Page 7 of Stay Away from Him

“How terrible,” Melissa said, thinking of Thomas, wondering what it must have been like to live in limbo like he had for three years.

Not knowing whether his wife was dead or alive.

Not knowing who was responsible for her being missing.

And not being officially exonerated in the eyes of the public, still an object of speculation, of whispers, of theories.

Without a break in the case, without a new arrest, people must have wondered whether he was guilty or innocent.

Spinning theories with what little they knew. Taking sides.

It was clear which side Lawrence was on. And on the basis of what he’d told her, Melissa was on the same side: the side of Thomas’s innocence.

Part of her, though, wondered if Lawrence was telling her everything.

There were pieces of the story she still didn’t understand, that still didn’t make sense.

Lawrence’s insistence that there was no evidence against Thomas, for instance, nothing to indicate that he might’ve killed his wife.

It simply couldn’t be true. Yes, maybe the case had been weak, starting with the lack of a body, the absence of definitive proof that a murder had even been committed.

Still, no case made it all the way to jury selection without some evidence.

No self-respecting prosecutor prepared to bring a case to trial without some slim hope of being able to convince twelve people that a crime had taken place. That their suspect was guilty.

Melissa wanted to believe Lawrence—but she didn’t have the luxury of taking his accounting at face value.

For her, the stakes were higher. Her divorce was barely a month old; she’d gone through hell to get away from a bad man.

She’d made a mistake, marrying her ex-husband, realizing too late what he was.

She couldn’t afford to do that again. Thomas Danver had already met her son, had already gone home with her number.

She had to know everything.

***

I can’t stop thinking about you.

The text buzzed on her phone while she was getting ready for bed.

She wore a cream-colored camisole and soft cotton shorts, and she was rubbing lotion on her hands and forearms up to her elbows.

There was an intimacy to receiving a message from Thomas just then, as she was preparing to climb beneath the covers of her bed.

It was almost as though he’d stepped into the room, and she drew in a breath as she remembered the physical reality of him: his broadness, the sinewy strength running through his arms and shoulders, but also the gentleness she thought she saw in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, in the delicate movements of his hands.

She glanced at the phone a moment, her hands frozen on her arms. Then she grabbed for it, her thumbs quivering over the screen as she thought about what to say. After a second’s pause, she tapped out a reply.

I can’t stop thinking about you either.

It was true, even if it didn’t tell the whole story.

Melissa hadn’t thought of anything but Thomas since he left—though a lot of that was the thinking she did with Lawrence, learning who Thomas was, what had happened to his wife, and what he may have had to do with it.

Did he kill her, or didn’t he? Was he a murderer, or an innocent man unfairly accused in his hour of deepest grief?

She’d been continuing to obsess over those questions as she got ready for bed: as she peeled her party clothes away from her skin, as she wiped away her makeup and washed her face, as she brushed her teeth and gazed at her own eyes in the mirror, wondering what it was that she wanted, what she could possibly be thinking, and what she should do next.

Somewhere between the bathroom and her bedroom she decided: She wasn’t going to do anything.

If Thomas texted, if he called, she’d simply decline to see him again.

Politely but firmly. She didn’t believe he was a murderer, not really.

But she also didn’t need stress in her life right now.

She didn’t need mess. And Thomas—his dead wife, the accusations against him, his whole sordid story with its twists and turns—was both. Stress and mess.

But now he was in her bedroom—his words were, anyway—and she found herself wondering if she’d made the right decision.

I wish you were here with me.

A flush of heat passed through Melissa. It was late; Thomas must have been getting ready for bed too, or even messaging her while he was in his bed. There was only one thing here with me could mean. Melissa tapped out a response.

Dr. Danver. We barely know each other.

The reply came quickly.

We wouldn’t have to do anything. We could just talk. Or I could hold you.

She breathed out, letting out an involuntary sound of satisfaction.

I’d like that.

Three dots appeared.

I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. Not until I know.

Know what? Melissa asked.

The three dots again.

When I can see you again.

She held her breath. This was it. The question she’d been struggling with all night. Should she see him, or shouldn’t she?

Melissa closed her eyes and searched inside herself.

There was a fluttery, nervous feeling in her chest and stomach, and if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t so different from fear.

She was afraid of Thomas, a little. Afraid of his past, perhaps?

Or afraid of how she felt about him? She wasn’t sure.

The two fears didn’t feel so different, she realized.

Both were at their core a fear of being hurt—a fear of giving someone the power to hurt her.

Becoming vulnerable. Falling for someone was always a plunge into danger.

A free fall that was exhilarating and terrifying at once.

Maybe, Melissa reflected, it was herself she was afraid of. Afraid she couldn’t trust herself in a new relationship so soon after her marriage had fallen apart.

But then she pushed down further, beneath the fear, and found something else alongside it. Tangled up with it.

Excitement.

Melissa opened her eyes and responded.

Soon.

Soon? Thomas replied.

Yes, she texted back, soon. I just need more time.

It took a few seconds for his final message to come through. When it did, the back of her neck tingled.

I’ll be waiting.