Something thumps onto the floor. Hangers slide on the rod. More thumping. Now I’ve completely lost my place, damn it. Which celebrity wore the red carpet dress best? Oh, there it is. Sixty-two percent say she did. I disagree—I wouldn’t be caught dead in those gaudy shoes—but whatever.
Travis groans, and then the sounds start over again. Shifting, thumping, sliding.
I drop the magazine in my lap. “Travis, what are you doing?”
“Packing bags.” He peers out from the closet. He looks tired, his eyes red and strained. “I was thinking we could get out of here for a week or two. You know, just the two of us. Escape all this madness and disappear. Put everything behind us for a while.”
“Disappear? What about work?”
“I was let go.”
“What?” My voice kicks up an octave. “What do you mean you were let go?”
“Michael fired me. Well, he didn’t. Bastard was too much of a coward to say it to my face. He had someone else relay the message.” He ducks back into the closet and comes out with two pieces of luggage: his black duffel and my Louis Vuitton. He throws them on the bed. “It’s fine, Rachael. I’ll find another job and take his clients with me when I go. It’s good timing, actually. Let’s just go.”
“You know I can’t do that. I’d have to reschedule all of my appointments.”
“Do it. I’ll drive, and you can make calls on the way.”
I frown, slap the magazine closed. “On the way to where, exactly?”
“I was thinking Napa.” Fishing his key ring out of his back pocket, he heads to the closet once more. The clink of the safe opening hits my ears. He emerges with his modified Glock and shoves it into his bag. “You enjoyed yourself the last time we visited. Remember that great bed-and-breakfast with a spa? You can drink wine, take a mud bath, read as many of those trashy magazines as you want.”
“Why do we need a gun in Napa?”
He jerks upright. “I come home to tell you that I’m whisking you away for a week of wine and pampering—what every woman dreams of—and you sound put out by it. Would it kill you to be thankful for once?”
“I am—I guess a weekend in Napa sounds great—but what about the cost? If you don’t have a job, how are we going to afford a trip?”
“Oh, here we go,” he says spitefully.
I hover on the brink of saying what’s really on my mind. You’re running. It doesn’t look good. In fact, it makes him look guilty.
“I just don’t know why you’re in such a rush,” I say instead.
He stands at the foot of the bed, and his eyes go dark. “Have you been talking to the cops?”
“What?” A chill creeps over my legs despite the blankets covering them. “No. Well, except for when they came to see me at work.”
He measures me carefully, and when he speaks again, it’s nearly a whisper. “Have you noticed anyone following you?”
I roll my eyes. “Travis—”
“I’m being serious, Rachael. Look.”
He stalks around the bed, snatches my arm, and drags me down the hall. I protest the entire way, trying to shake off his fierce grip. But he doesn’t stop. He’s gone mad. He charges down the stairs, and I stumble behind him, struggling not to fall and break my neck. The house is dark, thanks to the clouds that moved in this afternoon. Rain batters the glass. At least the terrible weather has driven away the reporters. No one occupies our lawn tonight.
Downstairs, he pushes me against a window. From here, it looks as if we’re standing behind a waterfall. Heavy streams of water sluice down the glass, and the sound echoes through the house.