flat surfaces with disinfectant wipes. When I’m done, the house smells of lemon cleanser and dryer sheets. I stink of sour sweat.
My stomach growls, but the thought of food makes me queasy, so I drink a glass of wine. A brilliant move. Once it hits my empty stomach, it makes a reappearance in no time flat. I don’t try anything else, just brush my teeth with a spare I found in the closet—safe in its packaging—and climb in bed.
I checked the French doors, didn’t I?
But when I planted the flower bulbs on Sunday, surely I locked the doors when I came back in. That was five days ago. I don’t think I’ve been out back since. Has Ryan?
I slip out of bed and tug on my robe, tying it tight. Down the stairs one at a time, mouth dry. What if the doors are unlocked? What if she’s out back, waiting for me to realize that? What if she’s hiding somewhere in the house?
“Stop,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
My steps grow slower as I approach the French doors, not wanting to see what’s painfully obvious: the thumb-turn lock is in the disengaged position. I jam it to the right, tugging on the handles to make sure it’s secure. Now I know how she got inside, but I wish it made me feel better.
I rub my upper arms and do a quick check downstairs. I do the same on the second floor, but I’m alone. I’m safe. But something tugs at the back of my mind. It doesn’t make sense. Lauren played her fearful act at the hotel yesterday, didn’t show up for our meeting last night, then broke into our house today to move things around? It doesn’t feel right. Am I missing something painfully obvious? Have I somehow fallen into a trap I can’t see?
Back in bed, I pull the covers to my chin, but sleep refuses to claim me for its own. When Ryan comes in, I know he knows I’m still awake, but he pretends I’m not. We both do.
* * *
It’s easy enough to act like everything’s normal while we’re getting ready for the day. Or maybe it’s because we’re moving in different direction and rarely cross paths. At least not until we bump into each other in the kitchen, both with designs on the coffeemaker.
As I’m pouring milk into my travel mug, I say, “Did you leave the French doors unlocked yesterday?”
“No, I wasn’t out back. Why?”
“They were unlocked when I got home. I probably did it, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Do you want me to go check?”
“No, I locked them.” But he’s already out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, there’s the distinctive rattle.
“Locked tight,” he says when he comes back in.
“Okay,” I say.
I feel his gaze on my back, sense the weight of an incipient conversation, but as soon as I’m done making my coffee, I toss a quick “Have a good day” over my shoulder. There’s a pause before he says the same in return. But everything will be okay eventually. I know it will. I just have to get through all this first.
When I get into the office, I’ve an email from Rachel waiting. I steel myself—for what I don’t know—as I open it, but it’s from her assistant, asking if I’ve had a chance to compile the requested information yet. It takes me a second to realize what she’s talking about. Financial documents pertaining to my supposed divorce. I should write that I’ve changed my mind, but I close the email without responding.
Nothing from Lauren.
Still nothing after my first patient leaves. The same after my second. Every time I close my eyes, I envision her sneaking through my house, moving my things. I have a little over an hour before my next patient session. It’s time enough. Clutching my car keys, I tell Ellie I’ll be back shortly and get on the highway, driving toward Lauren’s. It’s probably not the wisest move and she probably isn’t even home, but I need to know why she didn’t show for the meeting. Why she came to my house. And if all this is a trap of sorts, she won’t expect this. At least I hope not.
The drive’s an easy one, but when I draw near her street, a group of people are huddled on the corner. A red news van is parked at the far end. A few feet away, a reporter is speaking into the microphone, gesturing toward the building. What