Page 22

Four days after

I ’ve given up sleeping. Who needs it?

Lately, I just lie here, my mind running until the sun rises and someone comes to pull me out of bed.

Today is different, though. I don’t lie awake, waiting for something to happen, and rather than fight the insomnia for some rest, I make myself go for a run. My adrenaline is somewhere between maxed out and numb, and the endorphins might help me recalibrate.

I hardly make it past the driveway, though, before my legs feel heavy.

I turn up my AirPods, blasting the most cheerful pop music I can find, but I can still hear my own breathing, my feet pounding the pavement, my throat swallowing sticky saliva.

Every step is brutal, but once I’m going, I don’t let myself stop.

An hour and a half later, I’m nearly home when I see Carol Parker climbing into her car in her all-Lululemon ensemble with a Stanley cup full of some green-dirt concoction of superfood.

I hide behind a hedge so I won’t have to talk to her.

I like Carol fine, but I don’t have the energy for some stilted small talk about Will this morning.

Or worse, the beloved fucking fence. I hear her car door close, and I scoot across her driveway, hoping she doesn’t see me.

As I check behind me to be certain I’ve escaped Carol, I barely manage to skirt the gray sedan coming toward me, headlights on. The driver must not see me either, because in the instant I clock the car, it swerves to avoid hitting me and then speeds up to go around me.

What the hell? Are they trying to kill me?

I look around wondering if anyone else saw what just happened but only hear Carol’s car coming down the road.

Not wanting to wait around to give the gray car a second swipe at me, I take off running to clear the hedge line and make it back to my property alive.

Turning up the driveway, I can see through the front door window that the big TV in my living room is on. My heart skips a beat.

Is Will finally home?

I charge through the front door, my heart pounding, my thoughts racing. I rush through the foyer, only to find Este on my couch, watching the morning news.

“Where have you been?” She looks up.

“Running, why?”

Este rewinds the news, and my stomach drops when I see a reporter standing outside of the precinct talking to the news crew back in the station.

I hear Will’s name and then the TV screen is filled with an image of Will’s shirt.

The shirt. The one Ardell showed me behind a closed door.

The one they found. The photo looks like it was ripped from an evidence file.

I feel the air leave my body. Este must’ve heard my gasp because she yells at me to sit down before I pass out.

But I’m too busy pacing. “How the hell does the news have the shirt? Isn’t that supposed to be, like, privileged information?”

“I have no idea. I would’ve thought the same thing.”

Did Constance do this?

On the TV, I see Ardell come out of the precinct and walk toward the reporter.

The look on his face tells me that he’s surprised they have the shirt, too.

In fact, he looks like he’s ready to pounce.

The reporter quickly wraps up his on-the-ground coverage and throws it back to the studio.

The news desk picks up right before they accidentally air a confrontation between Ardell and the reporter.

Back in the studio, the anchors haven’t given up on the story. And what happens next actually causes me to faint.

—

When I come to, I’m still on the floor, and Este is running a cold rag on my forehead, saying my name soothingly. She’s a walking contradiction. Equal parts gentle and brash. I have a flash of thinking how grateful I am that she’s here.

“Jesus, you went down fast. I barely caught you before you hit your head.”

“Este, why did they have my picture on the news?”

“Because you’re the wife of a pretty prominent local figure who seems to be in the wind.”

“Oh god. What did they say?” I try to sit up, but my equilibrium is not back yet. I settle with propping myself against the arm of the couch. The room is still sloshing back and forth a little.

“It wasn’t a big deal. They said like two things and moved on.”

“Este, your nose twitches when you’re lying. Give me the remote.”

“Just leave it, Nora. It doesn’t matter.”

I push myself up, fighting off the dizziness, and grab the remote from the table. I rewind the news and watch as a picture of Este and me walking down Park Avenue pops up while the TV-pretty news anchor talks.

“Will’s wife, Nora Somerset, was seen in and around Winter Park the past few days. Frequenting a gym with a friend—”

“I wasn’t frequenting anything, and why are you in the picture?”

“—a coffee shop, and the police station.”

“They’re making it sound like I’m on some kind of press tour around town.

They made me come down to see the shirt.

” They’re not directly accusing me of taking Will’s disappearance lightly.

But with the picture they’re painting, they don’t have to.

I look completely self-absorbed, unconcerned with Will’s disappearance.

And they save the best one for last: me walking out of Dr. Demi Novaro’s medspa with an ice pack on my forehead.

“And even a spa that’s well known for Botox treatments and fillers.”

“Botox and fillers aren’t exactly newsy in Winter Park.” Este rolls her eyes. “They’re just trying to stay on top of the story. They’ve already reported the search, so what else is there besides his hot, younger wife? It’s just a slow news day.”

“But why would they want to follow me around? It’s creepy and not getting anyone any closer to Will.”

The voice-over from the television continues, “While we’re told she isn’t currently a person of interest, the police have been in contact with her multiple times over the past few days.”

“Multiple times? It’s been twice. Two times. Just two. Goddamnit.” I stand up, steadier from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Who the fuck is their source? Constance?” I get up to grab my phone off the kitchen island.

“What are you doing?” Este says, trailing behind me.

