Page 27

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The ringing continues for another second before the phone goes to voicemail. But it’s obvious to both of us where the sound was coming from.

Krista stares at me. “Why is your phone upstairs ?”

“I…I don’t know.”

I stride down the hallway and up the narrow flight of stairs to get to the third floor. The light isn’t on under Whitney’s door, which means she’s out, although I’m certain she was still here when I went downstairs earlier. I grab the doorknob.

“We shouldn’t go in there without her permission,” Krista says anxiously.

“Screw that,” I say. “What’s my phone doing in there?”

Before Krista can protest again, I turn the knob and shove the door open hard enough that the door slams against the wall. The room looks about the same as it did last time I was here, when I impulsively threw the rotting fruit onto her bed. The only difference is that this time, the bed isn’t made.

I look around the room. The ringtone has stopped.

“Maybe we were wrong,” Krista says. She’s clearly not thrilled about invading Whitney’s space while she is out, but I couldn’t care less. “Maybe you left it in the bathroom. That makes more sense.”

“Call my number again,” I instruct her.

Obediently, Krista selects my number from her phone again. The ringing starts up again, and this time the source is clear. I pull back the crumpled covers on Whitney’s bed, and there is my phone, nestled in the sheets.

I scoop up the phone. There are two missed calls from Krista and a text letting me know she’s going to be late. But none of this explains how my phone got in here in the first place.

“Blake?” Krista’s confused voice is coming from behind me. “What’s this?”

I whirl around—what now? For a moment, I actually hope it’s something terrible like a wall of pictures of me with my eyes cut out so that Krista will see Whitney like I do. But all she’s got in her hand is a small white tube. I don’t even know what it is until she takes off the cap.

It’s lipstick.

“It’s the same shade as on your shirt collar,” Krista says in a shaky voice.

“What?” I say flippantly. “No, it’s not.”

Except that’s a lie. It is exactly the same shade. It’s the same lipstick Whitney was putting on the other day, right before I found the rotting fruit in the kitchen.

“Is this why you’ve been acting so weird about Whitney?” Krista’s voice is dripping with hurt. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“No!” I cry. “That’s insane ! I hate Whitney!”

Her lower lip trembles. “Then why was her lipstick on your shirt collar? Why is your cell phone in her bed ?”

“She’s setting me up!” I throw up my hands. “Can’t you see it? She’s doing all these things to make you think I’m cheating on you. But I’m not.”

“Why would she want me to think you’re cheating on me?”

Damned if I know. I wish I did. I wish I knew why Whitney decided to target me. Because if I knew the reason, I’d make her stop.

“Krista,” I say. “I love you. I want you to be my wife. I would never, ever cheat on you. I swear.”

Krista looks between the phone I’m clutching in my right hand and the lipstick in her left. “I…I don’t know what to think.”

“Please.” I am about five seconds away from getting down on my knees and begging. “You’ve got to believe me. You know me, Krista. I wouldn’t do something like that.”

She lowers the lipstick back onto the top of the dresser. She chews on her thumbnail, a troubled expression on her face. “It’s not just about this. You’ve been acting weird for months, Blake.”

“No, I haven’t.”

She arches an eyebrow.

“Okay,” I concede. “It’s been a rough few months for me after losing my job and all. But I’m coming out the other end. I swear.”

She plays with a loose strand of her silky hair that has come undone from her bun. “I don’t know. I…I think it might be a good idea if we took a little time apart.”

No. No . She can’t mean that.

But she means it. I follow her numbly as she goes back downstairs to the second floor and returns to our bedroom, then I watch in horror as she pulls her suitcase out of the closet.

“Krista, no,” I plead with her.

I can’t lose Krista. I can’t . She’s the only good thing left in my life.

But now it looks like that’s going to happen. In a moment, Krista is back in our room, taking clothes out of her drawers, piling them into a suitcase. I want to yank the luggage away from her before she can fill it up.

