Page 49 of The Thinnest Air
My throat constricts as I fumble for my keys, which seem to have been swallowed by my purse. For a moment, I debate speeding back to his house with the irrational notion that he could possibly do something about this.
But my phone rings. And Andrew’s name flashes across the screen.
“Hey,” I say, trying to hide the shake in my voice. I rub my hand over the letters on my windshield, erasing them.
“Where are you?”
My jaw hangs loose as I try to clear my head long enough to come up with an answer. “On my way home.”
He’s quiet.
Does he know?
“Ran to the pharmacy,” I say. “Had to pick up a couple of prescriptions before we left for our trip. Spaced it off. I’m so sorry.”
I smell like sex and Ronan.
Climbing into my car, I start the engine and fish around in my purse for my travel-size atomizer of Gucci perfume—aptly namedGuilty—before checking my reflection in the mirror.
When I look into my own mascara-smudged eyes, I’m disgusted.
I’m not this girl—this weak cliché of a woman, throwing herself at another man to spite her affectionless husband and rebel against her boringly privileged little life.
I have to end this.
“I’ll be home soon,” I tell him, inserting a casual cadence in my tone. “I’m so sorry.”
The line goes dead.
CHAPTER 22
GREER
Day Six
I think it’s weird that his kids came to stay, but I suppose Andrew’s ex couldn’t be bothered with adjusting her schedule to accommodate her former husband’s missing wife.
Isabeau sits at the head of the kitchen table, shoving spoonful after spoonful of Cocoa Puffs into her mouth as her eyes are focused on the small TV screen under the kitchen cabinets currently blasting an obnoxious cartoon likely meant for children a fraction of her age.
I’ve only met the children a handful of times ... the wedding, a couple of visits here and there ... and Meredith always spoke fondly of them. I know she said it was rough that first year, getting them to warm up to her, but she persisted.
At least that’s what she claimed.
I’m feeling like I don’t know anything anymore.
“How are you doing, Isabeau?” I ask, wiping down the spilled splash of milk on the counter from when she prepared her cereal lunch. “I know this must be a scary time for you.”
Her dead eyes move from the TV screen to me. Her chubby jaw works the crunchy cereal.
“Mom said she’s probably dead,” she says. “Dad probably paid someone to do it.”
I drop the dish towel in my hand. It lands at my feet. “Why would your mother say that?”
“I heard her on the phone with my Aunt Lisa.” She takes another spoonful, losing a few cereal pieces as she shovels it into her mouth.
As tempting as it is, I don’t pry. She’s in junior high. She doesn’t know anything about anything, and it’s possible she misinterpreted whatever speculative drivel was coming out of her mother’s Angelina Jolie–size lips.
“How is your mother, anyway?” I ask, feigning interest.
