Page 11 of Stay Away from Him

Lawrence shrugged. “And then nothing.”

“Nothing? For three years?”

“Nothing. No arrests, no breaks in the case. No hints about who the stalker might have been. Thomas will ask the cops sometimes if there’s anything new, any leads. They only say it’s an active investigation, they can’t share anything. I think technically it’s classified as a cold case by now.”

“How terrible,” Melissa said, thinking of Thomas, wondering what it must have been like to live in limbo like he had for three years. Not knowing whether his wife was dead or alive. Not knowing who was responsible for her being missing. And not being officially exonerated in the eyes of the public, still an object of speculation, of whispers, of theories. Without a break in the case, without a new arrest, people must have wondered whether he was guilty or innocent. Spinning theories with what little they knew. Taking sides.

It was clear which side Lawrence was on. And on the basis of what he’d told her, Melissa was on the same side: the side of Thomas’s innocence.

Part of her, though, wondered if Lawrence was telling her everything. There were pieces of the story she still didn’t understand, that still didn’t make sense. Lawrence’s insistence that there was no evidence against Thomas, for instance, nothing to indicate that he might’ve killed his wife. It simply couldn’t be true. Yes, maybe the case had been weak, starting with the lack of a body, the absence of definitive proof that a murder had even been committed. Still, no case made it all the way to jury selection withoutsomeevidence. No self-respecting prosecutor prepared to bring a case to trial without some slim hope of being able to convince twelve people that a crime had taken place. That their suspect was guilty.

Melissa wanted to believe Lawrence—but she didn’t have the luxury of taking his accounting at face value. For her, the stakes were higher. Her divorce was barely a month old; she’d gone through hell to get away from a bad man. She’d made a mistake, marrying her ex-husband, realizing too late what he was. She couldn’t afford to do that again. Thomas Danver had already met her son, had already gone home with her number.

She had to know everything.

***

I can’t stop thinking about you.

The text buzzed on her phone while she was getting ready for bed. She wore a cream-colored camisole and soft cotton shorts, and she was rubbing lotion on her hands and forearms up to her elbows. There was an intimacy to receiving a message from Thomas just then, as she was preparing to climb beneath the covers of her bed. It was almost as though he’d stepped into the room, and she drew ina breath as she remembered the physical reality of him: his broadness, the sinewy strength running through his arms and shoulders, but also the gentleness she thought she saw in his eyes, in the curve of his mouth, in the delicate movements of his hands.

She glanced at the phone a moment, her hands frozen on her arms. Then she grabbed for it, her thumbs quivering over the screen as she thought about what to say. After a second’s pause, she tapped out a reply.

I can’t stop thinking about you either.

It was true, even if it didn’t tell the whole story. Melissa hadn’t thought of anything but Thomas since he left—though a lot of that was the thinking she did with Lawrence, learning who Thomas was, what had happened to his wife, and what he may have had to do with it. Did he kill her, or didn’t he? Was he a murderer, or an innocent man unfairly accused in his hour of deepest grief? She’d been continuing to obsess over those questions as she got ready for bed: as she peeled her party clothes away from her skin, as she wiped away her makeup and washed her face, as she brushed her teeth and gazed at her own eyes in the mirror, wondering what it was that she wanted, what she could possibly be thinking, and what she should do next.

Somewhere between the bathroom and her bedroom she decided: She wasn’t going to do anything. If Thomas texted, if he called, she’d simply decline to see him again. Politely but firmly. She didn’t believe he was a murderer, not really. But she also didn’t need stress in her life right now. She didn’t need mess. And Thomas—his dead wife, the accusations against him, his whole sordid story with its twists and turns—was both. Stress and mess.

But now he was in her bedroom—his words were, anyway—and she found herself wondering if she’d made the right decision.

I wish you were here with me.

A flush of heat passed through Melissa. It was late; Thomasmust have been getting ready for bed too, or even messaging her while he wasinhis bed. There was only one thinghere with mecould mean. Melissa tapped out a response.

Dr. Danver. We barely know each other.

The reply came quickly.

We wouldn’t have to do anything. We could just talk. Or I could hold you.

She breathed out, letting out an involuntary sound of satisfaction.

I’d like that.

Three dots appeared.

I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. Not until I know.

Know what?Melissa asked.

The three dots again.

When I can see you again.

She held her breath. This was it. The question she’d been struggling with all night. Should she see him, or shouldn’t she?

Melissa closed her eyes and searched inside herself. There was a fluttery, nervous feeling in her chest and stomach, and if she was honest with herself, it wasn’t so different from fear. She was afraid of Thomas, a little. Afraid of his past, perhaps? Or afraid of how she felt about him? She wasn’t sure. The two fears didn’t feel so different, she realized. Both were at their core a fear of being hurt—a fear of giving someone thepowerto hurt her. Becoming vulnerable. Falling for someone was always a plunge into danger. A free fall that was exhilarating and terrifying at once.

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