The Widower's Wife: A Thriller (24 page)

As soon as she went inside, Ryan counted to ten and exited his car. He entered the same building and wished the linebacker of a guard good evening in the cheeriest tone he could manage. “I’m here to see Eve,” he said. “So sorry, I forgot her apartment number.”

The doorman gave him a once over. He tapped his keyboard. “Eve Dreher? She expecting you?”

Was he being tested? He had no idea if Dreher was really Eve’s last name or something the doorman made up to see if this visitor was a stalker. His expression didn’t appear suspicious. “I think I just missed her. I’m a bit late.”

He glanced back at his computer screen. “She’s in 206.”

Ryan walked through to the elevator and hit the button for the second floor. He exited into a wide hallway with gray carpet and cream, grass-cloth wallpaper. Eve’s apartment was the second on the right. He rapped twice on the door.

A voice called from inside. The door opened a crack, exposing half of the blonde’s face to the hallway. Her eyes narrowed. “Are you here for Bethany? Cause she’s out.”

Ryan guessed the other name belonged to a roommate. “No, actually, I was hoping to talk to you.” He spoke fast, trying to get through the whole introduction before Eve’s stranger-danger sensors told her to shut the door. She showed a bit more of her face as he supplied his name, title, and the details of the case. “Tom mentioned that you were helping with Sophia and were a family friend.”

The door pulled back. “You have to verify that I watched Sophia when they went away or something?”

Close up, Ryan could appreciate Eve’s appeal. She looked like the cheerleader in high school that everyone wanted to date.

“Yes. I do,” he said.

She invited him inside as though he were from the gas company.
Check the meter, make it snappy
. There was no offer of water or to sit down.

Ryan entered into a tiny living room. Half of the space had been cordoned off with one of those temporary plasterboard walls that single people in New York erected in order to take in illegal roommates. A loveseat, which mimicked a full-fledged couch in the small room, flanked a furry ottoman. A bar-height counter in the kitchen overlooked the main living area. Eve made her way behind the counter. Ryan leaned on the other side.

“So you are helping Tom take care of Sophia?”

“Yeah. I love kids.” She nodded like a bobblehead. “And Sophia is such a sweetheart.”

“How is Sophia doing?”

Eve tilted her hand in a what-you-gonna-do manner. “Well, I mean, she’s
constantly
asking for her mama.” She mocked the little girl. “‘Is mama comin’, Auntie Eve? Can you get her? Can you take her to me?’ I’ve explained she’s dead. Tom has. But she just
refuses
to accept it. Will what you want, right?”

“Poor girl,” Ryan said.

“Yeah. Sure.” Eve shrugged. “But hey, she’s young. In a year or two, she might not even remember her mother. I barely remember mine.”

The comment was odd for a family friend. “How do you know Tom and Ana?”

“I’m a recruiter. I met Tom through work.”

Statistics flashed in Ryan’s mind. Though only 36 percent of affairs were with coworkers, more than 60 percent of extramarital relationships started at work. About a third of these “work-related” affairs were with people met at the office, like a recruiter. Ryan reminded himself not to jump to conclusions. Eve had
not
spent the night at Tom’s house, after all.

“And you said you watched Sophia while Ana and Tom were away? You guys must be close.”

“Well, there wasn’t anyone else. Tom’s folks are dead.” She snorted. “Ana’s parents might as well be given that they’re in Brazil and have zero to do with Sophia.”

“Didn’t Ana have friends?”

“Guess not.” Eve glanced around the kitchen, as if debating whether to offer him anything, or looking for an exit. Ryan made it easy on her. “May I have a glass of water?”

She filled a glass beneath the kitchen faucet and handed it to Ryan with an expression that warned against becoming comfortable. He took a long sip. “So you and Tom are just friends or . . .”

“Yup, just friends.” She smiled. No teeth showed. “More like a cousin. I just really feel bad for him, you know? He was always good to me when he worked. He’d hire people I suggested or, at the very least, agree to interview them—often only as a favor to me. I wanted to return the kindness.”

She glanced at the door, undoubtedly wishing she hadn’t let a private investigator into her home. “You should really hurry up and give Tom the policy. Things will be much better when he can hire a team of people to take care of Sophia. That way he can really concentrate on grieving and moving on.”

