Page 81 of House of Lies

Chapter 32

Cassidy

The yellow cocktail dress is snug around my breasts and ass, and would probably have looked much better on someone taller than me, but at least it’s clean.

It smells like dryer sheets. Carefully preserved… but why, and for how long?

A most unhelpful line of thinking, Cassidy.

I agree, nodding resolutely to my reflection as I pull my hair into a bun with a few ringlets dangling down around my neck. My ankle boots don’t really go with the dress, but it’s that or go around barefoot.

We had another round of chicken parm last night, and I swear Ethan was going to ask me something important, but then he just said he was going to bed and left me in the kitchen. I guess we’re not at the stage in our relationship where I can sleep over in his bedroom yet. We’re still in the ‘fucking on desks’ stage.

I charged my phone the whole night and turned it on this morning. As soon as I saw all the messages and missed calls coming through, I just turned it off again. Maybe I’ll have energy to go through them later today, but at least half of them were from Edith, my boss at the diner. I’m pretty sure I’ve been fired by now. I don’t need to get cussed out via voicemail.

I’ve just finished with my hair when I hear the distant sound of the doorbell. Those must be the snack platters. Ethan told me last night that he’d put in an order for some refreshments since he doubted the realtor would pick up anything worth actually eating.

I rush out of the guest room to go answer the door. When I glance down the hall, about to call out to Ethan, I almost run into the opposite wall.

His door is open about halfway, and I guess he thought I was already downstairs because he didn’t bother to close it all the way before going to shower. I glimpse the side of his naked body as he dries himself in his en-suite bathroom.

I stop inches from the wall, shaking my head to get the image of his tall, muscular body out of my head.

That I accomplish. But the thick cock bobbing half-mast from his hips?

Impossible.

Gulping air into my petrified lungs, I turn and force myself to walk down the stairs, despite every cell in my body wanting to head straight for his bedroom.

It’s a delivery girl this time—thank God—and I beckon her to follow me into the kitchen to set down the platters. She hangs around waiting for a tip, but when she sees I’m not going to give her anything, she sends me a frosty smile and leaves.

I lay out the trays of mini burgers and tacos, my mouth already watering at the thought of how they would taste, when I spot a lonely dish near the range. I cleaned up the kitchen last night, so Ethan must have left this here early this morning.

Inspecting the plate, I tsk to myself. Lasagna for breakfast yesterday? Chicken parm this morning?

Guess he really does like my cooking.

Maybe I should try a spaghetti bolognese next?

I stomp all over the ridiculous thought as I march the dish over to the basin to wash it.

Despite my aching muscles, I laid awake for hours last night.

The only proof I found linking Ethan with my mom was that box in the basement. And now that he’s gotten rid of it, I’m pretty much out of options. But before I slink back home admitting defeat, I’ll have to come right out and ask him about Rebecca.

And not in some cowardly, half-assed way like the other night.

I need to tell him about the note I found, how his name was in my mother’s organizer, and why he lied to me about not meeting with her.

Snatching a dishcloth from its hook near the basin, I dry the now clean plate.

I’m considering doing it near the end of the open house this afternoon while there are still a few guests around, just in case he turns violent.

The last thing I want is to become another box in his basement marked CASSIDY.

I turn and walk straight into the man of the house. If he hadn’t caught the plate as it tumbled out of my suddenly nerveless fingers, it would have smashed to the floor.

“Everything okay?” he asks as he rubs a hand towel over his wet hair, reaching past me to set the plate down on the counter. “You seem a little jumpy this morning.”

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