“Three days,” Grant says, zipping his garment bag, not looking up.
“Tate and I— we fly out at noon.” “Where again?” “Chicago.
The Hartwell pitch.
I told you this— I told you this last week.” “You told me Tuesday.
I forgot the city.” “Chicago.” He kisses my cheek on his way past, quick, distracted, already somewhere else in his head.
“Lenore’s still here, right?
You won’t be— you won’t be alone with Milo.” “She’s here through the end of the month.” “Good.
Tell her I said bye, I didn’t want to deal with the goodbye lecture.” “She’ll give it to you over the phone instead, you know that.” “Worth a shot.” “Have a good trip.
Say hi to Tate.” “Will do.” He checks his watch, then his pocket for his passport, the same 2-step ritual he’s run before every trip for 8 years, and for a second I almost ask him to stay, not because I want him to, but because I want to see what he’d say if I did, except I don’t ask, because he’s already at the door, rolling his suitcase over the threshold, calling back that he’ll text when he lands.
The house goes quiet the second the garage door closes.
Lenore’s at the park with Milo, and I’m alone with a cup of coffee going cold and a laptop I haven’t opened in this particular way before, logging into the joint account I usually skim past without reading, scrolling instead of just glancing, because the old habit of trusting him on sight has finally run out.
The charges run together at first.
Gas, the dry cleaner, a steakhouse downtown that’s probably a client dinner.
Then a hotel charge from 2 weeks ago stops me cold: The Ludlow, $612, a Tuesday night I remember specifically because Grant told me he had a board dinner that ran late.
I call Nina before I’ve even finished reading the line twice.
“It’s 10 in the morning, you know that, right?” “There’s a— there’s a hotel charge.
The Ludlow.
$612, 2 weeks ago, a Tuesday he told me was a board dinner.” “Okay, slow— slow down.
What night, exactly?” “The 14th.” “And he said board dinner?” “He said Morton’s.
Specifically.
I remember because I asked if he’d bring me leftovers and he laughed at me.” “So text him.
Right now, before you talk yourself out of it.” I do, before Nina’s even finished the sentence, because she’s right, and because waiting another hour just means another hour of staring at a number on a screen instead of getting an actual answer.
How was the board dinner on the 14th?
He replies in under 2 minutes, which makes it worse instead of better, an answer fired off fast enough that it never needed to think about itself.
Good, it was long, Morton’s again, you know how it goes.
“He said Morton’s again,” I tell Nina, my voice flatter than I expect it to be.
“The charge says The Ludlow.” “Could The Ludlow have a restaurant in it?
Some— some hotels do.” “I checked.
They don’t, not one that takes reservations for a party that size, and even if they did, it’s $600, Nina.
Morton’s for 2 people doesn’t run $600 unless he’s buying the whole table an expensive bottle of wine.” “Fair point.” “He lied.
Not vague, not forgot, an actual specific lie, twice now, the hotel and now the dinner.” “Okay, but a lie about where doesn’t automatically mean a lie about who.
Could still be a client thing he didn’t want to explain.
Embarrassing expense report, a thing like that.” “You don’t believe that any more than I do.” “No.
I don’t.
I’m just— I’m just making you say it out loud before you go further down this.” “I appreciate the effort.” “Okay.
So what’s the move?” I think about it for exactly 1 second before I already know the answer, my thumb moving to Camille’s name before my brain finishes catching up to my hand.
Free tonight?
Grant and Tate are away.
The reply takes longer this time, 9 minutes by the clock on my phone, long enough that I watch it happen, the 3 dots appearing and disappearing twice before actual words show up.
Can’t tonight.
Plans, sorry!
Next week?
“She said she has plans,” I tell Nina, reading it twice myself before I say it out loud, like saying it might change what it means.
“Plans like— plans like what?” “She didn’t say.
Just ‘plans, sorry,’ with an exclamation point, like it’s nothing, like I asked if she wanted to grab a coffee.” “Did you push?
Ask what kind of plans?” “No.
I didn’t want to sound like I was checking up on her.” “You are checking up on her.” “I know that.
I just didn’t want her to know I know that.” “Margaux…” Nina’s voice goes careful in a way I’ve learned to brace for.
“Tate’s gone the same 3 days as Grant.
Same trip, far as you know.” “I know.” “So what plans does a woman with no husband in town suddenly have, on a random Tuesday, the same week your husband’s supposedly in Chicago?” “I don’t— I don’t know.” “You don’t know, or you don’t want to say it.” “Both.
Both of those, at the same time.” “Just say it, Nina.” “You sure?” “Say it.” “If Tate’s away and Camille’s got plans she won’t name, on the exact week your husband’s supposedly 4 states over, then either it’s a coincidence, or it’s not, and you and I both know which one we’d bet on.” I don’t answer her, because I don’t have to, because we’re both already sitting with the same question, turning it over without saying it out loud a second time.
A small, sick part of me almost wants to be wrong about all of it, the hotel and the dinner and the plans, more than I’ve ever wanted to be wrong about anything in my life.
“You still there?” Nina asks.
“I’m here.” “You okay?” “No.
But I will be, once I actually know something instead of just— instead of just guessing at it.” “That’s the most honest thing you’ve said all morning.” “Don’t get used to it.”