She glances at her house, then back at me. “What is it?” Nervous energy is radiating from her; I can tell she’s distracted.
“I was hoping we could talk.” Remembering my conversation with Polly, I suggest, “How about we sit in your car for a few minutes?”
Marissa shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry—no, I just—I—I need to go inside first.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever spoken with her that her words have emerged choppy and unpolished. Marissa’s hair is piled up in a scrunchie, and a smear of mascara is under her left eye. One of her pant legs is caught inside her high-heeled leather boot, and the other one hangs free.
My poised, glamorous, perfect client seems to be falling apart.
This will be our sixth session, Confrontation.
For Cameron, it meant finally standing up to his wife, Skylar. For Kimberly, whose parents minimized her rape, it meant writing them a letter detailing how they’d failed her.
It’s not lost on me that I literally had to confront Marissa to arrange this meeting. I’m the architect of my method, but the contents of the Confrontation session, more than that of any others, tend to surprise me.
“I’ll come inside with you.” I begin walking up the steps toward the front door. I expect her to protest, but her expression fills with gratitude. She seems so distraught that I have to quash the instinct to offer her my arm to hold on to.
“Did something happen today?” I ask just before we reach the door.
My question seems to take her by surprise. “No. Not that I know of.”
She slides her key into the lock and pushes the heavy wooden door open and rushes inside. I hear a Dave Matthews song playing and, over it, Matthew’s loud, animated voice. He seems to be in the middle of telling a story.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Matthew! Bennett!” Marissa calls sharply, ignoring my question.
She doesn’t even take off her coat or slide her purse off her shoulder. She hurries down the hallway, toward the sound of Matthew’s voice.
I’m right behind her.
“Hey, sweetie!” Matthew comes out of the kitchen, holding a glass of red wine. He’s in khakis and a black crew-necked sweater, with a fresh-looking small white bandage on his forehead.
“Avery!” he adds when he spots me a second later. “This must be the night for surprise guests.”
Like Marissa, he seems startled but not displeased by my unexpected arrival.
Matthew walks over to Marissa, who seems frozen in place, and plants a quick kiss on her lips. “Bennett’s upstairs playing Minecraft on the Xbox. Come on in, ladies.”
Before we can move, however, another man emerges from the kitchen, also holding a glass of wine. Unlike Matthew, he’s dressed more casually in faded jeans, a hoodie sweater, and Nike running shoes.
I glimpse his face and my stomach plummets. Dizziness engulfs me.
The scene unfolding in front of me is surreal. Different parts of my life are colliding and merging, like the shards of a kaleidoscope, in a way that makes absolutely no sense.
The Bishops’ other guest greets Marissa first, bending down to kiss her cheek, giving me a desperately needed moment to try to collect myself.
Then he straightens up, and his eyes meet mine.
I know those eyes well.
I also know the feel of those lips on mine.
“Avery, this is one of our closest friends,” Matthew says. “Meet Skip.”
PART
THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AVERY
THERE’S NO WAY MARISSA and Matthew just happen to know Skip; his presence can’t be a simple coincidence. A bigger, more ominous force has brought us together tonight.
I want to freeze this moment and study all the players. I want to pull out my yellow legal pad and scrutinize my notes. I want to take these people aside, one by one, and interrogate them.
But I can’t do any of that; I have a hunch it would not be in my best interests.
I smile and choose my words carefully. “Hi, Skip.”
As his big hand closes around mine, I notice his fingers feel cold, and before his eyes skitter away from mine, I glimpse concern. Or is he merely wary?
My simple, ambiguous greeting has supplied him with a choice. He can pretend it’s our first meeting, or he can acknowledge we already know each other.
“Nice to meet you, Avery.”
So this is how he wants to play it.
A dozen questions erupt in my mind. Before I can decide which one to ask, Marissa heads for the staircase, her coat on and purse still slung over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back. I want to check on Bennett.”