Click.
The door closes behind her.
Great. Is she slitting her wrists? Downing a bottle of pills? Who gives someone like me the job of keeping their wife alive? He must want her dead. And when it happens, he’ll blame me.
I glance around the room, coming close to sitting on the edge of her bed before rethinking what’s on the backside of my jeans and how it might rub off onto her white bedding. Instead, I sit on a padded footstool beside the bathroom door, which might be too small to hold my six-foot-two self. But now that my butt has landed on it, knees hugged to my chest, I feel committed to the stupid idea and stay in this cramped position.
There are angels and clouds painted on the ceiling. I knew they must be related to the dude who painted Mona. I chuckle and shake my head.
As the door clicks open, I wipe the smile from my face. Callie steps past me and jerks her head toward the hallway. I jump up and fall in line behind her.
“Maybe you should put a leash on me,” I say.
She halts, then turns. The top of her head reaches my shoulders, and she tips her chin to look at me. How does she make me feel this small with one look? Oh, that’s right. She’s so rich that no matter how tall I am, it will always seem like she’s looking down on me.
But then, she snorts, eyes sparkling with amusement before her lips purse and she shrugs like the leash is a possibility. I instinctively stroke my neck as if I can feel the collar tightening like a noose, which makes her grin swell a little more before she pivots and heads downstairs. Like an obedient dog, I follow with my tail between my legs.
She leads me through a formal living room, a library, and a laundry room with dark cabinets, a brass chandelier, and an arched stained-glass window.So weird.Who puts a chandelier in a laundry room?
They have a six-car garage with carriage-style doors and iron hinges, shiny epoxy floors, and four vehicles: the infamous joyride car, an older, burgundy red Porsche, a white Bentley, and a black Tesla—which is the one she leads me to.
“A Tesla because it’s self-driving?” I ask, opening the driver’s door.
“It’s quiet,” she says. “The world has enough noise.”
I close the door and glance right while reaching for the seat belt. “Is it locked?” I holler, looking for the locks while she stands at the door. Then I step out of the car and peer at her over the roof.
“Manners matter, Flynn.”
Shit.
I jog around the car and open the door for her.
She smirks, sliding into the seat. After I return to the driver’s side, she studies me while fastening her seat belt.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
We pull out of the garage and take a right onto the one-way street as she types the address onto the screen. It’s an address in the North Loop, the Warehouse District, which is a hub for entertainment, dining, and shopping.
“Do you have kids?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply. Maybe she didn’t hear me.
“Do you have?—”
“A son,” she says.
I nod several times. “Does he live at home?”
“Not anymore.” She stares out the window.
“What does he do?”
Before answering, she takes a deep breath. “Whatever he wants.”
Spoiled rich kid.
“Well, that must be nice,” I say without trying to sound too sarcastic.
