“Yes.” The back of my neck tingled as I kept my eye on the sports car. Seeing the vehicle around my neighborhood was one thing, but what was it doing in Maryland? The likelihood of the vehicle being a different car seemed small. Was I being followed?
“What about Ali taking Xanax?” Lulu asked. “Could that be another thing he kept from you?”
I focused on the road ahead of me. “I have to at least consider that possibility.”
“So much about all of this doesn’t add up.”
“That’s why I have to keep digging. To make it all make sense.” I checked my rearview mirror again.
The orange sports car was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Before
“Honey, I’m home!” I called out as soon as I came in through the back door from the garage.
It was a familiar ritual between us. Me jokingly parroting the old TV husbands, whose perfectly coiffed stay-at-home wives doted on them the moment they got home from work.
Ali always had the same reply. “Welcome home.” But he said it warmly, like he meant it, which never failed to make me feel cared for.
He stood at the sink rinsing plates and neatly arranging them in the dishwasher. He still wore his work clothes, but in a deconstructed way that never failed to turn me on. His tie and suit jacket were discarded, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled to his elbows and still tucked into his belted navy suit pants. I always loved the way dress pants draped over his hips.
He smiled at me over his shoulder. “How was your girls’ night out?”
“Good. I think Iman is doing Botox. She looks amazing.” I set my purse on the built-in kitchen desktop. I’d had dinner with old girlfriends that I’d met at the Arab student club during college. “I was surprised to see your car parked outside. You’re home early.”
“Something came up.”
“What could possibly come up to send you home early in April?” Ali always worked late during tax season. “Or,” I teased, “are you too biga TV star now to work long hours?” A week earlier, Ali had appeared on a local TV news segment offering tips on preparing income tax returns.
“You’re never going to believe this.” Closing the dishwasher, he reached for the kitchen towel to dry his hands. “Channel Three wants me to become a regular contributor.”
“A regular contributor of what?”
“They want me to appear a couple of times a month and give financial advice, answer money-related questions, that sort of thing.”
I dipped my chin. “Are you kidding?”
He chuckled. “It’s crazy, right?”
“How did that happen?”
“The news director called the firm today. He says I have a good TV presence, whatever that means.”
“It means you’ve still got it. You hottie, you.” I went in for a hug and was rewarded with a very sweet welcome-home kiss. “We need to go out and celebrate. Where should we go?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Somewhere nice but—”
“Not too expensive,” I finished for him since I knew where that particular sentence always ended.
He shrugged. “Who knows if it’ll work out. They want to do a few test runs over the next couple of months and see how it goes.”
My arms still around him, I slid my hands lower to squeeze Ali’s butt. “How could they resist you?”
“Gross.” Fifteen-year-old Ayla walked into the kitchen. “Do you have to do that in public?”
“Your dad’s about to become a massive TV star,” I told her.
