She caught the booze stench the second he stumbled inside. Pink tinged his eyes. She caught her breath when she spied blood splashed across his shirt.
“What happened to you?”
He wiped his hand across his mouth and glared at her through the tops of his eyes.
“The hell you talking about?”
“All that blood.” Her eyes followed the trail to his hand. A deep gash burrowed through his flesh. “How did you cut your hand?”
“Fishing,” he said, muscling past.
How did he hurt himself fishing? He staggered into the kitchen. The refrigerator door whipped open with a sucking sound. Bottles rattled, then the crack of a beer can opening. Mustering up what little courage she had left, she set her hands on her hips and blocked the entryway to the kitchen.
“You don’t need another, Garrick.”
“Fuck off.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. I’ll drink as much as I want. I didn’t marry you to replace my mother.”
He guzzled half the beer, belched, and slammed the can on the counter. Foam drizzled down the sides.
“Tell me where you went today.”
“Fishing. Is that a crime?”
“You didn’t go to Hattie’s?”
Garrick wobbled on his feet.
“I may have stopped by. Just for a few hours.”
“And your hand. How did you cut yourself fishing?”
“Got the hook stuck in my skin and pulled it out too fast.”
She eyed the laceration. That didn’t look like a fishing accident. It appeared as if something with sharp teeth had taken a chunk out of his hand.
“You’re lying to me.”
“You’re lying to me,” he mocked in slurred falsetto.
Garrick snatched his beer off the counter and climbed the stairs.
“Now where are you going?”
“Upstairs, you nagging bitch. Leave me alone.”
The bedroom door slammed. Suzanne quivered in the entryway, frozen to the floor. It took a minute for the shock of his words to wear off. Then she raced up the stairs after him and threw the door open. She found him hunched over at the window. He spilled the beer and hid the binoculars.
“What are you up to?”
She stomped to the window as he fumbled with the blinds. Forcing herself in front of him, she peered across the street. Ambrose Jorgensen, Kay Ramsey’s daughter, bent over and hefted a grocery bag out of her car. The woman showed plenty of leg.
“I knew it. You’re cheating on me.”
He looked at her cross-eyed.
“Huh?”
“You were staring at her with the binoculars. Is that what you want, Garrick? Do you crave a younger woman? Let her be. For God’s sake, her father just died.”
He grumbled, waving away her argument.
For years, she’d convinced herself he hadn’t raped that teenager. The girl must have lied about her age and talked him into bed, as Garrick claimed. He’d been drunk then too, and she’d accepted his story to save their failed and flailing marriage. Now she reached beneath the chair and grabbed the binoculars, shifting them behind her back when he lunged for them.
“The insanity stops now. I may not be the woman you once desired. But I’m still your wife, and you won’t treat me this way. Father Fowler is calling you tomorrow.”
Garrick swung his head around.
“Why would you contact Fowler?”
“You need help. You can hate me for making you go to counseling. But I won’t watch you throw away our marriage.”
He stood. Despite his wobbling legs, she could see the searing fury burning through his body. In that moment, she was sure he’d strike her. Knock the taste out of her mouth and leave her bloodied and sobbing.
Or worse.
Instead, he shoved her aside and rushed down the stairs.
“Now where are you going?”
The door closed, and his truck motor rumbled. That was the last she saw of Garrick Tillery until morning.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wednesday, July 15th
10:50 a.m.
The plastic containers strewn across the passenger seat of Raven’s Nissan Rogue held sliced vegetables and fruit—green peppers, sugar snap peas, cherry tomatoes, strawberries, grapes. During yesterday’s stakeout, her stomach performed somersaults after her fast food binge, and today she determined to eat right, no matter how boring the surveillance became.
She parked in a municipal lot across the street from the trading firm where Damian Ramos worked. At nine this morning, he’d driven past the building and into the parking garage a half-block from the firm. She’d squeezed the Rogue between a sporty compact and a black Ford Escalade, before Damian strutted down the sidewalk in a vested, dark-blue pinstripe suit and polished shoes. His black hair was slicked back, making him seem like a character out of a Scorcese film. She snapped several photographs before he vanished inside the building.
She hadn’t left the Rogue since, and her legs had cramped up on her. Windows lined the trading firm, and she couldn’t shake the creeping sensation that someone stared at her behind the glass. The day was too bright to see inside, though she caught shadows moving past the windows every few minutes. She fiddled with the radio and crunched on a pepper, wishing for an oversize bag of potato chips. Or Doritos. Something salty and cheesy she’d regret.
At eleven, the front door swung open. Damian stepped into the summer heat and slipped black sunglasses over his eyes. Raven lifted the camera, but Damian was already moving. He took off down the sidewalk and turned the corner as she debated driving after him or stepping out of the Rogue. A parade of vehicles stopped at the red light and blocked the entrance to the parking lot. She slid the camera beneath the seat and grabbed her phone. The iPhone took decent pictures, not as crisp as the Canon. But she needed to appear inconspicuous.
Raven located sunglasses in her glove compartment and slid them on. Unable to locate a baseball
