Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Shit. “No, I—” I look at my watch. “Would you mind meeting me at my new place instead? It’s only a few miles from Whimstery.”
“That’s doable,” he says. “Send me the address.”
I oblige and end the call.
As I’m opening the Uber app, Mister R’s number crosses my screen again, sending my nerves into overdrive all over again.
I hit ignore on the third ring, and he texts me.
Mister R: Pick up the phone, Autumn. We need to talk.
I focus on securing my “first” discounted Uber ride instead.
A driver accepts my request within seconds, and there’s no second alert to cancel.
When I make it to the designated pickup corner, Mister R’s name crosses my screen yet again.
A part of me longs to answer it, but one ominous question holds me back.
Who the hell are you?
End of Episode 11
Episode 12
Autumn
“I need you to look over these new files whenever you get a chance.” Mr. Walsh pushes a new stack of papers toward me, his fifth one of the evening.
If I never have to read through a stack of our household bills again, it’ll be far too soon.
I glance at the sheet on top, spotting a copy of an old La Perla receipt for lingerie.
“Does that first one look familiar at all?” he asks.
“Yeah.” The date on it is an instant trigger to my memory.
It’s from a night when I attempted to surprise Nate by wearing something sexy for no reason. One of many attempts to salvage what was left of our dead relationship.
He came home from work, took one look at me standing in the kitchen, and said, “I don’t think I like how that looks on you,” before going to bed.
I never bought anything else from La Perla again.
“I’m confused.” I shrug. “I don’t see what this random receipt has to do with anything.”
“Your husband is preparing to run the Svengali defense,” he says. “This has to do with everything.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but all he does is stare at me with worry in his eyes.
“What’s the Svengali defense?”
“It’s a sophisticated game of chess over your beginner’s game of checkers.” He pauses. “He’s claiming that you married him with the intent to never work a proper job or go to college, all so you could use his immense wealth to better your life and fund numerous extramarital affairs with men your age.”
What? I’m not sure whether to laugh or scream, and I can’t believe my own lawyer has the audacity to utter that line with a straight face.
“Nate is the only man I’ve ever slept with in my entire life,” I say. “I’ve never even dated anyone else.”
“Right…”
“Excuse me?”
“No, excuse me.” He clears his throat. “That’s none of my business. You’ll have to convince the court on that claim, Miss Jane.”
He takes off his reading glasses and stands to his feet. Then he paces my living room.
“This is stacking up to be a pretty contentious divorce,” he says. “So, please know that the judge won’t be pleased with any pettiness on your end, like that ‘ban him’ call to Odette’s you made a little while ago.”
“Come again?” I sit up in my chair. “How do you know about that?”
“One of my research interns, Ella, found out about it and told me.”
No, she didn’t…
I freeze and a sudden wave of uneasiness washes over me.
There’s no way that anyone except me and Nate could know about that. I never used my real name or phone, and there’s no level of research that could lead anyone to that take.
Unless…
My palms sweat as I watch Mr. Walsh continue to pace the floor, and I realize that he hasn’t made eye contact with me once today.
“We still have the tape of Nate verbally abusing me over dinner, correct?” I say. “I think that’s more than enough to win against whatever he says.”
“I don’t want to use that in court anymore.” He pulls another receipt from the stack.
“That’s not what you said last week.”
“Well, there’s no way to prove it was really your husband or a trained voice actor, especially since you’ve made many payments in the past to a voice actor named Mr. Henry—”
“Henry Dannon.” I wait for him to look at me, but he still doesn’t connect. “He’s a fellow luthier who helps me tune instruments here or there, and Nate knows that.”
“If he does, then why did he—” He leaves that sentence unfinished and slides me a photograph. “I’ll contact Mr. Dannon myself. How do you want to explain this away? This looks like an affair to me.”
I glance down at a side-view picture of Mister R and me standing near the counter of Crafts & Notes over a week ago. The frame captures the exact moment when he trailed a finger against my lips—when he charted a course against every curve of my mouth.