“Do you even know what gaslighting means?” she asks. Darby’s not so sure she could offer a firm definition herself if pressed.
“Yes, Darby, I know what gaslighting means. I’ve been on Reddit. I’m an IT professional, remember?”
“Right. But—” Her lip quivers. She can’t look at him another second, can’t bear to. “I went to go talk to Miss Ollie.” She’s been so careful, so unbelievably careful to hold this in, but it doesn’t matter. Because Rhea’s onto something. It’s already out. “I’m not stupid, Griff. I’m not that kind of woman. You should know that by now. I was supposed to have a meeting with Mary Beth about the girls, but when she canceled, I went to go talk to Erin myself. And I was going to ask her, ask, you know, about why you came to speak with her. Go straight to the source. I figured it was about Lola. I know we don’t always see eye to eye about her.” This. She wants to tap her finger on that last bit for emphasis. The reason she jumped to the initial conclusion that her husband had headed her off, gone to get the first word in about Lola, perhaps requested the counselor evaluation without consulting Darby—which would have been bad enough, by the way—was not because she’s a naive twit; no, the reason she had ignored the late nights at work, the new emphasis on his appearance, all that, was because her mind was already circling around Lola. She was primed to ignore her husband. He was usually so ignorable in social settings.
So she believed the best-case scenario, gave the benefit of the doubt, and even that wasn’t a particularly great one because when it comes to their daughter, they’re supposed to tell each other things.
He lifts his eyebrows with seemingly boyish hope. “And what did she say? I’m sure she backed me up. She would have had to.”
She swallows. Is this it? He’s so confident that Miss Ollie would back him up, that she would have had to, why? What would give him that confidence?
Her hands are shaking now. She’s not well. “I didn’t get to talk to her, Griff.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think?” He must know the ending. “She was dead.”
She can see the mental math written on his face as he calculates it in his head. Darby was on campus on the day of the murder. She was looking for Erin.
“That’s not all.” She keeps her voice low. “I saw something, I mean someone. I saw someone leaving, right when I showed up. I swear I had no idea Miss Ollie was dead.”
“Who?”
She frowns. Never mind, it doesn’t matter whether she stays still. “You,” she says. “I saw you.”
His mouth twists. She doesn’t recognize his eyes. “You didn’t. This is insane. I wasn’t at school that day.”
“Which day?”
“Either! Why would I lie about it?” He swipes his hand across the counter, knocking a heavy Ralph Lauren glass from a set they’d received from their wedding registry. It cracks open on the floor. They stare at it together. Never once has either of them reacted like that in their marriage. An unspoken line crossed.
“The same reason you never told me about Sarah.” She can’t help saying the name with a schoolgirl teasing singsong.
“This is insane,” he says.
“I agree.”
“I didn’t even know Miss Ollie.”
“All the men knew Miss Ollie.” She can’t believe she was so la-di-da about the dads at Little ogling Miss Ollie. Worse, she was cavalier. Ugh. She hates her past self.
Griff rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t pretend that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
“I saw you,” she repeats. “You were leaving. You didn’t look back to see me, but you were.”
She was so surprised to spot him from a distance across campus, sort of delighted at first, the way it was a pleasant coincidence to bump into a friend at the airport. She yelled, “Griff!” And when he didn’t turn, she yelled it louder. Nothing. “Gri-iiff!” Again. Only this time a spike of irritation wiggled under her skin. He was ignoring her. Well, no thank you. That didn’t sit right. So Darby did what Darby would do: She gave chase.
Her feet against the cream-colored path. Through the church campus, she set off at a brisk pace, but he kept walking faster. Faster and faster. It took incredible self-control not to break into a run. And then somewhere between the unfamiliar church buildings, she’s disappointed to say, she lost him. Griff vanished, as if he were a ghost. Or a figment of her imagination.
At that point, she was sweltering with both anger and effort and she thought, Enough of these games. I’ll ask Miss Ollie directly what my husband is doing here, what secret opinions about Lola he’s shilling.
The rest is history, as they say. Almost. Because now she knows about Sarah.
“And—” She gathers steam. “—by the way, it’s not just that. You’ve been acting weird lately. I’ve been fine to go along because you are, you know, kind of weird. But now. Now I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. Disappearing on me. Just vanishing on these late-night work shifts that never existed before. And smiling at your phone. What’s so funny, huh?”
Nothing. That’s the answer. All of a sudden nothing is funny at all. Her husband looks grim.
“What are you accusing me of exactly?” He asks the question very slowly.
She thought that was obvious. “I’m asking a very simple question and I think it demands a very simple answer.”
“Are you asking if I’ve been cheating on you? Because it sounds like you’re asking if I’ve been cheating on you.”
At last, anguish from her husband, and it soaks every square inch of familiar terrain on his face and Darby doesn’t like it, not one bit. A sheen of oily sweat gleams off his nose and forehead and she feels that she too is sympathy sweating. He’s supposed to deny it out of hand. He’s supposed to tell her she’s lost her marbles. He’s not supposed to lose his cool. And now, she’s terrified that the next words out of his mouth will push her over a cliff so steep she can’t possibly scrabble her way back up.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Rhea slides into a chair across from Marcus at the coffee shop near his office, one of the cool spots with baristas who give a shit about where beans are sourced from. “Now still a good time?” she asks, accepting the mug of coffee he’s already thought to order her.
“I’ve always got time for you.” Rhea isn’t “establishment,” but she can admit she likes a man in work clothes. Marcus does his gray slacks and pale blue button-down proud. “You don’t have to ask.”
“Yeah I do,” she reminds him, and tries not to feel too badly when she spots him deflate. She just means they have boundaries. Boundaries are good. And they don’t need to know everything about each other, do they? Until they do. Unfortunately, that might be now.
She should be thrilled. In the last two days alone, orders for Terrene have quadrupled. A freshly verified Instagram account. A shining city on a hill. An example of a self-sacrificing mother doing everything in her child’s best interest.
She is all those things, she insists, as if someone has argued the point. At least in spirit, where it counts. And when she lays her head down at night, she sleeps just fine, thanks. Better, even, given how her advisor’s been fielding investor calls left and right. There may even be a wait list for different rounds, who knows. Well, Rhea knew, as a matter of fact.