason—she has succeeded, I think, remembering how Matthew held his arm around her protectively during our last session.
One percent of the population is composed of psychopaths, and most of them aren’t the homicidal criminals we envision. We’ve all encountered them: people who seem charming and charismatic, but who lie without remorse and manipulate and deceive. And female psychopaths can be particularly adept at manipulation.
I think back to the moment the Bishops first entered my home, looking like the couple who had everything. I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to get to know them intimately, yet they still feel like strangers.
Then I look over at Polly. “Have you told Marissa you saw the footage?”
Polly shakes her head.
“But you drove all the way downtown to tell Matthew?”
“He’s worried about her. Like really worried … I just felt like I should tell him.”
Polly is studying my face, nakedly eager for our conversation to continue now.
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?” she cries.
“Actually, there is one more thing. How did you enjoy working at Anthropologie?”
Polly has a terrible poker face. Her flush extends to include her ears.
Or maybe she’s a brilliant actress.
“Look, I didn’t really have a job there, okay? Please don’t tell Marissa. The truth is, I had stopped working as a nanny and I was temping when I walked into Coco and I never wanted to leave. It’s sophisticated and elegant and everything.…” Polly looks down at her lap and her final words come out as a whisper. “Everything I’m not.”
I breathe in deeply, wondering if she’s talking about Coco, or the woman who owns the boutique.
“I’ll let you get to work now.” I open the car door, but before I step out, I decide to toss her a bone. Polly could be useful in the future. “It was very smart of you to check the camera.”
She smiles, and I straighten up, shutting the door and watching her drive away.
I learned a lot about Marissa during the past couple of minutes. She has plenty to answer for, and I deliberately didn’t tell Polly I am also heading to Coco, because I don’t want Marissa to have any warning of my impending arrival.
But I learned something about Polly, too.
Every time I inhaled, I smelled a delicate, floral perfume—subtle, but distinctive enough that I recognized it.
It’s the scent Marissa wears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MARISSA
MARISSA DOESN’T ARRIVE at Coco until almost eleven, and even Polly’s usual barrage of questions or the news that Avery stopped by unexpectedly right after the store opened, hoping to catch Marissa, can’t erase Marissa’s smile. Her chin is slightly red from rubbing against Matthew’s unshaven stubble, and throughout the day she finds her hand rising to touch the tender skin, as if to seal in the memory.
Lovemaking with Matthew felt different this morning. Powerful, raw, fierce—Marissa can’t put her finger on the exact word to describe it, but those come close.
Matthew’s eyes had been closed; he’d seemed to lose himself completely in the physical act, not even feeling the pain of his injuries. At the very end, he’d opened his eyes and stared into hers. You’re mine, he’d whispered.