Page 80 of Every Silent Lie

“Yes, but it’ll wipe them out.”

“No more filler on the business for Barbara,” I singsong quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I sigh. “Thanks for shining your Friday rays of sunshine on me.” I hang up and tap the desk by my butt with my phone, seriously wondering if I’m up for another battle today. I feel like I’m trying to wrangle wild horses.

And where the hell is my coffee? I swing the door open and find Debbie on the phone. I scowl at her as I pass. “I’ll get my own, or I’ll die of caffeine deficiency.”

She looks about as impressed as a cow seeing a McDonald’s truck pull up on the farm. “Sorry,” she says, her hand over the receiver.

“No sweat,” I mutter to myself. “I wanted to stretch my legs anyway.” And duck and dive through the grotto. I frown at a twinkling snowman as I pass. Is she still adding shit to the already jammed corridor? “My God,” I murmur, passing a wooden shed that’s been sprayed with artificial snow.

The smell of caffeine hits me when I push the door to the kitchen open, and see Crystal pouring eggnog into cups. “Making up for the few days you couldn’t make it into the office, are you?”

She flashes me a tight smile as I pull a cup down, but it falters when she clocks my cheek. She doesn’t ask, though. It’s a small mercy. No one will ask, except Debbie, of course. “Want some?”

“Eggnog? No.” I take the percolator and pour. “You shouldn’t be gossiping about Thomas and what you hear him saying on his private calls.” Looking out the corner of my eye, I see her still mid-pour, her mind obviously racing.

“Sure you don’t want any?” She grabs a cup and thrusts it my way with a cheesy—guilty—smile.

I take my coffee and hold it up, seeing a Panettone and some cute little Father Christmas cupcakes. “Sure,” I say, slowly lifting my coffee to my lips. I blink, getting a snapshot of me in the kitchen of my old home, icing sugar everywhere. Slade yelling from the Alexa. Mulled wine simmering on the stove.

“Sure you do, or sure you don’t?”

I retreat from the flashback and frown at Crystal. “What?” My eyes drop to the cup hovering between us. “I said no.” Someone breezes into the kitchen, spots me, and performs a quick about-turn, heading straight back out. “Thomas,” I call, going after him.

“Sorry, just remembered I’m late for a call.”

It’s quite an achievement in these heels, but I somehow manage to overtake him and block his path. Thomas recoils and peeks above my head, and I follow his line of sight and see a bunch of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling above us. “Why would you even allow that?” I ask, reaching up and yanking it down. “You’re begging for a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

“Hey, wait a minute, I wasn’t suggesting?—”

“I’m talking in general, Thomas.” He’s wary of me, like most people around here, so I’m safe from being caught under the mistletoe unexpectedly.

“What the hell’s happened to your face?”

“I fell over walking home.” I resist my natural instinct to reach up and cover it from his questioning eyes. “I just got off the phone with Jeff. We need?—”

“Grandpa!” The screech hits my eardrums and rattles them, and Thomas is quickly gone from in front of me, being tackled by a young girl, maybe fourteen.

“Marcy,” he sings, catching her in his arms and hugging her.

“Hey, Dad,” a lady says, pulling off her gloves, her pink lips stretched wide.

“Gail.” Thomas sighs, as if he’s relieved to see her, keeping Marcy to his chest, all bundled up in her fleece, scarf, and hat, while opening his other arm for his daughter. She walks straight into it. “Where’s Curtis?”

“Just parking the rental car. I thought we were leaving the snow behind in Colorado!”

“Camryn, this is my daughter, Gail, and my gorgeous granddaughter Marcy. Girls, this is Camryn. I’ve told you about Camryn, remember, Gail?”

Oh, is that so? I imagine it was all kinds of complimentary. I toss Thomas a knowing look as I offer my hand to Gail. “Nice to meet you.” Are you as big of an arsehole as your brother?

Gail breaks away from her father’s embrace, laughing. If she notices my face, she doesn’t say anything. “I’m a hugger.” Then she hauls me into her chest, squeezing me, and I have to lift my coffee over my head to avoid tipping it over both of us. Thomas grins at me as I tense from head to toe, my eyes narrowing on him. “You sure are,” I say quietly, gently breaking away. “Well, it was a pleasure.” I face Thomas. “I’ll catch up with you later.” It’s a threat, and he knows it.

I leave Thomas and his family, going back to my office, holding up my coffee to Debbie as I pass. She flat out ignores my sarcasm. When I land at my desk, I re-read my husband’s text, as if I need to lower my mood more. Then I delete it, like I have every other text I’ve gotten from him. “I don’t give a fuck if you can’t pay the rent and mortgage,” I growl. “I’m paying my half.” Take out “unreasonable behaviour” and I’ll sign the fucking papers.

I rest back in my chair, my cheek throbbing, and pull out my compact mirror to check the situation, mentally estimating how many days it’s going to take to fade enough to get a good coverage—enough to hide it completely. Three. Maybe four. If I’m lucky. I snap my mirror shut on a defeated exhalation. Right now, three or four days not seeing Dec feels like a lifetime. So when my phone starts dancing across my desk, I’m thrown into a horrible dilemma. I want to see him. Let him calm my storm. But I’m quite sure I don’t want to be forced into explaining the tidy cuff on my cheek. And I definitely don’t want to lie. It’s burning my brain, anticipating explaining the unseen scars when he inevitably unearths them. I haven’t the capacity to tackle Dec when he inevitably scolds me for being so monumentally dumb for walking home in the dark alone when the streets are deserted. And, well, my cheek is a mess. So I let my phone ring off and wince when a message pings through.