I can’t believe anything he says.
I scrub every last corner of the oven, lashing the sides with the pad. I scrub so violently the oven shakes. My eyes blur with tears.
“Rachael?”
I jerk upright, swiping at my eyes with the back of my wrist. The scent of bleach stings my nose, and I blink back more tears. Travis is standing there, briefcase in hand, his eyes wide. His hair looks windblown, as if he drove back from the city with the windows down. I can’t remember the last time I felt carefree enough to roll the windows down.
Did Joanna do those things with him? Did she make him feel that way?
I never used to be this person—the jealous one who doubts everything. I used to be confident and self-reliant. I was never jealous of Joanna or in need of reassurance. My friend was gorgeous and whip-smart, but I wasn’t threatened by her.
Then she decided she wanted my husband.
“What are you doing?” Half laughing, Travis sets his briefcase on the counter and bends to peer into the oven. “Did you…clean?”
Biting back a sarcastic remark, I peel the wet gloves from my hands and toss them into the sink. I really can’t be irritated at his surprise. I’ve never cleaned the oven before, but I had to do something or I was going to splinter apart. Now I’m out of breath and sweating, and no more prepared for this confrontation than I was when I slammed through the door.
“How was your day?” I fire back, leaning back against the counter as I fold my arms over my chest. “Did you meet with the detectives?”
“Not yet. Detective Shaw called and rescheduled. They must’ve gotten tied up somewhere.”
I search the angles of his face, the square line of his jaw, the sculpted edge of his cheekbones, for signs of deception. Because now I can’t trust even the smallest of statements.
“They stopped by to see me late this morning,” I say, my tone sharp.
“So you were free for lunch then?” He moves around the island and pours himself a gin and tonic. He doesn’t offer me one. “Why didn’t you call?”
“The afternoon filled up with appointments.”
But it doesn’t matter. Even if I were free during his break, I wouldn’t have called the way I usually do when I’m working out of the office. I couldn’t have been in public with him, sitting across a table in some swanky restaurant, chatting as if nothing had gone wrong. I couldn’t fake wedded bliss. Not today.
“That’s too bad,” he says, tipping back his drink. “Would’ve been nice to see you.”
“Really?” I hear the bitterness in my voice.
“Of course. Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m not sure I can believe anything that comes out of your mouth anymore.”
He sets his glass down with such force, I worry it’ll shatter on the granite. “Jesus! What the hell’s the matter with you today?”
“They have the phone records, Travis.” I swallow down the fear rising inside me. “They know you texted her, and she texted you, for months, right up until the time she was killed.”
“Rachael…” He takes a step toward me.
“No, don’t come any closer.” Hands out, I slide along the counter to put space between us. I’m not afraid of him hurting me. I’m afraid of the weakness I’ll feel if he gets too close. I’m terrified of losing my reserve, of giving in and letting him win before he’s been wounded from battle. I want him to hurt the way I’ve been hurt, to feel like he, too, is shriveling inside. “You were seeing her behind my back for months. How could you do that to me?”
“Rachael, you always knew what was going on—”
“With the others, yes. But not with her.” My voice trembles, betraying me. “Did I complain when you slept with