Page 34 of The Game Is Afoot

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When I get home, sweatyand sore from hunching over to roll Pearl’s scooter the whole way back, I almost text Corey.

You gotta lot of nerve butting into my business—not to mention getting our daughter’s hopes up!—when you’re apparently plotting your getaway after NOT EVEN THREE MONTHS!

But after doing a few laps around the house while Polly excitedly scampers around my feet, and doing some deep cleansing breaths that really sound more like attempts to breathe fire—I decideno. This is my time. I get to decide how to spend it. I get to control how I feel. I’m not going to interrupt this new calm—this enlightenment—for him, or anybody.

I am going to rest. I am going to self-care!

I have a whole day ahead of me, justfor me.

So I’m doing it for real. Right now.

Well…first I do a load of laundry because I get another one of those goddamn alerts on my phone that I can’t figure out how to stop. AndthenI do a load of dishes just to work off the rage I feel abouthimputting that stupid app on my phone in the first place and acting like he cares so muchwhen he’s leaving! (Also, the whole house smells like the salmon I made for dinner last night, so I don’t really have a choice.)

But then I get back on track and do one of those YouTube yoga videos. Polly doesn’t get the message that she’s supposed to act like the sweet, compliant dog in the video and keepsflopping on my head during child’s pose. Still, it’s very relaxing. My heartbeat goes back to that slow, steady rhythm.

When that’s done, I try and make an appointment to finally get my eyebrows done today because those suckers continue to rival Eugene Levy’s. But Vicky, my eyebrow lady, doesn’t have anything available on her online booking system, and I have to send her a message begging for something this year. It’s okay, though. I have time! This is my restful, balanced life now. I don’t have to fit it all into one day.

SothenI decide to meditate because I never have time to and now I have nothing but time, but turns out it’s hard to sit in quiet contentment when my brain is occupied with how I’m going to pick a fight with my ex-husband and the murder investigation I’ve started to outline in my gratitude journal because I was trying tohelpmy ex-husband, and also, hmmmm, I wonder if the detectives have talked to Dom Dwyer yet becausesurelypeople have already informed them of his behavior on Saturday, too, so theymustknow that he’s a way more likely suspect than Corey…and then the meditation is over. But again, it’s okay. I don’t have to be an expert meditator right away. Tanya says it’s a practice, and the most important part is showing up. And I showed up!

I drink what feels like at least half of my giant water bottle and check the clock over the stove. It must be almost time to pick up Pearl at this point. But wow, no…it’s somehow only ten. That can’t be right. I check my phone, though, and okay. Yeah. I guess it is. There are…a lot of hours until pickup. But hey, that means I’m self-caring efficiently. I’m already, like, really good at this. And I’m also not thinking about Corey or his betrayal at all, so I need to keep it up.

Hmmm…what else, what else…

Those wellness ladies seem to really like crystals. Or maybeI could look into that senior Tai Chi my dad was talking about? Oh, wait, exercise! Exercise is self-care! I don’t need Bethany’s MLM course to teach me that. I can walk. Or run! Even better.

I rummage in my drawers for exercise clothes. I don’t have the Lululemon wardrobe of most of the moms at Knoll, or even the Old Navy dupes, because I don’t exercise enough to have a specific outfit for it…or exercise at all. I find some black leggings under a stack of old T-shirts I’ve received for free over the years and then apparently vowed to hold on to forever. The bottom is a little worn out, but I hold them up to the sunshine streaming in the window. Not…totallysee-through. They’ll do. I pair them with the longest of those free T-shirts, just in case—a black one withBeachwood Credit Union Has My Backprinted in Comic Sans on the back (very clever), which I’m pretty sure they included in a bag with a branded pen and mini sewing kit when I signed up for my first debit card. And then I add the fancy belt bag Jasmine gave me as a birthday gift in November—which I haven’t worn yet, because as far as I can tell it’s just a fanny pack that has been rebranded and are we really out here wearing fanny packs now? But Idoneed somewhere to put my stuff.

I look at the finished product in the mirror. I resemble a woman who regularly runs…a woman who regularly walks. A woman who is capable of walking if she absolutely has to and there is no convenient tram available.

