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“No thank you. Those things are from the devil. They make me sick. Apparently now the ice cream does, too.”
I get her crackers, soda, and more ice cream anyway, and my efforts fail. We land in the bathroom again, and when Royce finally gets home, we are both on the floor on our backs, talking about the trial. But I don’t think Royce even knows I’m there. I stand up and he is quick to sit down on the floor and pull Lauren against him. They’re talking and he’s fretting over her, and my heart squeezes as I watch them together. They are so in love, and suddenly I’m thinking of me and Reese, reliving moments in my head with him: The coffee shop, the food-truck stops. The sex. The man knows how to get the job done, for sure. And that kiss goodbye…
I suddenly can’t breathe, and it’s already eleven o’clock anyway. I sneak to the door and leave, calling an Uber that I wait for in the parking garage. And too soon it seems, that car arrives and delivers me to the front of my building, which is not a thought I’m used to having. I like my apartment. I like being in my space. But tonight, it feels like this isn’t where I belong. Nevertheless, a few minutes later, I walk into my apartment, flip on the light, and then lock the door. Leaning against the wooden surface, I stare down the hallway, when I would be normally racing to my sanctuary tub or bed. But tonight, it just feels empty.
I blame Reese, who’s filled up my life too easily and too quickly. Reese, who I already know could hurt me, and yet the idea of walking away from him guts me. I can’t do it. It’s too late to turn back.
“Asshole,” I murmur under my breath, but I remind myself that he’s innocent until proven guilty.
He trusts you, Lauren said.
He tried to leave me at his apartment. He cleared me with security. He told me things that a member of the press would expose and knew that I would not. He does trust me, and I trust him. We’re also at that sweet spot in a relationship: Untarnished, a diamond in the rough with endless possibilities.
I push off of the door and walk across the hardwood floors, before cutting left and up the stairs to my bedroom. I’ve just flipped on the light and walked to my sleigh bed, setting my bag and purse beside it, when my phone rings. I quickly retrieve it from my purse, and there is no denying the punch of disappointment I experience to see Lauren’s number, not Reese’s. “Hey,” I say, walking toward my bathroom. “How are you?”
“You left.”
“Yes,” I say, flipping on the bathroom light. “I left you with your hot, doting husband.”
“You’re home safe?”
“I am. Thank you for checking. Are you doing okay?”
“There is a reward at the end of this, so I’m okay. Thank you for staying with me. And, Cat? He’ll call.”
“What?”
“If Reese feels what you feel, he’ll call. I promise.” She disconnects, and I want to throttle her.
Now if he doesn’t call, it will mess with my head.
I walk to the bathroom, strip down, and take a long, hot bath in my massive tub, which is the best feature in any bathroom. I sit there in the hot, bubbly water, with my phone on the ledge, of course, because now I’m obsessed over the call I might miss. I hate that I’m obsessed. Once I’m in my Victoria’s Secret pajamas, I grab my MacBook and take it to bed with me, where I work on my column that is due tomorrow. My closing statement reads:
If this trial ends in a guilty verdict, it won’t be based on evidence. If the trial ends in an acquittal, don’t blame the system. The system didn’t do this. The prosecution did, by charging too soon. They should have taken the time to back up their case. We all want justice for a woman and her child, but deep down, we all want to believe the monster who did this is no longer free to do it again. If nothing changes, I for one will not leave this trial with the comfort of knowing a killer is behind bars. Until then, —Cat.
I study the page and have second thoughts about the content. If I point the finger at new suspects, as I did in the first part of this column, what happens? I believe that, yes, it puts attention on suspects other than Reese’s client. Maybe it puts those suspects on edge. But after tonight, Reese may prefer to sideswipe those people on the stand. I need to find out or just write another version of my column in the morning to have options.
I glance at the clock. It’s two in the morning. Reese isn’t going to call tonight. I shut my computer and lie in bed, in the darkness. Alone. He might not be able to call. He might be in hell right now. God, I want to know what is happening. I want to hear Reese’s voice. I want to know he’s safe. But I don’t need Reese to call for some kind of validation, and he has no obligation to call. It’s not like I’m married to the man.
I just wish he would call.
As if I’ve willed him to do just that, my phone starts to buzz. I register Reese’s number. I grab it with a relief that says I wanted this call more than I want to admit. “Hello,” I answer.
“Hey, sweetheart. Were you asleep?”
“No. I’ve been too worried about what was happening there.”
“You were worried?”
“Yes. Very much. What’s happening?”
“Well, he was at his house, as we hoped, and so was his wife, Kelli. I’m calling you from the rental car, while Blake and his wife each question the husband and wife one on one. I’ve spent the last hour talking to them myself.”
“And?” I prod.
“Kelli supposedly got spooked by the press, or rather ‘suffocated,’ as she called it. She needed out of town. He followed.”
“She was suffocating, so she left her husband to fend for himself the weekend before he learns his fate? That doesn’t sound like a loving wife who believes her husband is innocent.”
