I really thought I knew Jules. I mean, the woman made decorative book nooks in her spare time. Who would have thought she was a blow-job-crazed psychopath the other twelve hours a day? Not me. Not when I moved into this neighborhood and accepted her slightly burned apple strudel and invitation to stretch class.
I helped her wax her upper lip last month. We discussed a girls’ weekend to a scrapbooking retreat in Sonoma this November. She burped when she drank too much wine and had an elastic band she added to the waist of her favorite pair of jeans so it didn’t squeeze her too tight.
The violation from her felt intensely sharper than the one from Jake. I wasn’t shocked at the idea of him having an affair. I’d suspected the cute barista at Corner Coffee, the onewho always drew a heart on the lid of his coffee and chirped out his order before he had a chance to open his mouth. Or maybe the housewife who was always walking around our neighborhood in matching, skintight sets, her boobs bouncing with each pump of her arms, her makeup always perfect, face fresh, despite the boiling summer heat.
An affair, a side piece, an occasional one-night stand ... While all of those would have hurt, I’d already been steeled for that reality for months now.
But this ... this wasn’t just confirmation of a lost marriage. This was also the destruction of my closest friendship.
Plus, it was also Exhibit A in a very watertight case that Rachel Is a Gullible Idiot.
Look at me, trying to entice emotion in a man who wanted me dead. Putting together all of this in a stupid attempt to Fulfill His Needs. I emptied the remainder of the cashews into my mouth and balled up the empty bag, then tossed it down the well. Placing the tablet on the metal platform next to the remnants of my lunch, I stood up.
Okay, time to get out. Once on land, then I could decide how to confront the two of them without going all killer banshee, a strategic move since Jules outweighed me by a good forty pounds of muscle.
There were metal handholds built into the side of the well—only five of them, but enough to get you in and out of the hole. I had hooked my fanny pack through one of them and reached up to detach it. First order of business, I should rewrite my will to ...
The grate I was standing on tilted steeply to one side, and I shrieked at the movement beneath my feet. I looked down, and the grate was now crooked, the right side a good foot above the left. I carefully moved my feet, putting one sneakeron the higher part of the metal and one on the lower, in an attempt to balance my weight. The tablet slid, in slow motion, to the end of the grid and dropped off the edge.
Dammit.There was a slow creak, and I eyed the hinge that held the grate into place, one that was secured by a pin that I had planned to pull out but was now bending under my weight.
Okay, Rachel, time to move.I gripped the closest handhold with both hands and pushed off the grate. The platform gave out, banging against the stone sides of the well, and I dropped, my arms stretched over my head, my muscles shrieking in protest at the sudden strain.
This was bad, and I flayed my legs, trying to find something to hook my toes into to take the strain off my hands, which were slipping on the moss-covered handle. I lost my grip and was down to my knuckles, then the tips of my fingers ...
I plummeted down, through the darkness and into the ice-cold water.
Chapter 10
Jake
No ransom call yet. Jake sat in their theater room and watched an NFL game on the big screen, the announcers’ voices coming through the dozen small speakers surrounding the bank of leather recliners and couches. Jake dug into a box of Whoppers, his feet resting on a tufted ottoman next to an open box of pizza, and considered his next steps.
Maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping. Maybe Rachel slipped, hit her head on the mirror, and had a concussion. Maybe she was in the ER right now or wandering around with amnesia or something.
He could call the hospitals. She did that once when Jake had called his mom a few times without her answering. Rachel had immediately jumped into action and pulled up a list of hospitals within fifteen miles of his mom’s address in Phoenix, then called every one of them.
He stood up and journeyed out of the theater and down the hall to Rachel’s office, where, if his memory served him right, she had one of those big, old-school phone books underneath her desk phone.
His memory was right, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back, then flipped open the book on her desk. As always, it was empty, all of her stuff in organized drawers and file cabinets along the wall. The only thing on the glass surface was a vase of yellow flowers, the kind she grew in the backyard garden, and a framed picture of the two of them.
He flipped slowly through the pages, getting past theDs, theFs and slowing down on theHs.
Hauling Services
Health Clubs
Heating & Air-Conditioning
Home Inspection
Home Cleaning . . .
There. Hospitals. He reached for the phone’s receiver, then paused as his eyes caught on the framed photo.
They had their arms around each other and big smiles on their faces, and he knew exactly when this was taken. They were both wearing the Mechanic Nation navy-blue shirts that he had ordered for all the employees. She’d had his embroidered with “The Boss,” which was hilarious since she had questioned and undermined every single decision he’d made with the garage.
She had pulled all the strings, made all the decisions, vetoed all his ideas, and yet it was somehow all his fault when the place didn’t magically take off.
