“I know you were having an affair with Rob.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“Is that right?” She smiles, a vicious slash across her grim face, and pulls out her cell phone. “I have proof.”
“You need to go.” I start toward the door. I am sure she’s talking about that fake Tinder profile, but I don’t feel any need to explain anything to this woman. “Now, or I’ll call the police.”
“Do it,” she spits out. “I dare you.”
A sound at the back door distracts us both. Mark strides in, loosening his blue paisley tie. He catches a glimpse of Vicki and freezes mid-action, his hand at his throat. He turns to me. “What’s going on?”
“Vicki was just leaving.”
“Look, it’s Mark, right?” Vicki fixes her gaze on my husband. “I don’t know what you know or what your wife has been telling you. But she needs to stop talking trash about Rob. And if she doesn’t”—she waves her cell phone in the air—“I’m going to be forced to make their texting history public.”
Mark turns to me. “What is she talking about?”
“She’s talking about that fake Tinder profile,” I say.
“Is that what you’re telling people?” Vicki asks, her voice dripping with derision. “Please.”
“It’s the truth. I’ve already contacted Tinder, and they’re going to shut it down.”
“Saw you at the library,” Vicki reads from her phone. “You make me so wet.”
The words make me want to throw up.
“That’s enough!” The timbre in Mark’s voice seems to shock Vicki to attention. He walks to the back door and yanks it open, sending the bell clanging angrily. “Get out.”
To my surprise, a chastened Vicki does as he says. At the doorway, she pauses and turns back. “This isn’t the end of this.”
Mark shuts the door on her, and we watch through the glass as her face melts into a mask of fury. Once she has stalked off, I throw myself into his arms.
“What a bitch,” he murmurs into my hair. “How dare she come in here, hurling accusations.”
I rub my face against his smooth dress shirt, inhaling his sweat and cologne, overwhelmed with gratitude that he defended me.
He pulls his head back so he can look me in the eye. “Did you make an appointment with Artie Zucker?”
“Yes. We have an appointment for tomorrow. He’s coming to the house at six.”
“He makes house calls, huh?”
“I want you to be there.”
“Of course.” A small grimace crosses his face. “I guess this is a bad time to remind you I was supposed to go to the Nationals game tonight.”
I put on a brave face. Mark works hard and loves baseball, and his team is in the playoffs. I don’t want our lives to revolve around Rob Avery’s murder. “No problem. Go. Have fun.”
“I don’t have to go if you don’t want me to.”
“Please. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s just that I told Miles—”
“Go.”
“I’ll keep my phone on, so call me if anything happens.”
“Nothing’s going to happen. I’m going to put Cole to bed and then watch some stupid TV.”
“You don’t want to drive me to the metro, do you? I’m meeting Miles at the Tenleytown station.”
“Can’t you just Uber? I really don’t want to leave the house right now.”
Marks wrinkles his nose. “And how do I do that, exactly?”
I take my phone from my bag. “Just open the app and it’s pretty obvious.”
He takes my phone from me. “How do I pay?”
“You’re such a Gen Xer. It’s already linked to my credit card.”
Footsteps on the stairs tell me that Cole and Susan are on their way down. I leave Mark in the kitchen and head to the powder room. My face is a sweaty mess, and my chest is red and blotchy, which happens when I get really upset. I take a few moments to breathe deeply and exhale. I want to be calm and centered for Cole. I don’t want him to sense my anxiety.
When I come out, Cole is at Susan’s side by the stove, adding vegetables to the pot. Mark comes back into the kitchen, having changed into a Nats jersey over a long-sleeve T-shirt.
“Did you order the Uber?”
He nods, but doesn’t smile. “Mind walking me out front?”
Something in his tone makes my stomach flutter. “Sure,” I say and follow him out.
Once on our front stoop, he turns my phone to me. “What’s this?”
I peer at the screen, where I can make out the small red flame for Tinder. “I don’t know. I think it’s Tinder.”
“You don’t know?”
“I swear, Mark, I did not download that on my phone. I have no idea how that got there. Can I see it?” He hands me the phone. The app is floating, singular, on its own page. I flip back to the main screen where my most-used apps are and then to the next screen, where I have relegated apps I either never use or cannot remove.
Tinder is hanging out all by itself on the third screen. “I never even go to this screen.”
Mark takes it from me and taps the app. Immediately, my profile comes up, the close-up of me in the bikini.
“Alexis, but my friends call me Sexy Lexi,” Mark reads. “Married, but I don’t mind if you don’t.”
“Mark, you know this is fake, right? I mean, we talked about this.”
He looks at my face, his brown eyes searching. “I just don’t understand how this got on your phone.”
“I don’t know either! I swear.”
He taps at the phone. “M is working late,” he reads in a monotone voice. “And I am horny as hell.” He looks up at me. “I suppose I’m M, right?”
“No, Mark. You’re not M, because this is fake. I told you.” My voice cracks with exasperation. Hasn’t he been listening to what I’ve been telling him these past few days?
“How about this one?” He scrunches up his face and continues in that fake high-pitched tone. “Can’t wait until tonight. M will be there, so we’ll have to be careful.”
I put my