“I’m calling Fritz.”

“Why?”

“Do you have a better idea of who could find out why these reporters know about confidential evidence? And why they’re splashing my pictures all over the news? And don’t say Ardell. I’m not calling him.”

This is Constance’s doing.

The certainty is bone deep. I pull up Fritz’s contact in my phone and anxiously pace, waiting for him to answer. But he sends me to voicemail.

What the fuck is with everyone today?

I hang up the phone and stifle the urge to throw it across the room.

Possessed by an out-of-body kind of anger, I head for the door.

Maybe it’s instinct or blind rage. Or maybe I’m fueled by the avalanche of fury gathering momentum inside of me.

I only know I need answers, and no one has them.

I can’t sit here any longer. I can’t wait and see if Fritz and his buddy Travis can figure this out for me.

“Hey,” Este calls.

“I’ll be back,” I offer as I leave.

I can’t say I even remember getting into the car and pulling out onto the street, but a few minutes later, I’m sitting in front of Constance’s house.

She doesn’t live far. Although to hear her describe the way she left the Isle of Sicily property after she and Will divorced, you might think she was exiled to a third-world country.

Will bought her the white Spanish Revival on Genius Drive as part of their divorce settlement.

He even agreed to fund an extensive renovation to suit Constance’s tastes.

But she never lets him live down the property’s shortcomings.

First, while it is still among the largest and most coveted properties in Winter Park, Constance’s plot on the exclusive road is not lakefront—a massive blow.

The house is also smaller than Will’s by about three thousand square feet—a Greek tragedy.

Finally, the original Genius Drive was not a road at all.

Instead, it was a walking path through a sprawling citrus grove, and the wild peacocks that laid claim to the property back then still consider it theirs.

Constance complains relentlessly about the way the peacocks wake her up with wild cries at the crack of dawn.

Picturing Constance being awakened by howling peacocks tempers my anger by a fraction.

I ring the doorbell and stand back, arms folded.

I hear the dog first. Constance’s hell-born Pomeranian, Duchess, is on the other side of the door, yapping as if her life depends on it. Will always says Duchess has much more in common with Lucifer than she does with any royal.

“Duchess! Hush!”

The door swings open, and Constance’s face immediately falls when she sees me.

“Enough is enough, Constance,” I growl. “Stop fucking giving pictures to the press.”

“Well, I would invite you in, but clearly, we’re all going to forget our manners today.” She doesn’t even try to hide her disdain.

I want to laugh. Or slap her. Instead, I try to match her detached, mean-girl tone. “It’s the strangest thing. I was watching the news the other day, and not only did they have the story about Will’s disappearance but they had a photo. Courtesy of the family.”

“Kristy is a friend. She needed some pictures of Will, so she asked me.”

“I’m his wife. I’m the one the press should be talking to. And, I don’t want them to have a goddamn thing.”

“You can’t be serious. You’ve been his wife for five seconds. I was his wife for twenty years. Do you really think you’re the one people are going to reach out to?”

“You know what, fine. I don’t care as much about the damn photos. But evidence? Will’s shirt? It’s low. Even for you.”

She touches a hand to her head as if another migraine may be threatening. “What are you even talking about?”

It’s maddening to watch her pretend to be the sensible one between us when she and I both know she came unglued when Will and I started dating.

Does she think I’ve forgotten?

I don’t know whether to roll my eyes or bare my teeth. “So, what? You called in a favor with your ‘friend’ Kristy and leaked Will’s shirt. You turned police evidence into—”

“I’m going to stop you right there. You don’t get to come over here and accuse me of leaking evidence that I’ve never even seen.” She’s condescending to be sure. But it’s hard to tell if she’s lying.

My sense of self-righteousness falters. “Will’s shirt is on the news,” I sputter. “And you just said Kristy was a friend and—”

“I’m not an idiot. I wouldn’t share evidence with Kristy, and I don’t know what shirt you’re talking about.” She clears her throat. “It baffles me that you think you get to ask all of the questions here, Nora. Fritz and Travis Ardell may be caught in your spell, but I’m wide awake.”

“Oh, you are? Perfect. Is Travis Ardell up to speed on the time you broke into Will’s house and stole his wine? If you’re so sure I’m to blame for whatever is going on here, you won’t mind if I fill him in on how contentious things can get between you two.”

Her expression settles into a frigid glare. “You really think Ardell is going to believe you? Over me? My ex-husband has vanished, and you’re the last one that saw him alive.”

The word “alive” evokes its antonym: “dead.” A chill races from the top of my spine down to my core, and I want to throw up.

“All we know is that Will is missing,” I fire back, refusing to accept any other possibility.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Nausea morphs into rage, but I don’t think clawing her eyes out is going to get me off anyone’s list of suspects. I turn on my heels to go.

“You can pretend all you want. But I know the truth. I know he wasn’t happy before he disappeared, Nora,” Constance calls after me. Her tone is a little singsongy, with a heavy dose of menace. “He told me your marriage was falling apart.”

The words make my feet fumble. My ankle wobbles precariously. But I recover, and I don’t give Constance the satisfaction of looking back at her as I climb into my car and peel out of her driveway.