I tighten my grip on my purse. I should’ve known he wouldn’t buy my explanation about Dennis.
I still don’t know what to do about my ex. It’s one thing if we’d just happened to run into each other. It’s something else for him to be at a firm that’s managing my money. I don’t think he’ll do anything unethical. On the other hand, we’re both still hurt and angry and resentful of each other, and Dennis apparently had to leave Lincoln City just like me and Nonny.
My phone pings with a new text. I fish it out of my purse to take a peek.
My phone doesn’t recognize the number, but I know immediately who sent it.
We have to talk.
I keep my expression carefully neutral, but the last thing I want to do is “talk”. Dennis and I have a history far too ugly and violent for something so innocuous. Isn’t that why he changed his last name to Dunn?
I’m about to tuck the phone back in my purse, but then it hits me. He has my number. It had to have come from the client file…which undoubtedly means he knows how to reach me in other ways. I don’t want him showing up in the neighborhood, especially when Nonny’s around. She’s never talked about our parents’ deaths, and I hope with all my heart that her mind’s blocked out the event…even though a part of me suspects she remembers everything. She was thirteen at the time, old enough to know exactly what was going on.
I would do anything to protect her from reliving that trauma.
No time today, I type. I don’t know what my schedule’s going to be like in the next few days. I hit send.
Make time.
I scowl, then turn my head so Elliot won’t notice my expression. We’ve just married, so it’s hectic. I’ll send you a time when I’m free as soon as I know.
“Who’s that?” Elliot asks in a deceptively mild voice.
Sudden guilt knots in my belly, like I got caught cheating or something. “Nonny. She’s wondering what’s for dinner,” I say, wincing inwardly at how bad that lie is. She’s never texted me about dinner before.
Elliot shrugs. “She can have whatever she wants.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Another text: Don’t tell your husband about me.
I grip the phone so hard, I’m afraid I might crack the screen. He has no idea what’s really going on between me and Elliot, and he’s probably worried about Elliot doing something to negatively affect his tenure at the firm. Don’t worry, I reply, then create a new text for Nonny. Elliot says you can have anything you want for dinner. What are you in the mood for?
She doesn’t respond. I check the time. She has five more minutes before a break.
Finally a text comes. Veggie pizza. No mushrooms. I frown.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“She wants a veggie pizza, no mushrooms.”
“We can do that. I like pizza.”
“You…do?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t like pizza? Although I prefer mine with pepperoni.”
“But that’s so…normal,” I blurt out. “I thought you’d eat, I don’t know, caviar pizza or something.”
He laughs. “That actually sounds pretty gross.”
“You don’t like caviar?”
“I do, just not on my pizza.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat, squirming under his amused regard. “Either today or tomorrow, I need to go back to my apartment and get my car.”
“It’s already in the parking garage, but it’s probably better if you don’t drive it.”
“I can’t be without a car.” Another text pops up on my phone screen. Don’t avoid me. My stomach knots. As if I could.
“Of course not. You can drive the Mercedes.”
The huge diamond on my finger catches the sunlight, fracturing it brilliantly. “I really prefer my own car.”
Dennis texts me again. You owe me that much.
My lips thin. That’s too convenient and simplified a view of our tangled family background. We’ll meet as soon as I sort out my calendar. Stop harassing me.
Apparently unaware of my mood, Elliot makes a vague, noncommittal noise that says the discussion’s over as far as he is concerned.
I too am through with talking. He thinks he can just exert his will, and I’ll do as he says. The deal calls for my body for his use. I’ll honor that because I agreed—I need the money, the freedom it’s going to provide me with—but I’m not giving him any more control.
* * *
Annabelle
After changing into a comfortably loose gray skirt and an oversized, pink off-the-shoulder T-shirt, I spend the rest of the day going over the course catalog from the local community college. It’s too late for me to enroll for the current term, but I can start next year. I’ll probably complete about a semester’s worth, and then some, before the divorce proceedings start. It gives me a little sense of satisfaction. I’ll be that much closer to getting the four-year degree I want.