Page 52

Chapter Fifty-One

PRESENT DAY

SYDNEY

Tom and I ended up having a particularly sweaty session tonight, and although it’s not his standard practice, as soon as we are spent, he informs me he’s hitting the shower. “You made me work up a sweat, woman,” he says, which makes me laugh. “Want to join me?”

“No, I’m still recovering,” I tease him, which in turn makes him laugh.

I lie in Tom’s queen-size bed while he hums classical music in the shower. It might be Beethoven, but I honestly have no idea. My body is still thrumming from what he did to me. Even if he never agreed to go to a wedding for the rest of our lives, I could never break up with him. I would miss this far too much.

My phone, over on his bedside table, starts to ring. I glance over at the screen—my mother. She’s been a little calmer now that I’m dating someone regularly, although I have expressed to her in as gentle a way as possible that things might not be working out with Tom. She did not take it well. If I am not married by forty, someone might have to euthanize her.

I consider letting the call go to voicemail, but then I brace myself and pick it up. “Hi,“ I say. “I’m kind of busy right now.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t seem to know what to make of that. “Are you with Tom?”

“Yes.”

“And how is that going?”

“It’s going…okay.”

She can hear the strain in my voice. It’s not going great. Maybe Tom and I aren’t breaking up, but we’re not getting married anytime in the near future. The best I can hope for is a wedding date.

“You know,” she says, “I was in my Bible-studies class the other day, and I was reminded of a very interesting story. Did you know that Sarah and Abraham gave birth to Isaac when she was ninety years old?”

I stare at the phone, astonished. “Why are you telling me that?”

“I’m just saying, there’s always hope.”

I am really not in the mood for this conversation. “I have to go.”

“Whatever happened to that tall, handsome police detective you were living with—Jake?”

I flinch. “Why are you asking me about that? We’ve been broken up for years.”

“I was just thinking, Jake was so nice. And he really liked you, Sydney.”

“Good bye , Mom.”

I hang up on my mother. I’m so agitated by that irritating conversation that I don’t quite manage to put the phone back on the bedside table, and it drops into the gap between the table and the bed.

Great.

I climb off the bed and crouch down next to the table. I reach my hand into the gap, feeling around for my phone. My fingers touch something that feels like the cold, smooth surface of the phone, but then there’s also something else there. Something that feels like velvety fabric.

Hmm. What’s that?

I grab both items and pull them out from the gap. Sure enough, the first item was indeed my phone. But the second one makes my heart drop into my stomach.

It’s a black scrunchie.

What the hell is Tom doing with a scrunchie in his bedroom?

It’s not like I found some general evidence that another woman has been in here. That would be fine—Tom isn’t a monk, after all, and clearly you don’t develop that level of expertise by sleeping alone. But a scrunchie ? Who wears a scrunchie in this day and age?

Or should I say, who wears a scrunchie besides Bonnie ?

I had thought it was far too big a coincidence for Tom to be Bonnie’s mystery boyfriend. But as I look down at this scrunchie, I realize I have underestimated him. All the pieces fit together.

After all, was it such a coincidence? I met him three blocks away from our building, shortly after Bonnie had been escorted home by her beau. He’s a doctor. And he had the strangest reaction when I started talking to him about Bonnie’s murder. Not to mention that he might have given me a fake name when we first met.

Was the truth staring me smack in the face all along? Was I blinded by Tom’s good looks and my urgency to get married and have a child before age ninety?

But no… It’s impossible. Tom isn’t a killer. I’m even more sure of that than I am of the fact that Randy isn’t a killer. Tom is a good guy . The best.

Isn’t he?

I stand in the middle of the bedroom, looking down at the phone in my hands. I bring up my list of favorite contacts, and Tom is right there in the middle. I don’t entirely know why, but before I can stop myself, I click on his name.

I am rewarded with the sound of a phone ringing. But it’s not coming from the phone on his dresser, which is lying silent. This sound is muffled, like the phone is in one of the drawers.

I allow it to continue ringing. As Tom belts out Mozart in the shower, I cross the room to his dresser and start yanking open drawers. The first one just has a bunch of folded shirts in it. The second has pants. The third looks like it contains boxer shorts, but when I open it up, the ringing becomes less muffled.

Bingo.

I dig around in the drawer. It takes me about ten seconds to find the phone hidden away at the bottom with a call flashing on the screen, identified as simply “S.”

A second later, the call goes to voicemail. I gingerly remove the phone from the drawer so I can examine it more closely. This is not a personal phone that Tom uses to talk to friends and family. This is a burner phone.

Tom has been communicating with me on a burner phone.

I flip open the disposable phone, and discover it does not require a password, so I'm able to scroll through the calls and text messages. Every single call and text message on the phone is from me. This phone is solely for interacting with me.

What the hell?

I look over at the bathroom. The shower is still running strong. Tom tends to take long showers. I’ve got at least another five minutes—maybe longer if he decides to brush his teeth. I’m going to need every second of that time.

I drop the burner phone back into the drawer and slam it shut. Wearing nothing but one of Tom’s large T-shirts that he lets me wear when I spend the night, I dart into the living room. The dining table is still set up from our meal, although Tom blew out the candle before we headed to the bedroom. I look down at the utensils on the table, wondering if you could get a decent print off of them. I’m not certain.

Then my gaze falls on Tom’s water bottle.

Perfect.

I pick up the water bottle with my thumb and forefinger, trying my best to preserve any fingerprints he left on it. I left my purse on the coffee table in the living room, so I hurry over and gently drop the water bottle inside. It isn’t until I’ve zipped my purse closed that I hear the voice from behind me.

“What do you think you’re doing, Sydney?”