Page 34 of The Thinnest Air
My jaw hangs, my blood pumping.
“I’m not saying you had anything to do with this. But I’m saying if you did, it’s going to come out. The truth always does.” I keep my voice low, but I don’t soften my brusqueness.
“What reason would I possibly have to hurt my wife?” he asks, dragging his hand through his hair and tugging. “I love her. I love her more than you could possibly begin to understand. And she’s carrying my child. Don’t you think I want her home safe? With me? There’s a reason I’m sitting out here, alone in the dark at four in the morning. Can’t get a single goddamn minute to myself during the day. I’m so busy fielding calls and giving interviews that I don’t have a spare second to actually miss my fucking wife or worry about her. So I stay up. I don’t sleep. I lie in bed and think about her. I think about where she is. Who she’s with. If she’s cold or hungry or scared. If she’s thinking about me. If she knows how badly I want to find her.”
Taking a seat across from him, I bury my face in my hands, exhaling. Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. Maybe I’ve pointed the finger in his direction because right now, there’s no one else to point the finger at.
“I’m sorry.” I groan my apology before meeting his misty gaze from the other side of the table.
“You don’t think I’m aware that I’m already under a microscope?” he asks. “That the police, the media, the public ... they’re all watching my every move? I’d much rather be out there looking for her, but when Connie Mayweather wants to do a sit-down, do you know how bad that would look if I declined? If I kept to myself, the media would have a field day with that, and you know it. They’d focus on how guilty I look instead of enlisting people to find her.”
“No, you’re right.” I hate that he has a point, but I can’t deny it. “This entire thing is so fucked up.”
“Our next-door neighbor, Mary Jo Bosma,” he says, “the one whose driveway I shoveled all last winter when her husband had hip replacement surgery, went to the police the other day to tell them about a fight she witnessed once. We were yelling, fighting over something stupid I’m sure, but I guess the windows were open. Anyway, she took time out of her day, drove down to the police station, and gave a report about a fight she saw between us a year ago. A goddamn argument. Every couple has their disagreements. Doesn’t mean I did something to my wife.”
He’s right. Technically speaking.
“I’m sorry.” I exhale. “That’s not fair to you.”
“So that’s what I’m dealing with, Greer. And when you keep taking these little digs, suggesting that I had anything to do with this, don’t think I don’t notice.” Andrew stands, shoving his chair out. “You’re lucky you’re her sister, or you’d be sleeping in the street tonight.”
It’s a little harsh, but I deserve it. Kind of. I resolve to cut him some slack going forward, keeping my suspicions to myself until I have good, hard proof that my worries have merit.
“Good night, Greer,” he says, jaw clenched. “Try to get some sleep.”
“You, too.”
Finishing my water, I place the glass in the dishwasher, moving slowly and quietly so as not to make a sound. When I pass the butler’s pantry on my way to the stairs, I stop when the calendar catches my eye.
The last day of the month is circled in red, not once but twice.
Meredith’s twenty-sixth birthday.
The day her $5 million trust fund is to be endowed.
The timing of this entire thing is a little too curious for me to believe Andrew’s innocent pleas ... just yet.
CHAPTER 15
MEREDITH
Twenty-Six Months Ago
“Did I tell you we were invited to the—” Andrew stops talking when he glances up from his tablet and sees me hovering over a stack of mail, a single white envelope clutched in my hand. “What is it?”
“This was in the mailbox,” I manage to say.
There’s no postage stamp.
No return address.
Just my name scribbled in blue ink on the front.
Meredith Gretchen Price.
“I don’t want to open it,” I say, dropping it on the cold marble counter and stepping back.
Andrew heads toward me, swiping the envelope and ripping it from the side. Blowing a quick breath inside the torn edge, he pours the contents into his other hand: Ronan’s business card, a postcard advertisement for the Peaceful Bean, and a folded slip of paper with the words “always watching” scribbled across the front in coordinating script.
