He makes some notes. “Can you tell me what you did while you were in St. Francisville?”
“What I did?”
I lean closer to her and say, “Just give him a rundown of your time there. Where you ate, stores you visited…he just needs a clear picture of the weekend.”
“Yes, of course. Friday night, I had dinner at Restaurant 1796. Saturday, I walked around…there was a festival. Did a little shopping.” She gestures vaguely at the house. “The bags…all my stuff…is still in my car.” A sob escapes and she has to clear her throat before she can continue.“They had a pumpkin patch set up. Stopped at the feed store to buy some fall plants. Mums.”
“Anything else?” Sullivan asks.
She considers his question and adds, “I had dinner at the WaterfrontGrill then stopped for a nightcap at”—she pauses as she wipes away fresh tears—“at Chantilly’s. Wasn’t quite ready to call it a day and it wasn’t far from where I was staying.”
Sullivan nods. “Any chance you kept something that shows you were there?”
“Yes, of course. I have all the receipts in my purse in the car.” She hesitates a moment, then stands up. “I’ll just…I’ll go get them for you.”
Camille leaves to retrieve her bag and Sully gives me a curious look. Does he also think it convenient she’s ready with a stack of receipts? It’s almost as if she spent yesterday preparing for the alibi she’d need today.
Chapter 5
Camille
The Alibi
Saturday, October 10
The clock starts now. It seemed impossible that I could find a way to move around without the prying eyes of my husband following my digital trail, but somehow I’ve managed to become a ghost. No phone to show my location, no smartwatch to record my raised heart rate and steps taken. Even the car I’m driving was picked because it doesn’t have a fancy navigation system to track and report back every mile I’ve covered. I bought this beat-up Honda Accord with cash a few days ago, which felt like an extreme move at the time, even though I plan on selling it as soon as we’re done. Aubrey doesn’t own a car, and I couldn’t rent one without the credit card charge alert popping up on Ben’s phone, so there weren’t many other options. But extreme or not, it’s exactly what I need to get me back to Baton Rouge undetected.
Ben wasn’t always this obsessed with tracking me. It was a gradual thing. Seemed innocent enough at first since I could see where he was atany given moment as well. I just never thought to check it as often as he did. And I really don’t think he’s trying to catch me doing something wrong or cares how much I spend at the grocery store. Ben loves control, and technology helps feed that monster. Every single move I make is only an app away.
It was only twenty-four hours ago that I was home with Ben. I kept him company while he packed his duffel bag for his weekend in New Orleans. He had taken the afternoon off from work, and his charm and playful demeanor were at an all-time high, as if that would distract me from the fact that he was lying about his plans.
We made small talk as he moved between the closet, the bathroom, and the end of the bed, where his open suitcase sat. He gave me a brief rundown of how he would spend his time away, while I sat perched on the chaise longue tucked away in the corner of our room.
There have been a dozen times when we shared a similar moment in the past—him packing while I watched—and I always believed he was going to be where he said he was.
But not this time.
The road out of St. Francisville is a straight two-lane divided highway with only the occasional house or trailer and the random industrial plant that supports the local oil-and-gas industry. It’s a boring drive, and my mind drifts to the events of the last few months that led me to take such a drastic move as allowing a woman I barely know to pretend to be me.
I had a feeling something was wrong in my relationship with Ben. Looking back, I think that feeling had been there a long time. It sat like a pebble in the pit of my stomach. Small enough to brush off at the beginning, until it began growing. And growing. Over the years, that pebble turned into a stone that weighed me down. Slowed my steps. Even thoughthere wasn’t anything in particular Ben did that made me start to doubt him, I couldn’t ignore the feeling any longer.
But deciding to finally do something about it is much simpler than actually doing it.
I’m not proud to admit it, but leaving a marriage is a lot easier said than done if it will result in a drastic change in lifestyle. Any money I have is tied to Ben, and thanks to the “bad behavior” clause in our prenup that my father insisted on, access to that money requires proof of infidelity, abuse, gambling, or any criminal wrongdoing. Dad promised this would protect me, but all it’s done is strengthen the chains that bind me to Ben.
Ben didn’t become one of Baton Rouge’s best defense lawyers by accident, so I knew it would be a challenge to find something to prove what my gut was trying to tell me. So I went on the hunt for anything that would fall into one of those categories. I was limited to his home office, and I knew the chances that I would find a proverbial smoking gun were slim. And I didn’t. But once I got started looking through his things, I couldn’t stop.
Ben had his obsession and now I had mine.
I went through the drawers on his side of the bathroom. The glove box and center console of his car. His pockets after he put his pants in the hamper. His wallet. Ben always says that the first thing any cop or prosecutor looks at is the suspect’s phone, so even though I knew he wouldn’t have anything there for me to find, I looked anyway. And found nothing. Absolutely nothing no matter how hard I searched.
Finally, I had to admit to myself that I was no longer scared Iwouldfind proof he was doing something wrong. I was scared Iwouldn’t.
And maybe that feeling in my gut was more about me than him. Itwasn’t about Ben and what Ben was doing. It was about me wanting out and not having the courage to leave him.
There was a time I loved Ben. Madly.
It was the young, chaotic kind of love. Where every touch is new and exciting. Every emotion consuming. Every experience is a first.
