Before leaving, I grab a few bottles of water, some bags of chips, and the sticky note with the lawyer’s number scrawled in Graham’s handwriting; then, I head out.
I coast all over Mapleton. Not many choices here. A shabby, one-story motel on the east side of town that looks like a halfway house. As much as I want to punish myself and check in, I can’t bring myself to do it.
I keep driving until I settle on a chain-run extended-stay motel. The sign out front advertises free breakfast and, more importantly, a pool.
I’m harboring the hope that Graham will let me bring Jack over to swim. He loves the water.
I step into the lobby and am immediately assaulted by a rack of newspapers parked next to the check-in desk. The sordid headline screams out at me, but as I walk to the desk on wobbly legs, the hotel clerk greets me with a smile. Clearly, she doesn’t recognize me from the picture in the paper. And even as I slide my driver’s license across the counter, her face registers nothing other than Southern hospitality.
“Here’s your room key, Mrs. O’Neill. You’re in 203. It’s the second floor toward the middle of the building.” She waves her hand to indicate the location.
The room is nice and clean enough, done up in buttery beiges and pastels with a beachy vibe. But still, the carpet holds the antiseptic odor of all hotels and there is an AC window unit, already droning noisily, instead of central air and heat. I know I won’t sleep well here.
I toss my bag on the luggage rack and sit on the edge of the bed. Digging in my purse for my cell, I fish out the number to the lawyer and dial it.
“John Gunther and Associates!” a bright, female voice chirps on the other end.
“Hi, I need to speak with Mr. Gunther.”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“I’m, um, yes, this is Sophie O’Neill.”
“Oh, yes!” I hear her tongue click with delight. “We’ve been expecting your call!” She pauses as if she wants me to respond.
I don’t.
“Well, please hold the line. I’ll get John for you right away!”
Cheery hold music fills my ear, but only for a second. I end the call. Cradling the cell in my hands, I let my arms flop between my legs.
I need to talk to somebody, but I’m in no mood to talk to an eager-beaver attorney.
I go to my contacts, to the people I have saved as “favorites.” Erin’s name is the third one. I tap it. It rings once but then the call goes straight to voice mail, as if she dismissed it. Surely that’s not the case, I think, so I punch it again and listen as it rings four times and then rolls over to voice mail. I’m just about to leave a quick message for her to call back when my phone dings in my ear. With a text, from Erin.
Erin:I’m sorry, Sophie, but you’re not who I thought you were.
Heat rises to my face and it feels like my body is being filled with liquid shame. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. I’m frozen by her words. And stung. But honestly, I’m not surprised. Erin could forgive me, possibly, for keeping the Hunting Wives a secret from her, but she can’t overlook my involvement with Jamie. It’s a line she would never cross.
My phone nearly slips from my hands they’re so clammy, so I wipe my palms on the thin, cheap, seashell-print comforter and scroll through my phone log. I stop when I reach Tina.
She usually answers on the first ring, but it rings three times before she picks up. Her voice is tentative and wary. “Hi, Sophie.”
“Hey—I just wanted to call—” I’m stammering because I really don’t know what to say to her.
“Listen, Bill’s here,” she says. “And,” she continues, her voice growing softer with each word, “please don’t call or text me anymore. This makes me uncomfortable. I can’t talk to you anymore.”
My lips tremble and I press end before she can hear me cry. What a bitch. She was okay with Margot messing around with Brad; she thought it wasfunny, a scene to rubberneck, but she can’t handle what I did with Jamie. Even though she doesn’t know the whole story. But then it hits me square in the eyes—she probablydoesn’tcare at all about Jamie. It’s much worse than that: She thinks I murdered Abby.
I feel sick to my stomach and realize I haven’t eaten all day. I scrounge in my purse for the bag of potato chips and tear them open, but can only force myself to crunch through a few. I have no appetite.
I should try and find Rox and call her no matter where she is in the world, but I can’t; I’m too ashamed. Even my mom Nikki’s face pops into my mind, but I know that telling her all this will somehow make me feel so much worse.
I set my phone down on the night table, stand, and cross the room. I grab the cord to the vinyl blackout shade and yank it, darkening the space. Creeping back to the bed, I crawl under the covers.
—
I STARTLE AWAKE.The boxy clock on the bedside table reads two thirty p.m. The time of day when I pick Jack up from preschool and he flings himself into my arms, molding his little boy body into mine, fingers twining through my hair as I carry him out to the car.
