“Hey, babe. How are you?” His voice—my husband’s familiar, jovial tone—does nothing to calm my fears.
“Hey,” I choke out. “How are you?”
“Good. Just enjoying DC. It’s warm here, but I love the people. It’s so different than Texas.” A half laugh. “In a good way. I’m about to head into a meeting. Can I call you back?”
So, he’s still there. In DC. Or at least he says he is.
Something flickers in my brain, some memory. He says it’swarm. A flashback hits me: Washington, DC, a few years ago when I traveled there for a job. I killed a wealthy socialite who was trafficking children. It was still chilly, and I wore a jacket—a jacket I didn’t bring home with me, because it snagged on the corner of a bookshelf, ripping the shoulder wide open as I made my escape. The cherry blossoms were blooming then, bright pink, the whole city blazing with color.
I remember thinking it was the most beautiful place I’d ever killed someone.
March. It was March, just after St. Patrick’s Day, and Eliza’s daycare had a party with green cupcakes…
And now it’s May. It’swarmand—
“Eliza is sick again,” I say to buy time. I put the phone on speaker, swipe to my web browser, do a quick internet search:When do the cherry blossom trees bloom in Washington, DC?
The answer at the top says:On average, cherry blossom trees bloom in late March or the first week of April. However, this can vary by a week or two either direction.
That coldness returns, deep in the pit of my stomach, despite the already eighty-five-degree day.
Brian is talking, saying something like, “…the doctor, maybe? I mean, if this keeps happening—”
I tune him out. Swipe to the photos he sent that I saved on my phone to show to the girls.
I zoom in. Note the cherry blossoms, the jacket he sports because it’s spring when this photo was taken and still chilly.
My conclusion leaves me breathless.
He’s lying. There’s no way this photo is from the past week, or likely even the month of May. The trees can’t possibly be blooming this late.
“I’ll look into it,” I tell him, which should work for just about anything he’s said. “How much longer do you think you’ll be in DC?”
It’s a trap, and he steps right into it.
“Maybe another day? Two? I’ll text you when I book a flight home.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
We disconnect, and I lean back against the Camry, realization settling in.
My husband is not in DC. My husband is lying to me.
And my husband is the man I am supposed to kill.
Chapter Seventeen
With MERE hours until Ihave to pick up Evie, I have a shit ton to do and not enough time to do it. As I pull into our driveway, I make my mental list:
Figure out who the hell my husband is.