“Don’t do this.” My voice cracks on the words. “Please, Krista.”

“I just need a couple of days.” She toys with her engagement ring, which is still on her left ring finger. If she takes it off, it will kill me. “I’ll stay with Becky and Malcolm.”

Great. She is staying with Becky, who hates me, and Malcolm, who isn’t a fan either after our failed attempt at drinks. I’m sure the two of them will spend the whole time trash-talking me.

But fine. If she needs a few days away, let her have it. Maybe it will be a good thing to have some time apart. And if I get a little time alone with Whitney, she can fess up about what is bothering her so much about me, and we can work things out.

This will be fine. I always land on my feet, one way or another.

I still can’t figure out how Whitney got my phone. She must’ve swiped it off the table while I was napping. I can’t even close my eyes for a second around that woman.

“Blake, what’s this?” Krista says.

What now?

Krista is crouched in the closet, presumably figuring out which of her five billion pairs of shoes she wants to take with her. Except she’s not packing anymore—she’s peering at something in the closet. I have no idea what.

“What is it?” I ask.

Krista straightens up, holding a small white jug. It takes me a second to realize what I’m looking at.

“Bleach?” I’m too shocked to say anything else.

“What’s this doing in our closet?”

“I have no idea.”

“No idea?” she repeats. “You were the one going on and on about how you thought Goldy died because somebody poured bleach into the fishbowl. And then I find this in the closet?”

“Wait.” I blink at her. “You think I killed Goldy? Are you kidding me? You didn’t even think that the bowl smelled like bleach!”

She falters for a moment. “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think Whitney would have done that. But…well, it did smell a little like bleach.” She looks at me accusingly. “Did you kill Goldy to frame Whitney?”

“No! Christ, of course not. You can’t possibly think…”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” She drops the jug of bleach onto our dresser, and it lands with a loud thump. “You’ve been acting so strangely lately. And now I find your phone in Whitney’s bed. And this bleach in your closet when you’ve been going on and on about how you think Whitney poisoned the fish with it.”

“Jesus Christ, do you really think I would poison our fish?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She lowers her eyes. “Honestly, I wouldn’t put anything past you at this point. After all, you stole from your own company.”

There’s a sharp pang in my chest. I can’t believe she just said that to me. When all that shit went down at Coble & Roy, there was not a single moment when Krista didn’t support me wholeheartedly. What made her turn around like this?

Was it something Whitney said to her?

“I didn’t steal from my company!” The volume of my voice is much too loud, but I can’t seem to control it. “How could you think that?”

“I feel like I hardly know you lately.” She frowns up at me. “You’re constantly ranting about ridiculous conspiracy theories involving our tenant. You wander the house at night instead of sleeping. When you do pass out, you talk in your sleep—”

“I talk in my sleep?” That revelation shocks me. “What…what do I say?”

“Gibberish mostly.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes you say Whitney’s name, which is super weird.”

Wow. That’s…unsettling.

“I’m beginning to think that psychic woman was right,” she says. “If I stay long enough, God knows what you’ll do.”

“Krista, no .” I’m starting to panic now. She’s really leaving, possibly for good. “I would never cheat on you, and I would never hurt you.”

Krista zips up the suitcase, even though it’s only half full. She didn’t even bring any of her shoes—she’s that eager to get the hell out of here. “I think I better go.”

“Krista.” I step in front of the door, blocking her path. “You’ve got to believe me. Whitney is setting me up for all this. She’s been making weird noises all night to keep me from sleeping. She put the rotting fruit in the cabinet. And she’s the one who poisoned Goldy, then put the bleach in the closet to frame me.”

“Blake, are you listening to yourself?”

Her eyes meet mine. She doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. She thinks I’ve lost my mind—or worse.

“I’m leaving,” she says. “Like I said, I need a few days to clear my head.”

