I feel Dimple over my shoulder, hear a sharp intake of breath as she reads.
“This is him, isn’t it?”
A nod. It must be.
But why? Why write this letter?I think you’d agree that only one of us can come out of this marriage alive.It makes me sound dangerous, like I’m going to hurt him, or myself. But what’s the point in that? Whatever his plans, I’d obviously just vehemently deny I wrote this. That would be a massive problem for him, no?
The final knife in the back lands.
Because I realize it would only be a problem if Icoulddeny it. And I can’t do that if I’m dead.
Oh god.
“Hold on—” And I’m racing to the chest of drawers on which my phone sits. I grab it and fling myself down on the edge of the bed. Dimple comes to sit beside me.
“What is it?”
“Those girls from his other Instagrams. I messaged to ask them about James. It’s unlikely I’ll get a reply, but maybe…” One. There’s one new message in my finsta’s inbox. “Shit.” I read it aloud.
Hi this is Jade’s mom and if this is serious you need to get away from him immediately. Jade died seven years ago and they ruled it suicide but I know that monster killed her. If you don’t believe me you can call me on the number below but don’t wait just get away from him now
Dimple’s hand fastens around my wrist. “You’ve got to make sure you’re out of here before James comes home.”
I’m still reeling from the message; James is exactly the monster I feared he was. Maybe worse. I know what Claire would say.
Natty, have you learned nothing from our parents? You take your shit and you get out!
My voice is shaky, breath a thin hiss, but I manage to say, “You’re right. I…I should finish packing and get out. Thank god you found the letters.” Something in my brain slides into place, and the weight of it triggers a wailing alarm. I shift away from Dimple a few inches. “The floorboards,” I say. Her eyes flick dispassionately to the doorway. “How did you know I hid my letters under the floorboards?”
Her cool gray irises level me with a look void of emotion. “You told me, in our sessions.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I never mentioned exactly where they were hidden.”
I spring to my feet, step in front of her to block her exit. She stands, too, but where my limbs shake and I can’t stay still, she’s a resolute statue.
Warm in the places I’ve been cradling it, my phone sits in my palm. I bring the screen back to life. Flick through the call history.
“What are you doing?” Dimple asks.
I don’t answer. Simply find the number, the number I found in James’s call log. The number he’s been making so many calls to for weeks now. I press dial, wait a moment.
And then Dimple’s pocket starts buzzing.
51
Now
We stare each other down, unmoving. I’m surprised by the strength of my fury. Because Marc, Luca, George, James…Their betrayal is one thing. But Dimple betraying me is another entirely. That anger helps me spit the next words out clearly.
“There’s a number that James has been calling and calling for weeks. Long conversations. A supplier, he said.”
Understanding darkens her features.
“But that’s your number.”
As I stare into her blank face, I have to wonder how much of her stoicism in our sessions has been a professional resoluteness and how much an indication of something absent in her. Something very wrong.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you. What to tell you,” she says.
