Thankfully, he’d mostly texted, calling only twice, and if he’d noticed the distress in her voice, he hadn’t mentioned it. But how much longer could she hold back from voicing her dozens of questions, the answers to which would surely pierce her heart?
Did you ever really love me? Was anything about us real? Why did you do this? Where are you?
The idea that he might actually be at a clinic turned her stomach. Her gorgeous, sexy, and brilliant Jon was a liar and a bigamist in therapy for sex addiction?
Because of her.
Didn’t his “cure” necessarily imply the end of their marriage?
And then the end of her career at Cancura?
The last thing she expected was the front door buzzer.
She dragged herself out of bed to the video intercom and saw a uniformed man standing in the front vestibule.
“Registered mail,” he said. “I need a signature.”
Exceedingly conscious of her stale sweatpants and unshowered state, she went downstairs and signed for a padded envelope from Belgium. Back upstairs, she tore it open and found herself staring at a stunning two-carat, horizontal-cut diamond surrounded by a subtle but glittering halo set in nineteen-karat platinum.
The dazzling sparkler couldn’t have been more to her taste. As she held it up to the overcast daylight filtering in through the window, she wanted to tell herself the last few days were nothing but a bad dream. Why would Jon have ordered a costly, custom-made ring if he was already married?
Her phone rang. As she walked over to grab it from the kitchen counter, she tried to convince herself Jon had somehow known she was home and was calling to see if she loved the ring as much as he had loved picking it out for her. That there was a logical explanation for everything . . .
But it wasn’t Jon on the other end of the line.
“Do you have the marriage certificate?” Holly asked.
“What difference does it make?” Jessica countered, her voice scratchy from lack of use. “We’re not really married if he’s still married to you. It’s all a big—”
“Bigamy. Exactly. A crime he committed against both of us.”
Jessica took one last look at the ring before putting it back in its elegant velvet box. She started sobbing.
Holly allowed her to go on longer than she deserved.
“I’m sorry,” Jessica finally said. “The man I thought was my husband and the love of my life is apparently just a sex addict.” She began to cry harder, uglier, choking out the words. “Even worse, he’s my boss. At least you can divorce him. I’m literally screwed. I haven’t been able to get out of bed since I left your house.”
Holly’s voice maintained perfect control. “Jessica, my situation is just as bad. I have kids I made with Jack, the man I fully intended to spend my life with. I have four futures at stake.”
“I have no idea what I’m going to do. My career is dependent on him.”
“My whole family is dependent on him, and I have no choice but to act.”
Jessica grabbed a handful of tissues and mopped her face. “How will prosecuting him for bigamy do that? He’ll bring all of us down with him.”
“I’m not talking about a simple prosecution,” Holly said. “I’m picturing something bigger than that.”
“I haven’t seen the marriage license since I signed it after the ceremony,” Jessica admitted, glancing at the bills on the front table and scanning the flecked white countertop she loved so much. How soon would she need to move out?
“I’ll stay on the phone while you look around.”
“I just want to go back to bed,” Jessica groaned.
“And how has that worked out for you so far?”
“I just feel so . . . weak. Stupid and gullible.”
“I’ve spent two decades pretending not to believe things I knew to be true.”
“How could he have married me when he was already—?”
“There have been other women, but he’s definitely never gone this far before.” After a moment, she added, “If I know Jack, he needs you for something, and I’m afraid it’s not just sex.”
“I’m so confused. What should I do?”
“I’ve decided that since he thinks of me as Annie Wilkes, I plan to live up to the name,” Holly said. “I suggest you do whatever it takes to answer that question.”
Jessica wondered which movie monster she could possibly channel as she got up and shuffled into the office, where she riffled through the paperwork on top of the desk and in its drawers.
“His file-cabinet drawer is locked,” she told Holly.
“Check in his sock drawer. That’s one of the places he hides keys.”
Woodenly, Jessica went into the bedroom and checked Jon’s half-empty drawer of socks and underwear. It didn’t take long.
“Not there.”
“Try the closet.”
She entered their shared walk-in closet, where he kept exactly four Brioni suits, ten tailor-made dress shirts, and a handful of ties, all organized by color. His closet in Barrington Hills had contained five times the clothing.
“Where in the closet?” she asked helplessly.
“Try his shoes,” Holly said.
Although the thought of sticking her hand inside each shoe of the four pairs lining the closet floor suddenly repulsed her, Jessica did as she was told and found a key in the toe of a Cole Haan wing tip.
“I think I’ve got it.” Jessica went back into the office, where the key fit smoothly into the round lock and opened it with a gentle turn. “Yes.”
The cabinet held only three files: miscellaneous paperwork related to the apartment, a sheaf of what looked like some kind of stock certificates, and a lease for office space in Culver City, California, which, at the very least, explained why he was going to the West Coast so regularly.
“There’s nothing here,” Jessica said, half-relieved not to see the document she’d signed back when she’d felt so happy and certain of future bliss. “Maybe it’s at your house.”
“I’ll look as soon as I get home,”