Ryan put the glass down. She immediately scooped it up and placed it in the sink. “So you have everything you need, then.”

It was more of a statement than a question. Ryan fished his phone from his pocket. He opened the photo that Dina had sent him the prior day and slid the screen across the breakfast bar. “Do you know this woman?”

Eve picked up the phone. Her face changed from guarded to aghast. “Who is this?”

“Apparently another family friend. I was hoping you might know her and how to get in touch with her.”

Eve tried to zoom in on the image. She cursed under her breath.

“You sure you don’t recognize her?” Ryan asked. “Tom’s neighbor says she works for a wine store. She thinks they might have been having an affair.”

Eve shook her head and pushed the phone across the counter. Ryan nudged it back in her direction. “No. No, no, no.” She
grabbed her arms and rocked back and forth a bit, on the verge of having a fit. “No. He wasn’t seeing her.”

“Because he loved Ana?”

Eve glanced again at the screen waiting on the counter. Ryan repeated his question.

“Yeah. Ana.” She pressed her fingers over her eyelids. “No way he was sleeping with this bimbo.”

“You’re sure you don’t know her?”

“I don’t know her!” She turned and strode to the door. “I’ve answered your questions.”

Ryan pressed Eve for her number on the way out while giving her his card. She hesitated before supplying her cell with an eye roll that indicated she wouldn’t pick up. That was fine. He knew what buttons to push for her to call back.

After the door shut, he lingered for a moment, listening. He only heard the hiss of the heating system. New construction codes and noise ordinances ruined eavesdropping.

He had a feeling that Eve was phoning Tom.

30

August 28

T
he ocean spread out below the balcony, an opaque blue, darker than the blackout curtains in Sophia’s room. I couldn’t see through to the depths beneath. I couldn’t see beyond it. The sea was infinite. Like death.

I covered the thought with a mental stream of positivity. I would survive this. I was a strong swimmer. The balcony was on the fourth floor, extreme sport height. I had studied how to jump. Cliff divers had a system. First, they leapt straight out, ski jump style: hands pressed to sides, toes pointed. After that, they arched their backs, enabling gravity to pull their bodies straight. They always entered feet first. Finally, they extended their arms to keep from falling too deep.

Once I resurfaced, the ship’s motion would push me from the boat. Swimmers often avoided large vessels, fearing they would be sucked under. But the phobia wasn’t warranted. Cruise ships displaced so much water that a nearby floater was more likely to be sent miles away—or so said an article I’d read at the library. The waves cresting away from the boat’s sides toward the horizon confirmed my research.

Watching the sea foam below made my stomach churn. I had the sudden urge to splatter the lifeboat beneath my balcony with the scant contents of my lunch. I hadn’t felt much like eating since we’d gotten on the boat. Nerve-related nausea. I’d vomited the morning before we left and then, again, on the plane.

Bile rose into my throat as I looked at the curved hull of the upside-down dinghy, hanging one floor down beneath and to the right of my balcony. I’d need to jump on the left side to avoid slamming into it. The thought of cracking a rib against the lifeboat brought the acid up into my mouth. I retched and spat over the side.

“You’ll psych yourself out.” Tom kissed the top of my head. I took a panting breath and tried to relax into his chest behind me. He was right. No point overthinking the fall. It would be over in less than a second.

The breeze rippled a white sundress against my thighs. I’d dressed up, applied makeup. Tonight would be my last as Ana Bacon. We were going to my farewell dinner. Tomorrow night, I’d jump.

Tom’s thumb caressed my cheek. He pecked my lips. “Shall we?”

I stole one more glance at the sunset, trying to settle my swimming stomach. A wave of nausea overtook me. I broke away from my husband and ran through the balcony doors toward the closet-sized bathroom. My right side clenched. I threw back the toilet seat and hurled into the bowl.

*

The dining room was modeled on the Titanic but styled for Vegas. Two staircases spiraled up to an LED-lit platform fit for show girl debutantes. Gold velvet covered the walls. Fortunately, the sunset outside softened the gaudier aspects of the décor. It flooded through staggered picture windows, bathing the room in a hazy glow.

The dying daylight flickered on Tom’s face. His blue eyes had melted to a sea-glass shade. “You look beautiful,” he said as we waited for the host to take us to our table.

