Page 64 of Count My Lies

I wait, still no movement. It’s dark in the car, and I can’t see into it. A minute goes by, then two, then five. What are they doing in there?

Finally, both the driver’s-side and passenger’s-side doors swingopen; Jay gets out from behind the wheel, Sloane from the other side. Jay opens the door to the back seat and bends down. When he stands back up, Harper is in his arms, cradled, how he held her as a baby. My throat tightens. I remember those early days so clearly, Harper teeny tiny, wrapped tightly in muslin, snug against Jay’s chest as he gazed down, his eyes soft, his finger gently stroking her downy cheek. I felt so lucky. I thought I had everything.

Sloane follows Jay up the walkway to the house. Faintly, I hear the front door opening, then footsteps on the stairs. I listen for Sloane’s bedroom door to open and close, but it doesn’t.

I get out of bed, quietly crossing the room, my footsteps light, and crack the door open, just a sliver. It opens soundlessly. I hold my breath and peer through the slit.

Pale yellow moonlight streams into the hall from a small window. Sloane is outside Harper’s bedroom, her back to me, waiting. Waiting for Jay. I hold my breath as I watch.

A moment later, Jay emerges from Harper’s room, easing the door slowly closed behind him. He turns to Sloane, takes a step toward her. At first, they just stand there, unmoving. Then she tilts her face upward. Jay lowers his lips to hers, his hand slipping around the back of her neck, pulling her to him. They kiss tentatively at first, then harder, more urgently, pressing into each other, Jay moving her against the wall. He’s a good kisser, good with his tongue, good with his hands.

“Do you think she wants to get back together?” Sloane had asked Jay.Never, I’d wanted to yell. He disgusts me. And yet. And yet, seeing him with her makes stomach acid rise in the back of my throat, turns my mouth sour, my intestines twisting.

I step back from the door. That’s enough. I was starting to feel badabout what I’m planning to do, about the gun in the safe, but not anymore.

Back in bed, I lie on my side, staring at the wall, facing away from the door. A few minutes later, the bedroom door opens, hinges creaking as it swings wide. Then I hear the buckle of Jay’s belt being undone, his pants fall to the floor.

He wants me; he’s pressing himself against my back, his hips grinding rhythmically. He’s already hard from Sloane, from their foreplay in the hall. His body against mine sickens me. I move away from him. When he reaches for me again, I throw the covers off and grab my pillow, go to the bathroom and lock the door.

He deserves everything that’s coming to him. And Sloane, well, she’s not so innocent now, either, is she?

28

I get up early the next morning. I hardly slept. Jay is still snoring when I leave the room. It takes all of my willpower not to hold a pillow over his face.

Downstairs, I make a cup of coffee, wait for Harper to get up. Our beach things are packed, ready. We have a big day ahead of us.

I take my mug onto the porch, walk down the driveway toward the water. It’s a warm morning, hotter than it’s been, the air heavy with humidity. There’s only the faintest of breezes, the tall grasses swaying gently. I squint at the beach. Anne-Marie and her kids have already set up camp down near the water.

At eight thirty, I go back upstairs and wake Harper. Sloane’s door is still shut. Poor thing must be tired from her big night on the town, the heavy petting in the hallway. It’s exhausting sneaking around.

It’s just as well. I need to talk to Anne-Marie. And I’d like to do it alone.

When Harper is dressed and fed, the two of us make our way down to the water. I set up our umbrella and chairs, then motion for Harper to follow me. “Want to go play with Rooney and Claire?”

We walk along the surf until we reach their beach chairs, the towels spread out in the sand, all covered in beach toys. Anne-Marie waves from her spot under the umbrella.

“Morning!” I call out.

“Where’s Fitz today?” I ask, dropping down into the beach chair next to her. Fitz is both Anne-Marie’s favorite and least-favorite thing to talk about. It’s clear she thinks he’s a semi-functioning baboon who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. She enjoys his paychecks, but not much else. She’s like a wind-up doll on the subject. If you turn her key, she’ll yak for hours, pausing only for the occasional inhalation.

Anne-Marie groans. “Golfing. Again. We’re here for almost ten days, and I think he’ll have spent nine of them with a golf club in his hand. I don’t get it,” she says. “Really. Golf? It’s soboring. I know it’s his vacation, too, but honestly. Last year, we went to Barbados and…” And she’s off.

I half listen, my eye on Harper kneeling in the wet sand with Rooney and Claire. I could watch her for hours. Study the freckles on her nose, kiss her eyelids, listen to her long-winded stories, her breathy pauses, her laugh. She’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me. The meaning of my life, every good part of me distilled into her tiny, perfect body.

When I tune back into Anne-Marie, she’s staring at me expectantly. “I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask.

“I said, Jay doesn’t seem like that kind of guy, though,” she says finally, glancing back up at our house. “The kind that plays golf all day. He seems great. A really involved dad.”

“Oh.” I smile politely. “Yeah, he’s great. Friendly, too. Really friendly.” I let out a little nervous laugh. “Sometimes a little too friendly,you know?” I laugh again, uncomfortably, like I don’t want to make a big deal about it, even though it’s clear what I’m insinuating.

Anne-Marie’s eyes widen. “Jay? Do you mean—?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say hurriedly. “It’s totally possible I misread the situation. He probably didn’t mean for his hand to…” I shake my head, dismissing the whole thing. “It was nothing, really. I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t mention it to anyone, okay?”

She nods, of course she’ll keep it to herself—as if Anne-Marie has ever kept anything to herself—but I can see the gears turning. When she learns of the murder, her blood will run cold, remembering our conversation. It won’t surprise her. Men who are capable of infidelity are capable of anything.

“Oh!” I say. “I almost forgot. Violet wanted me to ask you—would it be okay if Harper spends the night at your house tonight? She’s been begging for a sleepover. Then we could return the favor, have your kids sleep over at ours?”

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