Page 36 of Happy Wife

Minutes later, Este’s foot is heavy on the accelerator, ripping through Winter Park. My heart rate speeds up as she zips downthe two-lane road that leads to the station. I’m not sure she even realizes how intensely she’s driving.

She pulls into the station parking lot and finds an empty spot among a bunch of blue-and-white police SUVs. I am awash with nervous energy. My stomach gurgles, and I’m sweaty and cold all at the same time. I quickly do my best to hold it together. I don’t want Este to think I’m going to lose my shit, but she notices and reaches across the console to grab my hand.

“Whatever happens in there, I’ve got you. So does Beau. And it’s not like they found Will—they would’ve told you that much.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I must be looking at Este like a wounded puppy, because she pulls me into a hug I didn’t know I needed. My body relaxes and I can feel the tears coming, so I squeeze her back and pull away. I can’t cry now. Not here.

“I was hoping so, but honestly, I’m so bad at this shit. I’m much better at telling people they’re dumb and demanding they get out of my way. You’re really broadening my horizons as a human with this intense missing Will shit.”

Her gallows humor eases my mind, even if it’s just a bit. Este hands me a pot of expensive foundation. “Here’s some cover-up for your injection sites—you bruise easily. You might have been onto something with what getting Botox at a time like this might look like.”

“Ohmygod, Este, I’m going to kill you. And of course yesterday is the day he did eight spots, not four.” I flip the sun visor down and get to work trying to cover up the vanity holes in my forehead from our doomed medspa trip.

Bye-bye, vanity holes.

Este sweeps gloss across her lips and instantly looks refreshed. She really might be a sorceress. “Okay. Let’s do this.” Este gets out of the car. I take a deep breath, steeling myself, then follow her.

The air feels thicker and hotter than it did when we left my house. Maybe it’s all the cars and asphalt in the parking lot. Maybe the air on the Isle of Sicily is just ten degrees cooler than the police precinct.

I am a step behind Este as we walk toward the front door when I see him. He’s trying to look like a passerby, but the iPhoneat chest height pointed directly at me tells me he’s not just a guy in front of the station.

“Este, don’t look anywhere but at the door, that guy on the sidewalk is filming us.” Este starts to turn her head and hiss at him. “Don’t look.”

She snaps her head forward and we start walking a little faster for the door. I obscure my face with my hair as I climb the steps quickly.

—

Este and I sit in the waiting area for what feels like hours. There’s a man across the way chained to a bench looking like he has had the worst day of his life, but my gut tells me it might only register in the top ten worst days for him. I shift a little, acutely aware of the six-carat Asscher-cut diamond engagement ring stacked above my wedding band. There is nothing I can do to pretend that people don’t notice it. Haves and have-nots alike come here to be humbled, apparently. My discomfort is rising when Detective Ardell comes out from behind a door.

Ardell. Don’t be scared. He’s just Ardell.

“Nora, sorry to keep you waiting. Been a helluva day today. Come on back with me.”

“Can Este come, too?” It comes out sounding weaker than I mean it to, but I’m scared about what’s on the other side of this door.

“Sure enough.”

We follow Ardell down a cinder-block hallway with a bunch of solid doors to a room that, I’m grateful to see, has a window in the door and a large conference table in the middle of it. I stop short at the door when I see, in the middle of the cheap mahogany table, a shirt.

“That’s Will’s shirt,” I say.

Este looks over her shoulder at the run-of-the-mill French cuff shirt on the table. I can tell it used to be white, but it’s tattered and torn and stained with dirt.

Or is that blood?

“That could be anyone’s shirt,” she tries to reassure me.

“I can see his initials on the cuff from here.” My voice is distant.

“He’s not the only person in all of Florida with those initials,” Este pleads.

I walk toward the table and stare down at the shirt. On the tag, scrawled in Sharpie across the white Peter Millar tag:Somerset.

I want to touch it, but I don’t dare. Ardell sits down across the table from me by the collar of the shirt.

“The shirt was found on the shoreline of Dog Island. It was in rough shape. We’re not sure why yet. The Rollins crew team was out rowing, and they spotted something during practice. The coach fished it out and called the police when they recognized the name on the collar from the news.”

Este looks at me, finally letting the horror of what might be possible sink in.

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