The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (14 page)

I parked and then sat inside the garage, staring at the dashboard. The clock read eleven fifteen
PM
. I’d stayed out too late. If only I’d refused that celebratory drink . . .

I couldn’t stay in the car forever, even if I wanted to. I opened the door and stepped out. My legs had fallen asleep. A sadistic acupuncturist jabbed at my thighs as I put weight on them. I planted a palm on the Camry’s hood for support and leaned over to open the mudroom door.

I slipped my heels off. My bare feet, sweaty from nerves, squeaked against tile. The powder room door was open on my right. I knew I looked awful, but I couldn’t clean up and have Tom hear the faucet running. He might wonder if I washed off someone else’s scent.

The railing supported my weight as I ascended the back stairs. I rounded the hall to our bedroom. The house was silent. At least Sophia was asleep.

I slipped through the master bedroom door. Tom sat in our king bed, back pressed against oversized, linen pillows, a large book resting in his lap. A scotch glass sat on the nightstand, cradling a sphere of ice.

I wanted to collapse onto the covers, fold into the crook of my husband’s arm, and hide. I wanted Tom to make me feel safe and loved. But I could tell by his lowered brow that he didn’t plan on providing any such comfort.

“Working pretty late, huh?”

Though the words were plain, his tone could have sliced stone. I shuddered with the death throes of my adrenaline. Tears tumbled down my cheeks.

Tom jumped from the bed. “What happened?” For the first time in months, he didn’t sound angry. Anxiety raised the pitch of his voice.

I couldn’t look at him. My long hair covered my face as words bubbled out like boiling water in a saucepan. “My boss invited me to a dinner with this pension fund. He said I’d be helpful in feeding him relevant stats. I thought if I went it could help me get more money . . .”

“What happened?” Tom sounded frantic.

“The guys from the pension fund left, and we were in this private bar.” My breath came out in staccato gasps, adding a comma after every word. “And the next thing I knew . . . Michael was forcing himself on me.”

I chanced a look at my husband. He stared at the weeping mess before him. It seemed he didn’t recognize me. Was he
shocked that it had happened or that I had let it happen? I had to get it together.

I wiped beneath my eyes with my fists. “I tried to push Michael away, but he was stronger. No one came to help. I had to knee him in the groin to make him stop. Then he fired me.” I attempted a deep breath. Oxygen entered my lungs in painful spurts. “I swear, Tom, I’ve been over it a hundred ways in my head. I didn’t do anything to lead him on. I didn’t want this. I only went to the meeting because I thought that if I did a good job, he might consider me for a better-paid marketing role or give me an advance against my bonus. He knew we were married.”

Tom’s chest rose and fell as though he were running. His neck had turned a raw pink. “Did you go to the cops?”

“No. He said they wouldn’t believe me. They’d think I targeted him for money because of our financial difficulties.”

Tom paced in front of me. A vein protruded from his forehead. He looked as though someone were strangling him—except for the eyes. They remained focused, furious.

The look reminded me of Michael. My body responded to the similarity. A flight instinct shook my limbs, urging me to run. There was nowhere to go. I slumped onto the ground. “I’m so sorry.” I blubbered like a hurt child, not even trying to get it together anymore. “I didn’t mean for any of this—I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry. I didn’t know . . . I thought I was helping us.”

Warm palms cupped my biceps. My husband kneeled in front of me. His lips grazed my forehead. “I should never have let you work for that guy,” he said. “He had a reputation.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I just thought—”

“Sshhh. Don’t apologize. There’s no need for you to be sorry.” Tom cupped my chin. He looked me straight in the eye. “You’re beautiful. And he’s a bastard who knows my situation, so he thinks he can just take you from me without repercussion.”

My husband’s chest muffled my sobs. He stroked my hair. “You did good, baby. You didn’t let it happen.”

I burrowed deeper beneath his arm. He smelled of sweat and sandalwood. He sounded like the man I’d married, the one who’d promised to honor and protect. Kisses fell on my forehead, my cheeks, and finally, my mouth, each one awakening memories of my humanity. I wasn’t flesh, but a mother and a wife. I hadn’t deserved this.

