CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Emma’s response arrives the next morning, also in the form of a single-line text message:
Meet me at my apartment at 6 tonight.
I stare at the words for a full minute. I cannot believe it; I’ve been trying to reach her for such a long time, and now she is finally welcoming me in. I’ve created the necessary doubts in her mind. I wonder what she already knows, and what she will ask me.
Exhilaration floods my body. I don’t know how long of an audience she will grant me, so I write down the points I must make: I can bring up Duke, but what proof do I have? Instead I write fertility questions. I want her to ask Richard why we weren’t able to become pregnant. He’ll surely lie, but the pressure will build in him. Maybe she’ll see what he fights to keep hidden. His surprise visits, I write. Has Richard ever shown up unexpectedly, even when she hasn’t told him her schedule for the day? But that won’t be enough; it certainly wasn’t for me. I will need to tell her about the times Richard physically hurt me.
I have never shared with anyone what I am about to reveal to Emma. I need to harness my emotions so they don’t overwhelm me and reinforce any lingering suspicions she might have that I’m unbalanced.
If she listens to me with an open mind—if she seems receptive to what I am saying—I must explain to her how I meticulously crafted a plan to free myself. That I set her up, but that I had no idea it would go this far.
I will beg for her forgiveness. But more important than my absolution is her own. I will tell her she has to leave Richard, immediately, tonight even, before he ensnares her.
When I last saw Emma, I tried to craft the image I wanted her to see: that we were interchangeable versions of each other. Now I strive for plain honesty. I shower and put on jeans and a cotton T-shirt. I don’t fuss with my makeup or hairstyle. To burn off nervous energy, I plan to walk to her apartment. I decide to leave at five o’clock. I cannot be late.
Be calm, be rational, be convincing, I repeat to myself. Emma has seen the act I’ve put on; she has heard Richard’s rendering of my character; she knows of my reputation. I need to reverse everything she believes about me.
I am still practicing what I will say when my cell phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. But I know the area code well: it’s in Florida.
My body tenses. I sink onto my bed and stare at the screen as the phone rings a second time. I must answer this.
“Vanessa Thompson?” a man asks.
“Yes.” My throat is so dry I cannot swallow.
“This is Andy Woodward from Furry Paws.” His voice sounds hearty and affable. I’ve never spoken to Andy before, but I began to anonymously donate to the shelter in Maggie’s honor following her death, since she’d volunteered there in high school. After Richard and I married, he suggested that we increase my monthly contribution substantially and fund the shelter’s renovation. As a result, Maggie’s name is on a plaque by the door. Richard has always served as the contact to the shelter; he suggested it, saying it would be less stressful for me.
“I got a call from your ex-husband. He told me the two of you have decided that in light of everything, you can no longer afford your charitable gifts.”
Here is my punishment, I realize. I took Richard’s money, so this is how he’ll extract revenge. There’s a symbolic flourish to it, a balancing of the scales, that I know Richard is relishing.
“Yes,” I say when I realize the silence has stretched on too long. This was for Maggie, not for me, I think furiously. “I’m really sorry. If it’s okay, I can still contribute a small amount each month. It won’t be the same, but it’s something.”
“That’s very generous of you. Your ex-husband explained how terribly he feels about this. He said he would personally call Maggie’s family to let them know what happened. He asked me to relay that to you so you didn’t have to worry about any loose ends.”
Which of my actions is Richard retaliating for? Am I being punished for the photograph of Duke, my letter to Emma, or cashing the check?
Or does he also know I’ve texted the AmEx statement to Emma?
Andy doesn’t understand; no one does. Richard would have been charming when they chatted. He’ll be the same way when he calls Maggie’s family. He will make sure he speaks to them all individually, including Jason. Richard will mention my maiden name—it will seamlessly slip into the conversation—and perhaps he’ll say something about how I’ve moved to New York City.
What will Jason do?
I wait for the familiar panic to set in.
It doesn’t.
Instead, I am struck by the realization that since Richard left me, I haven’t thought of Jason at all.
“The family will be delighted to have a chance to thank you both personally,” Andy says. “Of course, they write notes every year that I forward to your husband.”
My head jerks up. Think like Richard. Stay in control. “I don’t—you know, my husband didn’t share those notes with me.” Somehow my tone is casual and my voice remains steady. “I was really affected by Maggie’s death, and he probably thought it would be too painful for me to read them. But I’d like to know what they said now.”
“Oh, sure. They mostly sent emails for me to forward. I remember the content, if not the exact words. They always expressed how grateful they are to you, and how they hoped to meet you one day. They visit the shelter occasionally. What you’ve done has meant so much to them.”
“The parents come to the shelter? And Maggie’s brother, Jason?”
“Yes. They all do. And Jason’s wife and his two children. They’re a lovely family. The kids cut the ribbon on opening day after the renovation.”
I take a half step backward and nearly drop the phone.
Richard must have known this for years; he intercepted the correspondence. He wanted me to be afraid, to be his nervous Nellie. He needed to pretend to be my protector because of some depravity within him. He cultivated my dependence upon him; he preyed upon my fear.
Of all of Richard’s cruelties, this is perhaps the worst.
I sink down onto my bed at the realization. Then I wonder what else he did to pique my anxiety when we were together.
“I would like to call Maggie’s parents and brother, too,” I say after a moment. “May I have their contact information?”
Richard must be on edge; he should have realized Andy might mention the emails and letters to me. My ex-husband is the one who isn’t thinking clearly now.
I’ve never pushed him this far before, not even close. He is probably desperate to hurt me, to make me stop. To erase me from his tidy life.
