Page 69 of Do Not Disturb
“My relationship with my husband? What do you mean? He’s my husband.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Seven years.”
“And he… takes care of you?”
I narrow my eyes. “Yes. I mean, sort of.”
“He told me he helps you get dressed, shower, get in and out of bed. He makes your meals too. Is that right?”
I imagine the conversation Nick must’ve had with the detective, and I feel sick. “Yes… sort of…”
“So really, he’s more of your caregiver than anything…”
My eyes snap up. “What are you saying?”
“Mrs. Baxter, I’m just trying to get an accurate picture of your marriage.”
I hate what he was implying. Even worse, I hate that he’s right. Even though Nick and I reconnected for a night, things still aren’t the same as they used to be. It’s not anything like before. It never will be.
“Mrs. Baxter,” he says, “I have to ask you this, and I hope you’ll tell me the truth.”
My heart sinks. “Okay…”
“Was your husband having an affair with Christina Marsh?”
“No,” I say, but the lie catches in my throat.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes.”
I try to adjust myself in my wheelchair, but it sets off a spasm in my right leg. I grab it with my hands, trying to calm my jumping limb. Because of the lesions in my spinal cord, my legs sometimes do what they want to do and I can’t control it. It takes me almost a minute of readjusting my leg until it stops jumping. When I look up again, I see pity in the detective’s eyes.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Baxter?”
I swallow. “Yes. I’m fine. I think I’ve answered all your questions.”
He hesitates, then finally nods. “I’m going to go downstairs and talk to your husband again.”
After Detective Esposito leaves the bedroom, I watch through the window as he exits the house with Nick following close behind. Even from here, Nick is visibly upset. At any moment, I expect the detective to snap a pair of handcuffs on my husband. But he doesn’t.
The police cars linger for a long while, but eventually, they all take off. It isn’t until nearly one o’clock that Nick raps on the door to our bedroom with a plate of food in his hand. My lunch. He brings it to me every day.
“How are you doing?” he asks me.
“Been better. How areyoudoing?”
“Been better.” He sinks down onto the bed and puts the plate down next to him. “Rosie, you don’t think that I…?”
I wasn’t going to say anything. I planned to keep my silence till the day we died, but I can't do it. I have to tell him. “I saw you.”
“You…”
“I saw you at the dumpster,” I say. “In the middle of the night two nights ago. At three in the morning. What were you doing there?”
The panic spreads across his handsome features. “I was taking out the garbage.”