My husband scooped me into his arms. I hung on his neck as he carried me to our bed. He laid me on the comforter and pushed my hair away from my tear-stained face. His long fingers slipped beneath me, propping me up just enough to pull the zipper on the back of my dress.

I pulled the fabric over my head and removed my bra, eager to free myself of the clothing that smelled of Michael’s cologne, wanting my husband to erase the night’s memory with his hands.

“Do you want your pajamas?” he asked, though he didn’t move toward the closet. Instead, he stared at my body as though it surprised him.

“No. I want you to come to bed.”

He pulled down his boxers, leaving them on the floor as he lay down beside me atop the blanket. His thick palm cupped my side, pulling me close to him. The heat from his body enveloped me. His hand slipped from my waist to my hips and then to my thighs, taking my underwear with them.

He kissed me again, more forcefully this time, leaning his weight into me so that I fell onto my back. Lips traced a line from the center of my neck to between my breasts.

Tom made a possessive kind of love, pulling me into him so there was only space for him to move. I granted him the control, partially because I was too exhausted to wrest it and, mostly, because I feared he would lose interest if I gave any direction. With everything that had happened, he needed to be in charge, at least here.

When he finished, he rolled over onto his side, sweaty and satisfied. I leaned over him and kissed his damp cheek, a thank-you for the intimacy and the trust. “I love you,” I said.

He petted my head. “Yeah. I love you, too.”

Tom hadn’t said those words in a long time. He understood their power. “Love” wasn’t a signature at the end of an e-mail. It meant we belonged to each other.

I hid the tips of my fingers in the curled hairs on his chest, trying to make the moment last. It was already slipping through my grasp. My thoughts had turned to tomorrow. Going into work and seeing Michael was out of the question, but there’d be exit paperwork, things to do to collect unemployment. Would HR e-mail the necessary documents? I’d never been fired before. The next steps eluded me. And there was still the problem of my parents needing a grand—two hundred more than I had—not to mention our own financial straits. How long could we squat in our home before the bank repossessed it? Where would we go? We didn’t have enough savings to put down a month’s rent and a month’s security.

“What are we going to do?” I mumbled the question into Tom’s chest.

He buried his nose into my hair. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I have a plan.”

17

November 26

L
’Ange Treize looked like a Brooklyn loft owner had hired a French decorator. The restaurant’s casement windows gave it an industrial vibe, but the sumptuous décor inside screamed Versailles. Sunlight reflected off large golden plates gracing a dozen round tables, each one surrounded by carved, oval-backed chairs. Most of the seats in the restaurant were empty. The few guests picked at half-finished entrees. Thanksgiving was not a popular day for lunch in the city.

Ryan thought of the meal he’d force down later: brown rice and vegetables out of an undoubtedly white takeout box. Chinese food: the Thanksgiving dinner of new immigrants and friendless bachelors. Leslie and Angie would be celebrating at his former in-laws’, waiting for his ex-“dad” to bring the turkey in from the fryer while his former mother-in-law fussed over how much sugar to stick in the cranberry sauce. He needed to find time today to call his kid.

He pushed the thought into his brain’s “later” pile and approached the hostess pulpit. A svelte woman with severe features bowed over an open laptop. Behind her, black velvet curtains framed a massive mural. The painting suggested
The Last Supper
but was done in an impressionist style with soft colors and hazy lighting. The faces of the disciples had been swapped in favor of famous French artists. Monet was Jesus, destined to rise again. Ryan recognized Renoir, Cezanne, Van Gogh, and Degas
as disciples from their famous self-portraits. Gauguin was close to Jesus, reaching for the bread. He’d been cast as Judas.

An unsmiling young woman looked up from her computer. “Unfortunately, sir, we are not seating now. Lunch has just ended. The kitchen closes at two
PM
today.” Her focus returned to the screen, a visual dismissal.

For the umpteenth time since starting Ana’s case, Ryan lamented that the badge inside his wallet had the word “private” emblazoned below the seal. His mouth pinched into an apologetic smile and he tilted his head down, compensating for his lack of authority with acted deference. “Apologies for coming in so late on a holiday. Hoping you could help me.”

The ghost of a frown on the woman’s face became a full-fledged apparition. “We’re closing.”

