Page 45

Dinah

Joe twists open a beer and takes a sip from the bottle, then places it on the arm of the Adirondack chair.

It’s dark, the only light coming from the illuminated steps going down to the yard and the citronella candle that’s on the small table between us.

We didn’t make it to karaoke. That possibility was thwarted by Jessica Bishop’s domination of my husband’s day, a development that he talked about throughout dinner prep and execution.

The only benefit is that Joe was so enamored with it that he didn’t notice my distraction, and there was never a pause to bring up the Internal Affairs debacle.

There’s a long pause now, one filled with the soft jingle of the porch’s wind chimes. I take a sip of my own drink, a chilled glass of rosé. It’s from a vineyard in Agoura Hills; Joe makes the hour-long trek every other month or so to get me a fresh supply.

I don’t like the wine. I did, during the three-hour tasting tour we took there. I got absolutely trashed and remember hanging on Joe’s arm and giggling as I gushed on and on about their rosé. Sober, it tastes like pond water with a hint of alcohol. I hate it.

But I love that he goes there just for me.

I love that it’s a recurring item on his calendar and that he doesn’t forget, that he pushes clients to the side and fits it in around his class schedule and makes it a priority in his life because he thinks that I like it.

That, I can drink to. That makes it worth the weak taste and lingering dry mouth.

My plants seem to like it. At home, I dump my wineglasses into their pots when he isn’t looking, and they’ve thrived as a result.

My ficus has a dozen new buds and is positively bristling with the drunken confidence of a bar hag.

“Tomorrow I’m going to repot the tomato plants.

They’re outgrowing their containers.” I stretch my legs, and the blue-plaid pajama pants I’m wearing ride up to expose my ankles.

A mosquito seizes the opportunity, and I reach down to smack it.

Blood smears, and I wipe it off with the pant leg.

The PJs were a gift from Marci, her Christmas shopping reduced to scrolling down a page on L.L.Bean’s website and one-clicking a set for each family member.

Joe refuses to wear a uniform of any sort to bed, and is currently in dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.

Tonight, he’ll sleep in just his boxer briefs, his covers thrown off, his body hot no matter what the temperature in the room.

“That salsa you made was really good.”

The salsa was a new recipe from Mom, and just the thought of her upcoming visit causes my stomach to cramp.

When Mom picked the date for their trip, I didn’t expect to have a mountain of stress pressing on my chest. Another reason to have the Jessica Bishop situation cleared up.

The original plan—to give Jessica time to confess to the murder, then release her from the clinic—is going to take too long, and every additional day that she’s here, the risks increase.

I didn’t think there was any danger in Joe working with her, but look at what he said earlier. She reminds him of me. Look at how much time they are spending together. A four-hour session today. Four hours he could have spent with me.

My husband is not a stupid man. My history with Reese Bishop ... he could figure this out if given enough pieces of the puzzle. It is my job, as it’s always been, to make sure that doesn’t happen.

“Can you make more?” Joe looks over at me. “Another batch of the salsa?”

I nod in agreement, thinking through the proper extraction of Jessica. “Tomorrow night, how about I make lasagna? I’ll do an extra pan for the clinic also.”

“Sounds delicious. Need me to pick up anything from the store?”

“No, I have everything I need here. I’ll defrost the hamburger meat tonight.”

He closes his eyes and reclines back against the chair, a small smile on his face. I’ll crush a pill and put it in his portion of the lasagna. He doesn’t like ricotta, so I always prepare a smaller pan for him. The flavors will cover up the taste of the pill.

I forward to the next song on the playlist and look up at the sky. The night is clear, and a thousand stars are overhead, dotting the dark.

Quiet perfection. Too quiet to mar with the IA discussion. Plus, I have a more important task ahead of me: keeping our perfection intact.

Inside, tucked in the pocket of my windbreaker, my phone vibrates with a text message.