“And now that he’s out, he needs someone to blame,” David concluded. “I thought your husband was at a private practice.”
David had just referred to Bill as “your husband” twice in a row. “Billused to be a criminal prosecutor at the district attorney’s office.”
“And now he does criminal defense?”
I swiped a finger along the windowsill. No dust. I could picture Jeanine as a seller maniacally scrubbing the house sparkling clean like Annette Benning’s character inAmerican Beauty. “That’s what makes Bill a good attorney,” I said. “He’s been on both sides.”
“I see,” David said. “What now?”
“Aside from filing a report, there’s not much we can do.”
“Did you file a report?”
I nudged the toe of my heel between where the carpet met the wall. “Not yet.”
“Why not? Isn’t your husband irate? I’d think he’d be ripping everyone in his path a new one.”
“He was,” I said, although I wasn’t sureiratewas the right word. Bill had been shocked. Fascinated by the details. Confused as to why I’d walked home. He’d called friends at his old job to tell them the story. He was grateful I was safe, and angry enough to use this as an excuse to convince me we needed out of the city. But not necessarily irate.
The truth was boring. We just hadn’t gotten around to reporting Mark—not that there was much to tell. “I’m sure they were empty threats,” I said.
“You don’t know that, Olivia.” He said my name like a warning, but David Dylan was the real threat. I believed him more capable of overturning my life than some vengeful, drunken asshole.
“Was there anything else?” I asked him. “Maybe something work-related?”
David’s presence only seemed to expand with his silence. “What are you doing right now?” he asked.
I glanced across the street. “Looking at a house.”
“What house?”
“This ugly, run-down, overgrown, magnificent eyesore of a house,” I said and sighed.
He chuckled. “Now you’re speaking my language. What makes it magnificent?”
“It’s weird—every other house on the block looks like it belongs in the suburbs. Underneath all the disrepair, this one looks like it actually could’ve been something special.”
“I knowexactlywhat you mean.”
I frowned, sure I wasn’t making any sense. “Are you teasing me?”
“I’m serious. I’m an architect, remember? I’ll choose a magnificent eyesore over a tract home any day.”
“But it requires money. Energy. Time.”
“Even better. You have to get your hands dirty to unearth the good parts. That’s work I love to do.”
What did he mean by that? Could he fix the place up himself? I hadn’t lived in an actual house since I’d left my father’s at eighteen—yet I had the sudden urge to get my hands dirty with David.
“You’re in the suburbs?” he asked.
“Oak Park.” I twisted the stud in my earlobe. “You asked if my husband was irate—this is his answer to the attack. Moving away.”
David cleared his throat. “I see.”
Voices in the hallway made me turn. My fantasy dissolved. This house was a much more reasonable place with no assembly required. Bill wasn’t the type to get his hands dirty. If I was honest, I probably wasn’t, either. When was the last time I’d done anything remotely close to restoring a home? Cleaning stalls at our local animal shelter was asdirtyas my hands ever got.
“I have to go,” I said.
