Page 31 of Over Her Dead Body

I remember looking down at him and thinking two things:

First, that I should probably call someone.

Second, that we were never getting that out.

The second thought felt more urgent.

That is how I know the dream was mine.

I sit up.

No blood. No body.

Just Reid’s empty side of the bed.

Unfortunately, the mistake was real.

I slept with him.

On purpose, even.

I listen until the silence confirms Reid has left the apartment.

Daylight makes the place look smaller somehow. Bed. Desk. Kitchen the size of a postage stamp. Coffee maker on the counter. A glass in the sink.

I find my blouse on the floor by the desk. My jeans on the chair. My bra on the lamp.

My mouth tastes like wine and more mistakes than I can count.

Last night rearranges itself in daylight.

He offered to pretend to be my dead husband.

And I said yes.

Not because I believed him. Not because I needed convincing.

Because somewhere between Austin and Lisbon, I ran out of good decisions.

What happened is that I slept with Reid while he insisted he was someone else.

I close my eyes.

Excellent.

I have no doubt this man is Reid. None.

But now he has a cleaner story: a grieving widow followed a stranger across an ocean, got drunk, asked him to impersonate her husband, and slept with him.

The more certain I sound, the crazier I look.

That was clever.

I hate him for it.

I am not especially pleased with myself either.

I get dressed slowly. My hands are shaking, which I notice and decide to ignore, which is its own kind of warning. There is a bruise on my elbow I do not remember getting. There is one on my hip I do remember.