Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
It was always my father who said for anyone to take you seriously, you must dress the part. When I met Dominic, he wandered around in plain T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. Once he was mine, I invested in his style. I started slowly, with button-down shirts and jeans. I allowed him to keep the sneakers but only to show him that the people we surrounded ourselves with do not wear sneakers every single day, and if there’s one thing I know about my husband, he does not like to be the outcast. Together, we’ve progressed to full suits and designer dress shoes.
I almost sigh. Look at him. So handsome. Sometimes I miss the old us. His hair is cut army short and wavy at the top, his tie neat, as if he’s recently adjusted it. His skin is golden-brown and satiny smooth. In the light of the kitchen, his skin glows and the sun reflects off his light-brown eyes.
There was a time when he’d greet me in the kitchen with that full, perfect smile. He doesn’t smile anymore. Instead, he steps toward the counter to pick up one of the glasses of juice along with three sausage links.
“Rally is today. Will you be there?” he asks after guzzling down some of the juice.
“Of course I will,” I say. “Appearances are everything to you, right?”
He gives me a look, one mixed with confusion and aggravation. He gulps down the remainder of juice then collects his keys from the hook attached to the wall, as well as the folder he’d left on the counter last night containing his speech. I’d written the speech for him several weeks ago. Does he thank me? No.
“Don’t be late, Jo,” he says, leaving the kitchen. When he’s out the front door, I watch him through the kitchen window above the sink. If things are going well today, I know that state troopers are parked at the curb of our house, waiting for the governor’s departure. In the driveway is a running black Tahoe. Dominic climbs in the backseat of the Tahoe and it pulls out of the driveway. Our driveway is built at an arch, so from the kitchen, I can’t see the main road. At the end of the driveway, the land is lined with a knee-height brick wall, green hedges, and a gate that closes us in.
When I can no longer see the truck, I rush out of the kitchen and into Dominic’s office. My husband is hiding something. I don’t know what it is, but it has to be here.
I check the desk for anything new, but it’s all the same. Printed speeches and loose papers. Paperclips, pens, a stapler. I grip the handle of the top right drawer, and nothing is inside but loose stationary. On the top left drawer, it’s crammed with chewing gum and sunflower seeds, his vice when he wants to avoid drinking. When he has events, he aims not to drink liquor the night before.
I check the bottom drawers and it’s no surprise they’re locked. Ever since we moved into this house, he’s kept them locked. I thought nothing of it at first. After all, we all need our privacy. I have a secret treat stash that I keep in a chest on my side of the closet. I keep the chest locked too, so Dominic can never see exactly what I’m stashing there. I sit for a moment, trying to think of where he’d have the key.
Normally, I don’t pry in my husband’s things, but ever since his campaign has started, he’s been more on edge, more secretive. He leaves early and comes home late. He’s not the Dominic Baker I married all those years ago. He’s someone else—a stranger residing in his body. Or perhaps this is the real him, tried and true.
A chiming noise blares in the room, causing me to gasp. I relax when I realize it’s my phone ringing in my pants pocket. I snatch it out to see the reminder alarm: Coffee @ Daphne’s.
I can’t be late, and as badly as I want to find the keys to those drawers, I let it be for now and tuck the chair beneath the desk.
I hurry to the kitchen to drink some of the juice, collect my purse and keys, and leave the house. On the way to my best friend’s house, I find my mind sinking deeper into a bad place and all I can think are the same words: He’s hiding something. He’s lying. Figure it out.
THREE
BRYNN
Four years ago—New Orleans
I hated everything about New Orleans. Of course, it wasn’t always like that. I’d moved to New Orleans when I started college, but that was nearly ten years ago. After being cheer captain in high school and being the most popular girl, might I add, I was offered only one scholarship to college, at Loyola University of New Orleans.