Ryan powered through as though she’d uttered something in a strange language. “I’m an investigator looking into a woman’s disappearance.” He again avoided the four-letter D-word, as his company had yet to formally acknowledge that fact. “I believe a Mrs. Ana Bacon dined here back on August eighteenth, shortly before she went missing. I want to confirm and speak to any staff who would have waited on her that evening.”

The woman’s lips pressed together. She stared, perhaps trying to shoo him away by the force of her expression. When he didn’t move, she began typing into the computer. “Bacon? Spelled like the food?”

“Yes. On August eighteenth.”

Keys clattered before ending in the decisive downbeat of the return key. “I’m afraid that name is not in the system. We keep a record of all reservations. Perhaps she didn’t eat here.”

“The reservation may have been made under her boss’s name. Michael Smith, Derivative Capital.”

Fingers flew over the keys, followed by a series of enter slaps. “Yes. Mr. Smith is a frequent guest.” Her finger stroked the screen, scrolling down. “It looks like he did join us that evening. Party of four. Table eighteen.”

“May I speak with whomever served him?”

The woman’s tongue protruded from her mouth. She tucked it back inside, blocking it with pressed lips. “Uh. I don’t know if I’m supposed to . . .”

Ryan slipped out his wallet. He flashed his PI badge, keeping it in his hand so she couldn’t scrutinize the writing across the metal. “I’d really appreciate the help.”

Her shoulders sunk like a kid realizing there was no way out of a homework assignment. She took a visible breath. “I’m pretty sure that Harry works table eighteen on Tuesdays. I don’t know that he’d remember someone from three months ago, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Ryan trailed the girl through the near-empty restaurant and into a galley kitchen of blinding white and steel. The cooks were noticeably absent, though several squat men with rubber gloves bent over large basins of dishes. The hostess led him to a college-age kid, standing in the back of the room beside a linen closet. A crisp, white shirt covered his torso, the sleeves rolled up to show skinny elbows. He was in the midst of unfastening a black apron.

“Harry, this man is an investigator. He wants to know about some woman whom you served last summer.”

Ryan limped over to the back of the room. “Do you remember waiting on a Michael Smith and Ana Bacon the night of August eighteenth?”

Harry removed his apron and began folding it. “The guy’s name sounds familiar.” He glanced at the hostess and simpered. “He’s the regular, right? Generous tipper? Always ends up downstairs at the bar . . .”

The girl averted her eyes as she tried to maintain a dour expression.

Ryan ignored their silent exchange. “Mrs. Bacon was the woman who fell off the cruise ship a few months ago. Dark hair, big eyes. Maybe you remember her from TV?”

Harry slipped the now folded garment into the closet before turning back to answer the question. “Oh, yeah. When the story came out, I recognized her.”

“How did she seem the night that you waited on her?”

“Nothing stood out. If she’d been crying or something, I’d probably remember.” He rubbed his hand over his spiky blond hair, as if dusting off the workday. “She and that Smith guy must have been celebrating. He only comes in here to toast deals over dinner. It’s his thing. Then he heads to the private bar below.” The server again tried to catch the hostess’s eye as he smirked.

“Do you remember if he went to the bar that night? And if Ana went with him?”

He whistled. “That’s a tall order. You’d have to ask Jake. He bartends there. I’m back and forth between the tables and the kitchen.” Harry shut the closet door. “Jakey was smoking out back a minute ago. Probably still there.”

Harry pointed to a back door that must have led to an alley behind the kitchen, probably where the restaurant kept its dumpsters. The hostess folded her hands in front of her belly button. “I hope we’ve been of help.” Her words made it clear that, whether or not she had been, she wouldn’t be providing any more aid.

Ryan went through the back door and exited into the seasonally appropriate forty-degree weather. After so many days of cold, it felt like spring. He’d even swapped his pea coat for a thin leather jacket. The dirt-speckled snow had finally melted, leaving the asphalt in the alley looking damp but not dirty. The warmth had a downside, though. It had thawed the garbage, releasing the stink of pasta sauce and old fish from the bins behind the restaurant.

Two men in chef’s aprons stood in a cloud of smoke beside another man in black suit pants and a matching button-down. Ryan wanted a cigarette, not to puff but to bum as a way to slip into the group. Smoking excused loitering and idle conversation.