I don’t want her to leave. For a split second, a thought occurs to me: I’m a lot bigger and stronger than Krista. And it’s not like she has a weapon. She might not want to stay, but I could make her stay. Make her see .

“Blake,” she says, and there’s a sudden flicker of fear in her eyes.

I quickly step out of her way, horrified by my own thoughts. What am I doing ? I would never force a woman to stay with me. How could that idea have even crossed my mind? I’m not that guy. My mother taught me to respect women.

What has Whitney done to me?

But I do follow Krista downstairs. I watch her grab her jacket and slip her feet into her sneakers. She’s really leaving. And I have no idea when she’s coming back. If ever.

“I love you, Krista,” I say. My voice cracks on the words.

She turns to look at me, and the expression on her face almost breaks me. She doesn’t seem angry. She just looks miserable.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice quakes. “This wasn’t what I wanted to happen.”

Even though I know I shouldn’t, I follow her out the front door. I don’t know what I’m expecting exactly. Yet I can’t seem to stop.

“Krista,” I say again. “Can we talk about this more? Please?”

She doesn’t answer me at all this time. Instead, she sticks out her right hand to hail a taxi.

In the best of times, it takes several minutes to find a cab in our neighborhood, and we usually have to wait for an Uber. So naturally, a second later, a yellow taxi skids to a halt in front of the brownstone, splashing me with the contents of a puddle while leaving Krista relatively dry. She doesn’t waste a second before climbing inside.

“Krista!” I shout.

She doesn’t even turn to watch me through the window.

The cab zips away a second later, before I even have a chance to say goodbye. I watch it vanish into the distance, wondering if this will be the last time I ever see Krista. The next time she returns to the brownstone, it’ll be at a time she knows I’m at work so she can take the rest of her belongings without me bothering her.

No, I won’t let that happen. I’m getting Krista back.

No matter what it takes.

“Porter!”

The crackly old voice from behind me sets all my nerves on edge. Not this. Not now. I turn around, my hands already balled into fists. I’m not in the mood for Mr. Zimmerly.

“How many times am I going to need to tell you to take in your trash cans?” Mr. Zimmerly barks at me.

As he says the words, a few flecks of his spittle hit me in the face.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “It’s been a rough day, so I didn’t get to it.”

“It’s been two days ,” he points out.

Has it? Damn.

“Trash day was yesterday . You left your cans out here for two days.” He hawks up some gross-sounding phlegm. “You think the street is your own personal garbage can, Porter?”

“I’ll take them in now,” I say through my teeth.

“Oh great,” he mutters. “You take ‘em in a day late and only when I tell you to. How come you’re the only one on the block who can’t seem to get it right? Guess they didn’t teach you how to tell time at that fancy college you went to, huh?”

You know what? I have had enough of Mr. H. Zimmerly. I’ve been dealing with him practically every week since I moved here. And now? I’m done.

Done.

“You want me to get my trash cans off the curb?” I pick up one of the metal cans. “Well, here you go!”

With those words, I hurl the can at Mr. Zimmerly as hard as I can. He’s got to be close to ninety years old, and it probably would have killed him, but the can misses him by a mile and rolls onto the street beside him. His rheumy eyes widen.

“What the hell is wrong with you, you lunatic!” he shouts at me. “You could have killed me!”

I pick up the trash can where it rolled. “Maybe I should try again then?”

Zimmerly gets the message this time. He scurries back into the house, his slippers scuffing against the ground. He’s moving so quickly that he nearly stumbles on that broken step I offered to fix. At his age, a fall down those stairs would be bad news.

A few people heard the commotion and mill about uncomfortably. A bunch of damn busybodies in this neighborhood. Maybe it’d be better to get the hell out of here.

I wave to my nosy neighbors and stomp back inside the house. I wasn’t trying to hit Mr. Zimmerly with that garbage can—I missed on purpose. I didn’t want to hurt him. I haven’t completely lost my mind.

But I can’t say the same about what I would do if Whitney were in front of me.