Page 20 of Sins of a Husband

“I agree with him. I feel like these eyes are staring into my soul.” She shudders and sits on the couch. “I’d feel like I’m always being watched if that painting was in my home.”

She has no idea.

“Oh, did Oliver give you those?” She points to the mantle above the fireplace at the white vase filled with a dozen red roses.

“He did.” I smile.

“Apology roses?” Her brow arches. Nothing gets past Samantha.

“Yeah.” I bite my bottom lip. “He didn’t get home until one a.m. the other night.”

“Why? What was he doing?”

“He has a new client, and this guy is a total asshole. He’s one of those jerks who thinks the world revolves around him because he’s a billionaire. When he comes to town for meetings, Oliver has to entertain him, which I don’t mind. I get it. But it doesn’t mean he needs to keep my husband out until one a.m.”

“And where did Mr. Tate jet off to this time?” she asks, tipping her wine glass to her lips.

“Chicago again. The firm opened an office there and told him he must fly there every other week for a couple of days. He’ll be home tomorrow night.”

“I would hate it if Travis traveled like that. He only goeson the occasional business trip, and I usually tag along. You should go with Oliver the next time he goes to Chicago. Have some fun together. I’m sure he’s not working twenty-four hours while there.”

“Yeah. Maybe I will.” I smile. “The firm rented an apartment for him while he’s there. I’d love to see what it looks like.”

“Then it’s settled. You tell him that you’re going with him next time. Just tell Carter you’re taking a couple of days off.”

I give her a simple smile. Samantha and I have been friends since the first day I started at the law firm. I can ask her anything, and she won’t judge me.

“Do you ever feel like you’re being watched?” I ask.

A perplexed look crosses her face. “What do you mean?”

“Do you ever feel like someone is watching you? If you’re walking down the street, do you ever feel someone is following and watching your every move?”

“I can’t say I have. Do you?” Her brows furrow.

“Sometimes.” I tip the wine glass to my lips.

“Well, I’m not surprised, considering that painting is in your home.” She points and then glances at her watch. “I didn’t realize what time it was. I have to get home and prepare for court tomorrow.” We walk into the foyer, where she grabs her purse from the table. “Thank you for dinner. It was wonderful.” She hugs me.

“Thanks for coming over and keeping me company. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

My feet movealong the crowded sidewalk, my eyes darting back and forth as I search for the source of the prickling sensation at the back of my neck. People bustle around me, their faces alert, but no one seems to be paying me any attention. Yet I can't shake the feeling that I’m being watched, a sense of someone’s eyes following my every move.

I pick up the pace and stand in the Conservatory Gardens in Central Park. The sun is shining, and the heat is stifling. The flowers should be in full bloom this time of year, but they’re not. They’re wilted, brown, and dead. I couldn't help but bend down and run my finger across the lifeless blooms, feeling the crunchiness of their decay beneath my fingertips. The hairs on my neck stand up for someone is behind me, watching. When I slowly turn my head, I gasp at the pair of eyes staring back at me—Eyes Without a Face.

My eyes fly open as my fingers are gripping the sheets. My heart is pounding out of my chest, and I’m drenched in sweat. Sitting up, I reach over and turn on the lamp, taking in several deep breaths the way Dr. Burton taught me. I wish Oliver were here. If there was ever a time I needed him, it was now.

I climb out of bed and flip the light switch in the bathroom. Turning on the cold water, I splash some on my face and stare at myself in the mirror.

“It was only a dream, Kat,” I whisper.

The following morning, when I reach the bottom step, my eyes instantly go to the painting in the corner of the living room. Lately, having the painting in the house is making things worse for me, heightening my paranoia. So I walk over to the easel, grab the painting, take it to the curb, and lay it next to the trash bin. Thank God today is garbage day. I never want to see that painting again.

Chapter Fourteen

DAHLIA

Before

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