Yeah, I may not trust Camille, but I sure as hell trust Eddie and Shane.
It only takes him a few more minutes and then he’s done.
“Okay, I got everything I need.”
I step close, hugging him tight. “Thank you again.”
“No more thank-yous.” He squeezes me back and ruffles the wig, making it slide across my head. “Want me to hang around until they get here?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”
Eddie makes a scene when the Mustang peels out of the lot, and I can’t help but laugh.
Glancing at the clock, I’m guessing Camille has gotten to Baton Rouge and is close to her house. I turn the music up after I crank the car.
Just about time for step two.
Chapter 10
Camille
The Alibi
Saturday, October 10
I let myself in through the side door that leads to the mudroom. Custom cabinetry lines one wall while a bench made to look old and worn runs the length of the opposite wall. Even though I know there’s nothing recording my presence in this house right now while I make my way through the butler’s pantry to the kitchen, I still avoid the areas the interior cameras would capture if they were working.
When Ben told me a few days ago the cameras were down, that was the only confirmation I needed that he would be meeting someone here. A “system-wide malfunction” meant there wouldn’t be any alerts on my phone if someone walks up to any of our exterior doors, nor would there be any videos that could be used against him later.
He just didn’t know he was making it easy for me too.
This house may be beautiful but it feels like a prison—one where the warden can check in on you whenever the need arises.
But not today.
Today I’ll be the one watching, thanks to Aubrey.
Aubrey.
Oh, how wrong I was about her.
When I showed up to the bar to pressure her into admitting she was sleeping with my husband, I assumed I knew exactly what was going on.
But instead of getting proof of Ben’s infidelity, I opened Pandora’s box. Whether I like it or not, I’m stuck with Aubrey Price now.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I clear the landing on the second floor then head to the narrow door that hides the staircase to the attic. I spent the last few days stuffing an oversize storage container with everything I’d need today. The first thing I grab is the bag holding half a dozen small cameras and head back downstairs.
In the kitchen, I take my time powering them on and syncing them by Bluetooth to my iPad. After testing everything earlier in the week, I know the distance between the attic and the rest of the house is within range for the tablet to pick up each camera’s feed.
Once I’m sure the batteries are fully charged in each camera, I scatter them around the house in places I think Ben could be when he gets here. I work my way through the downstairs: one in the potted plant that will show the driveway, then the kitchen, the dining room, his home office, the living room, and I finish upstairs, with one in our bedroom, just in case he has more planned today than I think.
Before I leave our bedroom, I stop and stare at the gallery of images hanging on the wall. Ben is classically handsome; he won the genetic lottery where all the parts and pieces are symmetrical and sized for the most pleasing results. He also has the ability to be exactly what he needs to be depending on the people around him. It’s a gift that wins him bothcases and friends. There’s the image of us dressed up at DC Mardi Gras, him in a tux in what I call his Lawyer Ben look. Hair brushed back, not a strand out of place. Contacts in. No stubble. And next to it is one of my favorite pictures of us, taken last summer on vacation in Greece. He’s in shorts, no shirt, on the deck of the boat we chartered to take us sailing. It’s his Relaxed Ben look. Free of gel, thick, fat curls cover his head, and he’s got the perfect amount of scruff when he skips the razor for at least a day. Two different-looking guys, two different personalities.
Which Ben will I see today?
I run a hand across the image of him on the sailboat as if I’m saying goodbye to the version I fell in love with all those years ago, before everything got so complicated.
And then I’m back to the attic. We splurged on the foam insulation during the remodel so it’s only a few degrees warmer than the interior of the house. I pull out a folded beach chair and set it up next to the storage box. Remaining inside are a couple of bottles of water, a box of granola bars, a roll of toilet paper, and a bucket. I’m praying with everything in me that I won’t need the bucket, but I’m prepared for the worst. After he gets here, I’m not sure when I’ll have a chance to leave.