I take a selfie as proof to text Jack.Going for a run! Woo! Self-care!

And then I guess…I actually have to do this? Yes, I’m going to do this.

I shut the door on a betrayed-looking Polly and then start walking—briskly—up our street and the next, to the crosswalk on Maple, and over to the neighborhood surrounding BradyPark, where I do a few laps around the track. I even break into a little jog at one point, and then immediately regret it when my lungs decide to be all dramatic and act like they don’t work anymore, and then I just walk again.

And it feels good. Eventually I get into a rhythm where my lungs calm down and breathe in fresh air and my limbs warm up and start moving like they’ve done this before. And my mind clears of all thoughts exceptIsn’t this nice, that I can feel this good, that I can do what I’ve always wished I had time to do. Andthat’swhat I’m thinking when all of a sudden I’m standing in front of the storage shed on the edge of Brady Park, across from the now-empty playground and the basketball courts.

I squint at the typed sign on the door, protected with clear packaging tape:Office of the Facilities Manager. I didn’t evenknowDom Dwyer had an office. It was my subconscious that brought me here, if anything. Probably just coincidence, most likely. That’sdefinitelynot the reason I wore all black.

I was exercising. Self-caring! But now that I’m here—well, how can I not take a quick peek? It’s just…multitasking. And it made me feel so good yesterday, poking around at the puzzle, using my brain for something useful and interesting. It’ll probably help me relax even more right now if I find some answers. Like, I don’t know, a giant bottle of sodium nitrate sitting on his desk? Perfect. I can tell the detectives, clear Corey’s name, and then take a nap! It’s a win-win for everyone. Except, well…Dom.

I do a quick scan around the park. There are two guys playing on the basketball courts, but they’re too busy to pay attention to me. And I don’t see Dom anywhere. There’s a speck on the far, far side of the park, near the duck pond, thatmaybe him on his mower, but I would hear him coming on that thing. What harm would it be to just take a look around?

I twist the doorknob before I can talk myself out of it.Locked. Damn it. Of course it’s not going to be that easy. I wish I had acquired some more useful skills in my thirty-two years on this earth, like lock-picking or kicking a door open like they do on TV shows—but if you need me to convert a Word doc to a PDF, I’m your girl!

What about that credit card thing theyalsoalways do on TV shows? Does that actually work? It looks so simple (and like it doesn’t require as much core strength). I might as well try…

I grab my wallet out of my fanny pack—excuse me, belt bag—and flip through my cards. Which one can I afford to lose if this goes horribly wrong and the thing snaps in half? My Project Window employee ID card sticks out at the top like it’s volunteering as tribute. I’m not going to usethatone again, especially after that email Rose sent me last night.

After a quick study of a wikiHow article and three failed attempts, the lock makes a satisfying click. I’m in! I do a little shoulder shimmy and,okay, something resembling the sprinkler because, oh my god, I did it! But then I remember that this is technically illegal and I swiftly shut the door behind me so I don’t get caught.

The sign on the door may sayOffice, but the decor in this place definitely leans more shed-chic. There’s a Weedwacker leaning next to the door, with two large jugs of gasoline seemingly supporting it. Two of the walls are covered with shelves loaded with supplies, interrupted only by two dingy windows that cast the tiny room in an amber light. The only thing that hints at an “office” is a metal desk in the corner with a brown folding chair pulled up to it. It’s covered with messy stacks of papers.

Since it looks like I’m not going to get lucky with a dartboard that has Coach Cole’s face on it or a signed note titled “This is How I Killed My Nemesis Cole and Why,” I start searching theroom for clues. There’s a big bottle of Roundup on one of the sagging shelves. I remember aDatelineepisode about some woman slipping that in her husband’s morning coffee for a few months. On one of the wall hooks holding up the tools, I see some particularly sharp garden shears. You could slice an artery with those. And I almost trip over a giant blue jug of graffiti remover and nearly take myself out. Dom could’ve conveniently left that next to Cole during one of his paces next to the field—or just knocked him over the head with it.

But, of course, none of those are the actual murder weapon I’m looking for. I don’t see sodium nitrate anywhere…but I guess he would have to be pretty careless to just leave it around?

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