Page 43 of The Revenge Plan

“Well, your wife is or was lying to you.”

I sat up straight. My phone chimed again.

Hailey: Then you’ll have to make do with this.

Below was a picture of Hailey in the shower, naked. Fuck. I tried to appear as casual as I could and put my phone down. I cleared my throat, trying hard and failing to put the picture of Hailey out of my head.

“What do you mean she’s lying?”

“She doesn’t stay at the upper-west side address she gave you. Not recently, at least. She vacated it six months ago.”

I frowned, “Why would she lie about that?”

Fred shrugged. “Could be there’s a better, pricier apartment she might not want you to know. I would have to look into it further. Have you been there?”

“The apartment? Once.” Now that I thought about it, I never got in, “I only made it to the lobby of the building.”

“It could be nothing. It could be…” Fred trailed off into thought.

“Could be what?”

“It could be she was staying at someplace cheap and she didn’t want you to know out of shame and pride.”

I bellowed with laughter, “There’s no way. She has no shame. Pride maybe, but I couldn’t see a Lyndell living in a cheap apartment.” That family would make sure they float no matter what. Isn’t that why she had married me? She had said as much.

“I’ll look more into it.”

“Do. But you won’t find her living in some ram-shack in Queens.”

When Fred left, I picked up my phone and went back to Hailey’s texts. I’m going to have to be on guard with her. But in the meantime, I’m going to enjoy having her around.

25

“What is all this?” I heard Hailey say behind me. She must have waltzed into the apartment while I was in the midst of chopping carrots. I turned to her. She was standing over the counter on the other side of the kitchen-cum-dining room.

“Grab that,” I pointed to an apron on one of the tools, “and come help me.” I went back to the chopping.

“Mini chef?” she drawled. She was no doubt reading what was written on the navy-blue apron, “Is that what I am?”

“Yes. Now come over here and learn.” I felt her more than heard her come to stand next to me. She touched my shoulder to turn me toward her, “let me see,” I turned to face her. She had donned the apron and was now reading mine, which was like hers except for the words, “Super Chef!”

“Am I not?”

“Since you’re going to be my teacher, best not argue against it, or you will give me a shoddy lesson.”

“Wise.”

She grabbed the glass of wine that was next to the pack of peas, “Is this how you cook? Drunk?” she took a sip.

“Slightly tipsy actually,” I took the bottle and a glass from the cabinet and poured her her own, “Lesson number one: You should always be slightly tipsy when you cook. Makes the entire experience fun.”

She chuckled, “And who taught you that? The chef at the hotel you once worked for?”

“He was the best chef in the world before I came along.”

She had a glow about her when she smiled. It made me want to make her smile and laugh. “What’s the second lesson?” she said, looking down at the carrots.

“Have you ever made a casserole?”

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