Page 102 of It's One of Us
“Find who?” A soft voice comes from the doorway to the living room. Olivia Bender is even more bruised than this morning. Her arm is in a sling, but she’s fashioned a vibrantly colored scarf to cover the standard hospital blue, and her hair has been freshly brushed.
Park jumps to his feet. “I thought you were asleep.” Is there the teensiest bit of accusation in that tone, or is Darby imagining things?
“I heard voices. Are you going to introduce me to our guests?”
Yes, thereisan edge. Uh-oh.
“I’m Darby Flynn, and this is my daughter, Scarlett. My son is Peyton Flynn.”
Scarlett waves from the corner of the couch. “Hello, Mrs. Bender. Your home is so beautiful.”
“We thought we should get together, come up with a plan for how to deal with the media going forward,” Park says. Darby shoots a glance at Park. That’s news to her, but of course he has an ulterior motive for inviting them into his life. “I was going to wake you. Are you hungry? We can all have dinner. I’ll call for takeout. Pizza?” He smiles knowingly at Scarlett—apparently, she’s already managed to share her favorites with her father.
Olivia Bender says nothing, a parade of emotions jetting across her delicate and bruised face. She turns without acknowledging them and disappears back up the stairs.
Park laughs, but it’s uncomfortable now. “I should, um...”
Darby stands. “We need to be going anyway.”
Scarlett cries “Mom” in that crazy multisyllabic manner she’s picked up, and Park’s face breaks into another smile at the word.
“No, no, please. Stay. We’ll order pizza and talk. Let me just speak with her. I’ll be right back.”
He takes the steps two at a time.
“Isn’t he amazing?” Scarlett asks dreamily. “I’m so glad we’re going to stay for dinner. This is the coolest.”
The coolest. Right. Darby may be rusty in the relationship realm, but she’s pretty sure Olivia and Park Bender are about to be kaput.
40
THE WIFE
Olivia is very glad for the painkillers, because while they aren’t really fixing the pain in her collarbone, they’re dulling the agony of seeing that woman and her pretty kid sitting downstairs in her living room, drinking tea out of her good wedding china cups—What the hell, Park? Why are you trying to impress her? How have they even ended up here? And why is her husband sitting there glowing, surrounded by his new family, looking at his wife as ifshewere the interloper to their newfound happiness?
Olivia can’t take this. It’s an affront. She knows there’s no getting around Park meeting his biologicals, but to invite them over for tea, to invite them into their house, without checking with her first? It’s the final slap in the face, and she is done with this nonsense. She’s so out of here.
She grabs her Tumi carry-on from behind the closet door—thank goodness it’s so light, she can manage it one-handed. She gathers clothes—flowing pants that won’t be hard to pull up by herself, a long skirt, two button-down tops, tanks, and a cardigan. Bras and undies, and on a whim, she grabs her swimsuit from the bottom drawer. That’s what she’s going to do. She knows exactly where she’s going. The crazy cat lady has given her the greatest possible gift—an escape hatch. How Annika knew Olivia would need it, she has no idea, but thank God for the kindness of semi-strangers.
Back to the closet for a cover-up, five minutes in the anemically sterile bathroom gathering necessities, and she’s almost ready.
She goes back into the closet and wrestles open the small stepladder that allows her to get to the top shelf, where her tall boots are stored. There is a jewelry safe on the shelf, locked with a passcode. Balancing carefully, she inputs the code and opens the door. There’s something she doesn’t want to leave behind, just in case.
She removes the travel case she uses for her jewelry, tosses it into the bag. Reaches deeper inside. What she’s looking for is under the set of pearls she inherited from her grandmother, a choker comprised of sixty-five three-millimeter perfectly matched white pearls as exquisite as it is old.
The space is empty.
Her old journals are gone. The photo of Melanie Rich that was left at the Jones build, the one she snuck from her purse into the safe, is gone. And with them, a worn envelope, containing a single-page letter, addressed but not stamped.
Before she can panic fully, Park shows up in the closet.
“What are you doing on that ladder? My God, Liv, get down.”
She slams closed the safe door and presses the Lock button. It bolts securely with a throaty electronic whisper, and she carefully gets down off the small ladder. Her heart is pounding.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Park demands, waving a hand toward her suitcase.
“Leaving,” she replies.
