Page 17 of Dear Wife

The look he gives me tells me I was right. His mother is not the only one in this family looking for a little male influence. The boys need it just as much. I resolve to be better, todobetter.

I ruffle his hair and stand. “As soon as this case is behind me, we’ll do something fun, just you and me, okay? A movie. A ballgame. You pick. Does that sound all right to you?”

Timmy looks up from his bed and smiles. “That sounds awesome.”

“Now get up here and gimme a hug so I can go.”

It’s the fastest hug on record, as is my trek down the stairs. Bryn is waiting for me at the bottom, her expression hopeful and disappointed at the same time. I’m not staying. That much is clear from the way I hit the floor and keep going, heading in long strides to the door.

“Talk to Timmy. He promised to explain.” My phone buzzes. Rick again, with a possible sighting of Sabine’s car.Shit.

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” Bryn says.

“Call you later,” I say, and then I’m off like a shot, jogging across the front yard to my car.

BETH

I roll up at a two-story cottage on the Westside and double-check the address—1071 English Street. I take in the salmon-painted siding, white picket fencing, the neat, manicured front lawn lined with a cheerful border of impatiens. On the outside at least, Morgan House is a dream. A hundred times better than the shithole on Wylie Street, and that’s without even taking into account the hooker.

I park at the curb, sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door.

The woman who pulls it open is large. Amazonian large, with a stretched-out frame and limbs like a panther, lean and miles and miles long. The tallest woman I’ve ever seen, though... My gaze lands on her throat. Not even a shadow of Adam’s apple.

She steps onto the porch in four-inch heels, and I have to tip my head all the way back to look at her.

“Can I help you?” Her voice is round and resonant, like she’s talking into an empty jug.

I clear my throat and smile. “Yes. I’m looking for whoever’s in charge of this place.”

“Well, then, you’re in luck, ’cause you found her.” She sticks out a hand the size of a skillet. Her nails are pointy and sharp, painted a shiny hot pink. “My name’s Miss Sally. And you are?”

Her makeup is immaculate, if a little heavy. Fuchsia lips, lined and shaded lids, a pinkish bronze lining her cheekbones. I search her chin for tiny pinpricks of whiskers—it’s too early to have a shadow, but still—and find nothing. Her foundation looks spray painted on, dense but flawless.

“Beth Murphy,” I say, shaking her hand. “A friend gave me this address because I’m looking for—”

“You don’t look like a Beth.” She leans back and studies me, her gaze exploring my face, my hair, my suspiciously dark eyebrows, which I didn’t think to color until it was too late. “You look more like a Haley, or maybe a Madeline.”

I go ice cold and overheated all at once. I don’t look like a Beth. I don’t feel like one, either. My baggy clothes, my dollar-store hair are all wrong. I’ve only been Beth for a day, and already I can feel her slipping away.

Miss Sally laughs, slapping me playfully on an arm. “I’m just playing around with you, sugar. In my house you can be whoever you want to be. Now come on in and I’ll show you around.”

I step inside the tiny foyer, and she shuts the door behind me. A TV blares from the room to my left, a square space crammed with mismatched couches and chairs, a table, some bookshelves. The only occupant is a man, in dusty jeans and a yellow hard hat. He looks over from his perch on the couch and lifts his chin in a greeting.

“Living room, TV room and study, all in one,” Miss Sally says. “Those books there are loaners, meaning don’t go leaving them all over town or selling them off to Goodwill. There’s cards, darts and board games in the cupboard. The Wi-Fi is free, but the vending machines aren’t. Parking is out back.”

“Looks great,” I say, but I’m talking to air. Miss Sally is already halfway down a long, narrow hallway. I hustle to catch up, peeking into the bedrooms as we pass. Tiny but neat—a single bed, a dresser and not much else.

“So, Beth,” she says, stopping, turning on the hallway runner to face me. “Did you just get to town?”

“Yes. Today, in fact.”

“How are you liking Atlanta so far?”

“It’s okay. There’s a lot of traffic.”

She laughs, though it’s not even remotely funny. “It’s also jungle-hot, sprawled halfway to Tennessee and has entirely too many Republicans. But it’s not all that bad, you’ll see. You on your own?”

“Very.”

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