Page 31

Dinah

Joe can absolutely not find out about the IA investigation.

This is the antithesis of everything about our relationship. We are a team. A united front, poised together against outside threats. He has my back and I have his. Together, we are impenetrable, yet I stepped out on my own, left my back exposed and allowed this long-legged man to jump on it.

I swerve into the right lane and have to slam on the brakes, narrowly missing the back of a Tesla with a Green Day sticker on it.

I jab at the horn, dive back into the left lane, and steal a quick look at the clock, ticking through Joe’s schedule.

He’s on campus, for a lecture scheduled at eleven. After that, he’ll head to the clinic.

I hesitate at the upcoming exit, then move into its lane and gun it down the ramp.

I merge, then take a right at the light and pull into a parking lot.

Putting the town car in park, I grab the first thing I find—a white paper bag from the breakfast shop at the corner.

I dry-retch into it once, collect myself, then retch again.

Everything comes up, soaking the thin paper bag and coating the half-eaten bagel and wadded napkin in a spray of cookies-and-cream ice cream that is tinged orange from my morning juice.

I inhale and lift my head from the bag, catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.

My eyes are red, and there are specks of vomit on my lips. I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe them off, but it doesn’t make me look any less guilty. Is it from my marital deception or from the fear of the investigation? Maybe both.

I reach over and open the glove box, grabbing the spare napkins I keep there. I sit back and dab my eyes and the top of my shirt. There’s a big glob that smears, and I want to cry from the weight of it all.

My phone lights up with a text from Joe.

I love you so much.

I stare at the screen, and my eyes blur with tears. There’s my karma for always scoffing at the blabbermouths at the clinic and in my interview rooms. I haven’t cried in years, not since Oley died—yet here I am, falling apart in a Toothy Smile Dentist parking lot.

I can’t bring myself to text Joe back, but I need to. He’ll wonder about the silence. He’ll look at my location. He’ll stew. Our relationship has a stack of rules, and communication is always at the top of it. Honest communication. At the reminder, a fresh flood of tears leaks out.

The phone dings again, and I know it’s him, nudging me for a response, waiting outside his class, his foot tapping, irritation growing at my silence. I blink rapidly and reach for the phone. But I was wrong: it isn’t him. It’s Freddie.

Come back. I have to tell you something. I’ll be at the north end of the parking lot. Trust me, you want to hear this.

I stare at my phone and try to compute the message.

I shouldn’t have left him there. It will be part of his report: Detective Marino pitched a temper tantrum and left me in the parking lot of Chunky Mike’s.

It was on my walk back to the station that I got attacked by a team of meth heads who stabbed me multiple times.

I read the message twice, then three times. What could he possibly have to tell me? It’s likely bullshit—a ploy to get me to return so he doesn’t have to catch a ride home. Likely.

But what if it isn’t?

I reach over and shut the glove box. Pulling back, I pause. On the floorboard, pushed all the way to the front of the cavity, is Freddie’s backpack.