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Chapter Eleven

KAT

After my appointment with Dr. Burton, I headed home to work instead of returning to the office. Considering the circumstances of the day, my boss, Carter, told me he thought it was a good idea.

I quickly stopped at the pharmacy and turned in my prescription. The pharmacist apologized and told me their system had been down all day, that they were significantly behind in filling people’s medications, and that mine wouldn’t be ready until tomorrow. I graciously thanked him and left the store. One day didn’t matter.

I arrive home, unsure if Oliver is home. I’m still mad at him for not picking up this morning. I insert my key into the lock, push open the door, and drop my purse and bag next to the sofa table. Walking into the kitchen, I see a large vase on the island filled with two dozen red roses and a small white envelope leaning against the vase with my name on it.

My darling Kat.

I’m sorry about earlier.

I hate it when you’re mad at me .

Forgive me? I’ll be home

around six o’clock, and we’re

going out to dinner tonight.

I love you so much.

Love,

Your loving husband

I lean in to smell the roses, their alluring scent filling the kitchen. The petals are soft against my fingertips as I deftly touch them. Red roses are my favorite. Red has always been number one on my favorite colors list. Most little girls love the color pink—not me, though. It was always about the color red.

As a child, my parents refused to let me paint my entire room red but agreed to compromise with one accent wall. The deep crimson color contrasted against the white walls and made the room feel bold and vibrant. My bed was adorned with a white comforter embellished with tiny red hearts, perfectly matching the tufted red headboard. Long, flowing red curtains framed the window, making it a cozy nook for me to spend my days dreaming and playing.

Oliver isn’t a fan of red but compromised to let me paint the accent wall in our half-bathroom red.

I grab my phone and send Oliver a text.

Thank you for the beautiful roses. I love them.

You’re welcome, darling. Am I forgiven?

You are. I’ll show you how much I forgive you after dinner tonight.

I can hardly wait. Love you.

Love you too.

I pick up my wine glass, grab my bag from the foyer, and enter the living room. I toss my bag on the couch and walk over to the painting that caught my attention again—Eyes Without a Face. I stare at the various eyes staring back at me as if they are silently screaming for help. I turn and sit on the couch, pulling case files from my bag that I must work on.

My phone rings on the coffee table. I reach over and pick it up, only to find that Britney Calloway is calling.

“Britney, I was going to call you. I’m so sorry.”

“I appreciate it, Kat, but I’m not. That homicidal maniac did me a favor. I was out to dinner with friends because Steven was supposed to be packing and moving out. But when I arrived home, I saw his things were still there and figured he was with his whore. Do you think something is wrong with me because I haven’t shed a tear?”

“No, Britney. I don’t. Everyone handles grief differently,” I say. “I’m sure you’re still in shock.”

“I’m really not. As I said. That homicidal maniac did me a favor.”

I inhale a breath. Maybe this woman was crazy after all.

“I have to go,” she says. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me with the divorce. Now, we no longer have to worry about it, do we?”

“No, we don’t.” My brows furrow.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Kat. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“You too, Britney.”

I hear the front door open. Jumping off the couch, I run to the foyer and wrap my arms around Oliver.

“I’m happy you’re home.”

“Me too.” His lips press against the top of my head.

After we arrive home from dinner, I kick off my shoes and go into the living room while Oliver pours us a drink. We sit on the couch, his arm wrapped around me and my head on his shoulder.

“Dinner was wonderful. Thank you,” I say.

“It was. Wasn’t it? Now, I believe you told me earlier that you would show me how much you forgive me.”

I lift my head and smile at the playful smirk across his lips. I brush mine against his, and his fingers unbutton my blouse. His lips trail the side of my neck and then stop.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“That painting is watching us.” He stands, grabs a blanket from the corner, and tosses it over the painting. “There. Nobody is going to watch me make love to my wife.”