Page 36 of The Thinnest Air
“Then I’ll hire a private investigator, and I’ll personally see to it that he’s dealt with properly.” Andrew exhales, cupping my face in his left hand. “You’re getting yourself all worked up, Mer, but what you need is some rest.”
I refuse to meet his condescending gaze.
Turning to head back downstairs, I resolve to sleep in one of the guest rooms on the main level. For the first time, I can’t bear the thought of sleeping next to a man who claims to love me so much yet cares so little about my concerns.
Stopping on the sixth step, I turn back. “If you truly believe nothing bad is going to happen, why can’t you at least respect that I’m terrified right now?”
“Meredith.” His tone is stern, like the way he speaks to Calder when he forgets to shut off his video game or Isabeau when she doesn’t put her dirty clothes in the hamper. “I respect that you’re getting yourself worked up. Why can’t you respect that I’m not worried because I’m going to do everything in my power to protect you? Besides, what good would it do you if we were both worked up over this?”
Maybe he has a point, but I still feel slighted.
He hears me, but he’s not listening.
Raising my hand, I silence him. “Forget it. We’ll finish this conversation tomorrow.”
He doesn’t argue.
When I reach the bottom landing, I listen for the soft creak of our bedroom door, and I watch for the light beneath it to turn to dark.
I can’t fight with him tonight.
I don’t have the energy.
Fixing myself a cup of decaffeinated Earl Grey, I grab my copy ofWuthering Heightsand lie on the sofa in the formal living room, spreading a throw across my lap. I’m not a reader, but I could use a distraction. My eyes scan the words on the pages of a book I picked out because I’d overheard some women discussing it at the gym last week. But nothing registers. I can’t focus or concentrate.
Even in my own home, I could swear I’m being watched.
For some inexplicable reason, I glance up, toward a small break in the curtains that cover a picture window. Flicking off the lamp on the side table, I pad across the carpet and peek outside.
The moonless sky casts no shadows, and the only light comes from the Gardeners’ elaborate solar-powered landscaping display across the street.
But I notice something out of the ordinary.
A black sedan is parked in front of our house.
From here, I can make out the shape of a person positioned in the driver’s seat.
The Gardeners have an elegant circle drive leading to a two-story porte cochere, with a fountain taking center stage. Anytime they have company, they insist that their visitors park there and not on the street.
Besides, their house is dark.
They’re either gone or asleep.
Within seconds, the taillights on the sedan glow red, and the driver guns the engine. Before I have a chance to get a better look or a single number off the plate, it’s gone.
My chest is weighted with each breath, tiny shudders rippling through my body as every nerve ending fires. Standing before the window, paralyzed, I consider dashing up the stairs and waking Andrew, but for what? So he can laugh at me, roll to his side, and go back to sleep?
Pacing the living room, I check the window again and again. This house is vast and its late-night darkness is unsettling in this moment, but if I turn a light on, I won’t be able to see outside, and anyone looking in will be able to see my every move, my silhouette behind every curtain.
Tiptoeing to the kitchen, I pull my phone off the charger and scroll through my contacts.
I don’t want to bother Ronan this time of night—in fact, I don’t want to bother him at all after that silly bout of infatuation last month—but I don’t have anyone else.
My thumb hovers over his name.
Detective Ronan McCormack.
Even his name sounds strong, shielding.
