“What do you see?” he roars. His hands bite into me and I wince. “Look, damn it!”
“I see Ravenwood with a few lights on inside. Michael’s car. Two news vans. The cypress grove.”
“There,” he hisses, grinding his fingers into my hips. “Where the street bends by the trail, where Cypress intersects Beach, what do you see?”
I squint, and barely make out the shape through the rush of water. “A car?”
“It’s been following me all day.” Finally, he releases me. “It’s a blacked-out Lincoln. I’ve been paying attention. They’re not tailing Michael anymore. They’re on me.”
“Are you sure? Why—why would they be following you?”
“Because they must’ve discovered my relationship with Joanna went deeper than a few pointless texts.”
Relationship. Not tryst, or stupid, regrettable fling. Relationship. Why does he talk about the affair so casually, as if it’s not a big deal, as if I’ve forgiven him? God, it burns me inside. I think about him cheating on me with her every day, yet if I bring it up, he’ll say I’m holding a grudge and destroying our marriage. He’s under the impression he can do whatever the hell he wants, and from one simple apology I’m supposed to forgive and forget.
But it’s not that easy. I thought I could forgive him, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve never believed a confession erases all the sins someone has committed, even if that’s what my parents taught me.
Maybe he doesn’t deserve my forgiveness.
“Are you going to get a lawyer?” I ask, as I slip out of his embrace and head upstairs.
“No. We’re going to leave.” He’s on my heels, one step behind me. “Finish packing. We’ll be out in thirty.”
Cheeks flushing hot, I storm into the bedroom and peel open the flap of my bag. He’s packed it with enough clothes for the weekend: a couple of shirts, a skirt, a pair of flats, and a few pairs of underwear.
“If you’re innocent, you probably shouldn’t go anywhere,” I can’t resist saying.
“What do you mean ‘if I’m innocent’? You think I killed Joanna?”
“No, of course not,” I say, backing away from him. His face scares me. “It’ll look bad, that’s all. Murderers run when they’re guilty. You see it all the time on TV. It’s what tips the cops off that you’re the main suspect. Haven’t you ever watched a detective show?”
“Damn it, Rachael, this isn’t a television show, this is our life.” He shoves a stack of underwear into his bag, followed by two pairs of shorts and a handful of socks. “We’re not running because we’re guilty. We’re an innocent married couple being victimized by the crazy amount of hype on our street, who desperately need a vacation to recharge our batteries. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”
But I’ve never known him to pack his gun when we take a vacation.
“You’re right,” I answer, feeling myself become angry. “Of course you’re right. You always are.”
“We’re going to Napa,” he snaps, chucking his shaving kit into the bag, “and that’s it. End of discussion.”
A thought strikes me, sudden and conclusive: I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stay with him.
A flare of contempt rises in my gut. “What if I don’t want to go with you?”
“Jesus, we’re going on vacation, Rachael! It’s not like I’m dragging you to the desert. It’s fucking Napa. Why do you always make everything so damn difficult?” As he adjusts the sides of his bag, he mumbles, “Joanna wasn’t so difficult to please.”
“What was that?”
He glances up, his expression flat. “I said you couldn’t be more difficult to please.”
But that wasn’t what he said. If I challenge him on it further, he’ll only deny it. We’ve been through this ritual so many times before. We’ll fight. The ruined evening will somehow end up being my fault. Then, by tomorrow morning, I’ll question whether I actually heard