The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,69

I ask to speak with Lauren to tell her myself. There’s a heavy pause, then she says it’s hard to find the housekeeping staff. I say I understand. Smart woman. I could be anyone.

My day is a busy one, and I arrive for my four thirty meeting with Rachel with only five minutes to spare. Once the receptionist shows me to a small conference room, I tap my foot on the floor. Is this a mistake? Will I be convincing? Should I pretend to be pissed off? Should I cry? How do women on the verge of divorce act? The urge to bolt is strong. Wouldn’t take much. The door isn’t even closed. One quick right, then past the front desk. I wouldn’t even have to run. Could say I got an urgent call, will reschedule. No one would be the wiser.

Rachel walks in, banishing any thoughts of escape. Her hair, a little more red now than blonde, is fashioned in a tight bun. Gray pants today. Pale-blue V-neck. The professional, confident walk. Moleskine notebook and Cross pen. A polite expression, then recognition. I rise from my seat, but instead of moving in for a hug, she extends a hand.

Once seated, she says, “I thought the name looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure. You kept your maiden name.”

It isn’t a question, but I say yes anyway.

“It’s been a long time,” she says.

“Very long. How have you been?”

“I’m well, thank you, and you?” she says.

“Good. Well, mostly.”

“How did you find me?”

The phrasing throws me off, but there’s no menace in the words or on her face. “When I was looking for an attorney, I saw your name and …” I shrug. “I thought I might be more comfortable talking to someone I know. Or knew.”

She tips her head and glances at her watch. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

We go over details small and large—mortgage, bank balances, property, cars—and by the time we’re finished, I’m mentally exhausted. The notebook is filled with pages of figures and notes, her handwriting heavily slanted to the right, the letters getting messier as the appointment went on. Not a match to the envelopes.

She caps her pen. “This all seems quite straightforward. As I mentioned, if you can agree on property division, it will make it much easier. Once you’ve collected all the documents I mentioned earlier—and we’ll email you the list if you like—we can start on the paperwork. I don’t see anything that will cause any difficulties.” She splays her fingers. “Of course, it’s hard to predict how a spouse will react, so you might want to prepare yourself for the possibility that things won’t go as planned.”

“Thank you. I will. So other than helping people through their divorces, what have you been up to?”

She gives a smile that isn’t one at all. More like a cringe. “I’m married, one child.”

There’s an awkward silence where typically she’d ask the same of me.

“Do your parents still live in the old neighborhood?” I say.

“No, they split and sold the house right before I left for college.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What about your brother and sister? Are they still local?”

“Yes,” she says, the word terse.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into recently. Gia, of all people. She’s living in Annapolis now. Small world, right?”

For the first time there’s a softening to her features.

“We ran into each other at the bookstore, of all places,” I say. “We got to talking about the old days. Remember the house and the club? All the stories we told?”

Her face stills. She doesn’t blink. The temperature in the room changes. Then she says, peeking at her watch, “Only vaguely. It was a long time ago.” She rises from her seat.

I get the point and stand as well. “It was good to see you again.”

“You, too.” She clasps my hand for barely a second, doesn’t even look at me as she speaks, and walks me to the front with quick steps.

I tell her I’ll be in touch, and she says okay, already moving away. She most definitely didn’t want to talk about our past. But does that really mean anything? Maybe she wants to keep the relationship strictly professional and doesn’t want to be overly friendly. The way she acted doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t not have to, either.

* * *

I don’t forget to pick up Starbucks on my way to Silverstone, and when Nicole sees the cups, her eyes moon and she finger-claps. Doesn’t look like an act, either. I