“Dangerous?” Bertram asks. “What’s dangerous about writing a book?”
My hands, still gripping Waylen’s arms, dig into his skin.Don’t blow my cover, I’m telling him.
“It’s not the writing; it’s the research that’s dangerous,” I tell Bertram, glancing back at him. “My husband knows that I’ll go to any lengths for a story. Last summer, I wasconsidering a scuba-diving class so I could write a murder mystery where the plot twist is that the victim was actually eaten by a shark.”
Bertram runs a hand through his hair, grasping it in frustration. “So, it isn’t just me, then,” he says. “You’re a natural-born risk-taker.”
“Something like that.” I nod to the car with the tinted windows—the very same one that has been chasing me down for days. “Rental?” I ask. Waylen nods.
There’s been no unusual activity on any of our shared bank and credit card statements, so this means he has a secret stash of money somewhere.
“Darling,” I say softly. Waylen’s brow furrows. The term of endearment and my dulcet tone are out of character. “I’m only writing a book about Mr. Casimir’s life because he has a fascinating story to tell. And if I sell this one to a publisher, it’ll help us pay a lot of bills. We’ve talked about this. I’m not doing anything risky.” I turn to Bertram. “I’m sorry about this.”
It’s so strange to see him standing across from Waylen. Two different aspects of my world colliding. And although Waylen stands calm, even penitent, I can feel something simmering just below the surface—a quiet, jealous rage that only I can see, because only I know who he was before he gave up this life for that of a respectable book editor.
He knows what Bertram has been accused of. If I know Waylen, he’s dug into message board conspiracy theories, read the fan fiction—and, yes, there is some of that—and formed his own conclusions.
He knows that he can’t persuade me to quit. And nowhe knows that he can’t stalk me while I’m working this case. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something drastic.
I have to get him out of here before things get ugly.
—
“What the hell was that?” I say, once Bertram and his driver are out of sight. I’m staring through the darkly tinted windows at the stormy city as it speeds by. It’s still raining.
“Should we go home, or should I take you to your car?” Waylen asks. He at least has the awareness to act guilty.
“As if you don’t know the engine’s dead,” I snap. “It broke downrightbefore you decided to come chasing after us.”
“The engine’s dead?” he asks, his voice soft in that way he gets when he’s being thoughtful.
“What did you do?” I ask him. “I know this was part of your master plan to scare me into being the perfect wife and mother. What’s phase two? Creating an Instagram account and getting brand sponsors? Tampering with my birth control so I have another baby?”
“Margaux.” He sounds just angry enough, and I know he’s standing on some sort of edge, daring me not to push him over. “I didn’t touch your car, or your birth control.”
Suddenly I’m not so sure. Calm, even-tempered Waylen has always been easy to read. But he does have a side that comes out when he feels threatened. And nothing threatens him more than the thought of me leaving him.
“I was just— I’m worried about you,” he says. “You seem to be spending a lot of time on this one.”
He’s pulled up behind my car, broken down on the shoulder, in a puddle of fresh rainwater.
He moves to open his door, but I grab his arm, making him look at me. “Do you think I was sleeping with him? WithBertram?”
He flushes, averts his eyes. “I—”
“Waylen, he’s a monster!” I say. I’m trying to convince myself because I know it to be true, despite some nettling voice telling me to believe his lies. “I’m trying to find evidence that he killed his fiancée, since that’s the only way to get him locked up. There won’t be enough proof that he stole his sister’s silly little app.”
“I know that,” he says. I’m still gripping his arm, and he puts his other hand over mine and looks at me. “But I’m not entirely sureyouknow it. And he’s so—well, he’s just a hero from a romance novel, isn’t he? Rich, manicured, edgy, British.”
“He’snotedgy,” I say, breaking the tension with a small laugh. “Far from it. He’s scared of his own shadow, or at least that’s the act he puts on.” I soften. “I’m taking all the right precautions. I’m so close to a breakthrough, and then I’ll never utter the name ‘Bertram Casimir’ again. I promise.”
There’s something that happens whenever things have been tense between Waylen and me for a long time. It’s a magnetic, irrational, kinetic attraction that forces both of us to throw logic out the window. It happens again in this moment, with the heavy pattering of rain on the metal walls of the car.
He is fueled by the jealousy that the thought of me being alone with Bertram evokes. My mind is racing too fast for me to catch my thoughts—the words he said to me lastnight about quitting this work, the passion it must have taken for him to go to such great lengths to scare me out of it. The demons of my past and present always lurking in the dark somewhere, and Waylen being the only thing that can silence them.
But he kisses me and I melt, and neither of us gives a thought to what will happen tomorrow, or today, or where we’ve been. Who we are and who we pretend to be.
He plays with my hair, which somehow got tugged out of its ponytail.