I accepted the compliment, even though I doubted its veracity. I’d cleaned up and reapplied my makeup after getting sick, but no amount of foundation could cover the sallow undertone in my skin.

A tuxedo-clad server escorted us to an empty round table, set for four. Our dining companions arrived before Tom and I picked up the menus. They introduced themselves with the enthusiasm that Yankees like my husband and I could never manage. Dennis and Kim from Atlanta, though she’d grown up in a small Louisiana town whose name I promptly forgot as soon as she’d said it. Both were business consultants. They’d met at work and married a decade ago. Their two boys, nine and six, were staying with Kim’s parents. Friday would be their tenth wedding anniversary.

We hadn’t asked for any of the information. They’d volunteered everything as soon as we’d said hello, as if filling out a verbal questionnaire. Name, hometown, occupation, reason for trip.

Tom patted my thigh beneath the table. He joined in their mostly one-sided conversation in a way that only I would recognize as poking fun.
Oh, which firm? Nice. I have a friend there, John Smith in accounting. No, I guess you guys wouldn’t have many dealings with the pencil pushers, huh?

I shoved a piece of bread in my mouth to keep from laughing. John Smith? Could he be any more transparent? Tom didn’t know a John Smith any more than he knew Pocahontas.

“And what brings you guys on the cruise?” Dennis asked.

Tom and I smiled at each other. “Vacation.” Our secret made conversation more fun. We weren’t ordinary spouses. We were coconspirators.

“Vacationing from . . .” Kim trailed off. She expected us to fill in our respective occupations and then, presumably, continue with the name game.
Oh, you work for this company? So does my brother-in-law. Small world
.

Unemployment wasn’t a good answer. My husband sipped his water in response. I knew he wished for wine. Where was our waiter?

I piped up before Tom’s silence could be misconstrued for rudeness. “We haven’t taken a trip without our daughter since she was born. Nearly four years. We needed some time with just the two of us. With everything that goes on in life, a distance can develop if you’re not careful. You know?”

Kim placed her hand over her husband’s. “It is important, isn’t it?”

Tom set down his water glass, watching my speech. “If you don’t take time to bridge the gap,” I said, “you can really end up lost. Sniping. Blaming each other for things. One day you look at your spouse and think, who is this that I married?” I leaned my head onto Tom’s shoulder. “We don’t want that to happen to us.”

Kim and Dennis raised their water glasses. “To not getting lost.”

A white-clad cruise employee appeared out of nowhere with a camera. He asked if we wanted a photo. Cruise personnel were always snapping pics in hopes that vacationers would scan through the kiosks at the end of the trip and purchase the shots for an obscene amount.

“Why not?” Kim said.

The man clicked as we clinked glasses. Tom didn’t toast. Emotion, raw as a skinned knee, seized his face. He stood from the table. “Bathroom,” he mumbled.

By the time he returned, my first course was cold. I caught the scent of whiskey on his breath. The smell turned my stomach and aggravated the heck out of me. He hadn’t gone to the restroom. He’d hit up the bar.

I forced myself to hold my tongue. So he’d needed a drink to calm his nerves. Who wouldn’t? If I hadn’t been so ill, he’d have asked me to join.

I’d ordered in his absence. A crab cake drizzled in an orange tartar sauce decorated the table in front of him. I tried not to look at it. The smell of shellfish was unsettling my stomach. “I figured you’d want the crab.”

A smile pinched the corner of his lips. “That’s fine. Just what I would have gotten.” He glanced at my plate. “You don’t like yours?”

Grilled shrimp lay untouched upon a bed of cooked spinach. The sight made my stomach do somersaults. I began coughing. The violence of it threatened to send the bite of shellfish I’d forced down moments ago into my lap.

Tom pointed me in the direction of the bathroom and I ran. Less than a minute later, chewed shrimp floated in the ladies’ room toilet. I held the sides of the porcelain bowl as I hurled, trying to get a grip.

When I returned to the table, Kim donned a wary smile. “Seasickness?” she asked in a low tone, leaning forward, as if the answer might embarrass me.

“Must be.” Tom sat straighter in his chair, seizing the opportunity to lay the groundwork for my fall. He might have even believed that my latest bathroom trip had been for show. “She’s been sick all day. Isn’t that right, babe?”