I say good-bye to Andy and realize I need to get to Emma. It is almost five o’clock, the time I’d planned to leave. But I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the worry that Richard is waiting outside. I can’t walk there, after all. I will take a cab, but I still need to get to one safely.
A second exit in the back of the building leads to a narrow alley where trash cans and recycling bins are kept. Which door will Richard expect me to use?
He knows I suffer from mild claustrophobia, that I loathe being trapped. The alley is narrow and usually empty, penned in on both sides by high buildings. So that’s the route I choose.
I change into sneakers, then I wait until five-thirty. I take the elevator downstairs and fumble with the latch on the fire door. I ease it open and look out. The alley appears vacant, but I can’t see behind the tall plastic waste containers. I take a deep breath and push away from the door, sprinting down the passageway.
My heart is exploding. I expect his arms to shoot out and grab me at any moment. I push myself toward the sliver of sidewalk I see ahead. When I finally reach it, I whip around in a full circle, gasping, as I scan my surroundings.
He isn’t here; I am certain I would be able to feel his predatory gaze upon me.
I lift my arm to signal passing cabs as I hurry down the street. It doesn’t take long for one to pull over, and the driver expertly weaves through rush-hour traffic toward Emma’s place.
When we arrive at her corner, I see it’s four minutes before six. I ask the driver to keep the meter running while I mentally rehearse a final time what I need to say. Then I exit the cab and walk to the door of Emma’s building. I press the buzzer for 5C and hear Emma’s voice through the intercom: “Vanessa?”
“Yes.” I can’t help it; I glance behind me a final time. But no one is there.
I take the elevator to her floor.
She opens the door as I approach. She is as lovely as ever, but she looks worried; her brow is creased. “Come in.”
I step over the threshold and she shuts the heavy door behind me. At last, I am alone with her. I feel a rush of relief so intense I am practically giddy.
Her apartment is a small, neat one-bedroom. A few framed photographs are on the wall, and a vase of white roses is on a side table. She gestures toward the low-backed couch and I perch on the edge. But she remains standing.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
She doesn’t respond.
“I have wanted to talk to you for so long.”
Something seems off. She isn’t looking at me. Instead she is glancing over her shoulder. Toward her bedroom door.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that door begin to open.
I recoil into the couch, my hands instinctively flying up to protect myself. No, I think desperately. I want to run, but I cannot move, just like in my nightmares. I can only watch as he approaches.
“Hello, Vanessa.”
My eyes shift to Emma. Her expression is inscrutable.
“Richard,” I whisper. “What are—why are you here?”
“My fiancée told me you texted her some nonsense about a wine refund.” He continues moving toward me, his gait fluid and unhurried. He stops next to Emma.
Some of the terror eases out of my body. He isn’t here to hurt me. Not physically, anyway; he would never do that in front of anyone. He is here to put an end to this by defeating me in front of Emma.
I rise to my feet and open my mouth, but he wrests away control of the situation. The element of surprise is on his side.
“When Emma called me, I explained to her exactly what happened.” Richard longs to close the distance between us. His narrowed eyes tell me so. “As you well know, I realized that wine wasn’t technically a business expense since I wasn’t sure we’d drink any of it at the party. The ethical thing to do was to cancel the AmEx payment and put it on my personal Visa. I remember telling you this when Sotheby’s delivered the Raveneau to the house and I stored it in the cellar.”
“That’s a lie.” I turn to Emma. “He never ordered the wine at all. He’s so good at this—he can come up with explanations for anything!”
“Vanessa, he told me instantly what happened. He didn’t have time to concoct a story. I don’t know what you’re after.”
“I’m not after anything. I’m trying to help you!”
Richard sighs. “This is exhausting—”
I cut him off. I am learning how to anticipate his line of attack. “Call the credit-card company!” I blurt. “Call Visa and confirm that charge while Emma listens in. It’ll take thirty seconds and we can settle this now.”
“No, I’ll tell you how we’re going to settle this. You’ve been stalking my fiancée for months. I warned you last time what would happen if this continued. I’m sorry about all your issues, but Emma and I are filing restraining orders against you. You’ve left us no choice.”
“Listen to me,” I say to Emma. I know I only have this final chance to convince her. “He made me think I was crazy. And he got rid of my dog—he left the gate open or something.”
“Jesus,” Richard says. But his lips are tightening.
“He tried to convince me it was my fault we couldn’t have kids!” I blurt.
I see Richard’s hands curl into fists and I reflexively flinch, but I press on.
“And he hurt me, Emma. He hit me and he knocked me down and he almost strangled me. Ask him about the jewelry he gave me to cover my injuries. He will hurt you, too! He will ruin your life!”
Richard exhales and squeezes his eyes shut.
Can she sense how close he is to the edge? I wonder. Has she ever seen Richard disappear into anger before? But perhaps I’ve said too much. She might’ve believed some of what I’ve told her, but how can she reconcile my outlandish accusations with the solid, successful man standing beside her?
“Vanessa, there is something deeply wrong with you.” Richard pulls Emma close to him. “You are never to come near her again.”
The restraining order means Richard will have an official record of my being a menace to them. If there is ever a violent confrontation between us, the evidence will support his side. He always controls the perception of our narrative.
“You need to leave.” Richard walks over and reaches for my elbow. I flinch, but his touch is gentle. He has vanquished his anger for now. “Should I take you downstairs?”
I feel my eyes widen at his words. I shake my head rapidly and try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry.
He wouldn’t do anything to me in front of Emma, I assure myself. But I know what he is insinuating.
As I walk past Emma, she folds her arms across her chest and turns away.