Page 93 of The Last Mrs. Parrish

After I finished, he tucked his shirt back in and zipped up his pants.

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” He laughed. “By the way, you look like shit. Your makeup’s all smeared.”

He unlocked the door and left without another word.

I stumbled to the bathroom and ran some water under my eyes. I texted Tommy and told him to get Amber and come back for me. I couldn’t let anyone see me this way.

When I finally got to the bar and saw Amber waiting, I wanted nothing more than to pour out my heart, tell her what he was really like. Her friendship had lulled me into such a strong sense of security that I almost told her the truth about why I was late. But the words wouldn’t come. And what could she do anyway?

As she looked at me with stars in her eyes, asking about my perfect marriage, I wanted to lay it all bare. But she couldn’t help me, and there was nothing to be gained by being truthful. So I did what I had learned to do best: I pushed the reality to the back of my mind and pretended that my charmed life was all that it seemed.

Fifty-Eight

The night that Meredith came to tell me that she’d discovered that Amber wasn’t her real name, at first I believed Amber’s explanation, that she’d been abused and had to run from her crazy father. After all, I understood what it was like to be a captive. If I thought I could survive and Jackson wouldn’t find us, I’d have gladly assumed a false identity. But something in her story was familiar. Then it hit me: she’d used the same phrase—I’m so ashamed to tell you this—when she told me about her boss making a pass at her. The more I thought about it, the more her story sounded suspicious. I decided to listen to my gut and investigate, but I pretended to believe her. I had my own reasons, but Meredith thought I was crazy. She’d come over the day after the confrontation.

“I don’t care what she says, Daphne. You can’t trust her. She’s an impostor. I wonder if she even has a sister.”

That was impossible, though. Even if she’d lied about everything else, she had to have a sister. I couldn’t bear to believe that someone could be so cruel as to pretend she had suffered as I had, to make up stories about a sister struggling with this dreadful disease. That would make her a monster. And my best friend couldn’t be a monster.

“I believe her. Not everyone has the resources that we do. Sometimes lying is the only option.”

She shook her head. “There’s something very off with her.”

“Look, Mer. I know you’re only trying to protect me. But I know Amber. Her grief over her sister is genuine. She’s had a rough life, and I understand that. Please, have a little faith in my judgment.”

“I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s your call. For your sake, I hope she’s telling the truth.”

After she’d gone, I ran up to my bedroom, opened my nightstand drawer, and pulled out the glass turtle Amber had given me. Holding it by the edges, I placed it in a plastic bag. I threw my hair into a ponytail, pulled a baseball cap low on my face, and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. I left the house with only my wallet and the burner phone I’d bought a few months earlier and walked the two miles into town. The cab I’d called was waiting in front of the bank on Main Street, and I jumped in the back.

“I need to go to Oxford. This address please.”

I handed him the slip of paper and slid back in the seat, looking around to make sure no one I knew had seen me. My thoughts were racing as I considered the implications of Meredith’s findings, and I felt sick. Was it possible that our entire relationship was built on pretense? Was she using me for my money, or was she after my husband? Slow down, I thought. Wait and see.

Forty minutes later, the cab came to a stop in front of the brick building.

“Can you wait for me?” I gave him a hundred-dollar bill. “I won’t be long.”

“Sure, ma’am.”

I went up to the fourth floor and found the door marked “Hanson Investigations.” I’d found the agency online, using a computer at the library. I went inside to a small, empty reception area. No one sat behind the desk, but a door behind it opened, and a man walked out. He was younger than I’d expected, clean-cut and kind of cute. He smiled and walked toward me, his hand outstretched.

“Jerry Hanson.”

I shook his hand. “Daphne Bennett,” I said. The chances that he knew Jackson or anyone in our world were slim, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

I followed him into a pleasant room with bright colors. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he took one of the armchairs and indicated I should take the one across from him.

“How can I help you? You sounded pretty shaken up on the phone.”

“I need to find out if someone who’s gotten close to me is who she says she is. I have her fingerprints.” I handed him the bag. “Can you find who they belong to?”

“I can try. I’ll start with a criminal check. If her prints aren’t there, I’ll see if I can reach out to some folks who might be able to tap into private databases where she might have been printed for a job.”

I handed him the newspaper article with her picture. I had circled her face. “I don’t know if this will help. She claims to be from Nebraska, but I don’t know if she made that up. How long will it take before you find anything out?”

He shrugged. “Shouldn’t take more than a few days. If we find a hit, I can put together a full report for you. To be safe, let’s say next Wednesday.”

I stood. “Thanks so much. Text me if there’s any delay; otherwise, I’ll see you on Wednesday. Is noon good?”

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