The Contract (30 page)

Except, when I reached for the pot, I saw her phone sitting on the counter. Beside it, her condo keys. My hand shook as I picked them up. Why would she leave her keys? How would she get into the condo?

I looked back to the counter. It was all there. The bankcards and the checkbook I’d given her. The copy of her contract. She had left it all because she had left me.

A glint of light caught my eye, and I leaned forward to pick up her rings.

My memory flashed with images of Katy. Handing her the box and telling her I wasn’t going down on one knee. The look on her face when I slid the band on her finger the day I married her for circumstance and not love. She had looked beautiful, but I never told her. There were many things I never told her.

So many things I would never have the chance to tell her—because she was gone.

RICHARD

I KNEW SHE WASN’T THERE,
yet I still checked every inch of the condo. When I looked in her dresser and closet, most of the new clothes I purchased for her remained, but some were missing. Her two still-to-be-unpacked boxes were in her closet, some of her toiletries were in the bathroom, but the one suitcase she had was missing. I remembered hearing drawers opening and shutting last night. What I thought was her organizing and moving things, was in fact, her preparing to leave me.

I sat down on the edge of her bed with my head in my hands.

Why?
Why would she sleep with me when she knew she was going to leave? Why did she leave?

I cursed under my breath—the answer to that was obvious. Penny was dead. She no longer had to provide for her, which meant she no longer had to keep up the pretense of being in love with me.

We had, I thought, been getting along well. I was sure she was feeling something. Why hadn’t she talked to me?

I barked out a laugh in the empty room. Of course, she wouldn’t come and talk to me. When had I ever let her know she could? We had become friendly enemies, united in our common goal. Now that goal had changed for her. I might have planned to talk to her, but she had no idea of how I felt. I still couldn’t wrap my head around it; how much my emotions had changed.

The question I kept shouting in my head, the one that didn’t make sense was:
Why did she sleep with me?

The air in my lungs turned to ice as memories of last night played in my head. She had been a virgin—and I hadn’t worn protection. I’d been so caught up in the moment—in Katy—I hadn’t thought about it until this instant. I had taken her with no condom. I always wore a condom—there was never any discussion with my partners.

What were the chances of her being on birth control? I gripped the back of my neck in panic. What were the chances of her getting pregnant?

She was gone. I had no idea where she was, no idea if she was pregnant. Nor did I have any idea how I would react if she
were
expecting my baby.

Would she even think about that probability?

I hurried to the den, my anxiety now higher than ever, switching on the laptop. I did a quick history check, wondering if she had used it to book a flight or a train ticket, but I found nothing. I did a check of our bank accounts, sitting back in amazement when I saw she had withdrawn twenty thousand dollars yesterday. I remembered the walk she took in the afternoon, and how she insisted on going alone. She had gone to the bank and withdrawn or transferred the money. Two months’ “salary” was all she took. As I scrolled through her account, I noticed that, other than expenses for Penny, she had never touched a cent of the money. She had spent nothing on herself. She hadn’t taken anything for her future.

I was more confused than ever. She didn’t want my money. She didn’t want me. What did she want?

I drummed my fingers restlessly on the desk. She had left her keys and pass, which meant she couldn’t get in the building or condo. I knew she would eventually be in contact with me to ask for the boxes she left behind, and I would insist on seeing her first. My gaze strayed to the shelf in the den, and I realized Penny’s ashes were gone. Wherever she went, she’d taken them—but I knew her well enough to know she would want her pictures and the contents of those boxes upstairs; they contained sentimental items—things she deemed important.

My mind started spinning, working the way it always did when I had a problem. I began to compartmentalize and figure out solutions. I could tell the Gavins she had gone away for a few weeks. That the shock of Penny’s death was too much and she needed a break. I could say I sent her to a warm place to relax and recover. It would buy me some time. When she got in touch, I could convince her to come back and we could figure something out. We could stay married. I’d get her a place close by, and the only time she’d have to see me was when the occasion called for it. I could convince her to do that. I stood up, staring out the window into the dull light. The overcast day was the perfect foil for my mood. I let my thoughts flow, figuring out different scenarios, finally deciding the simplest was the best. I would stick to my original thoughts of her going away. I had her phone. I could send texts to myself and invent enough phone calls, so they would be none the wiser.

Except . . .

My head fell forward. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to know where Katy went. I needed to know she was safe. I wanted to talk to her. She was grieving and not thinking straight. She thought she was alone.

I gripped the windowsill, staring out over the city. She was out there, somewhere, and she was on her own. I had to find her. For both our sakes.

I returned to my building and pulled into my parking spot, letting my head fall back against the headrest. I had driven everywhere I could think of where she might go. I’d been to the airport, the train station, the bus depot, even car rental places. I’d shown her picture to what felt like hundreds of people but had found nothing. She left her cellphone behind, so I couldn’t try to call her. I knew she had a credit card of her own, and I tried to get in touch with the issuing bank, to see if it was used recently, but was shut down immediately. If I wanted that information, I would have to hire someone. I hadn’t been able to find a clue on my own.

Discouraged, I dragged myself upstairs and flung myself on the sofa, not bothering to turn on the lights. Daylight was fading, the gray of night slowly eating away at the sky.

Where the hell was she?

Anger overtook me, and I grabbed the closest item and flung it at the wall. It exploded, sending shards of glass around the room. I stood, fuming and anxious. I paced around the room, glass crunching under my shoes as I made the circuit. I grabbed a bottle of scotch, twisting off the lid, drinking without a glass. This was why I didn’t allow emotion into my life. It was like a donkey, slow and useless, and it would kick you in the face when you least expected it. My parents never gave a fuck about me, and I had learned to rely on myself. I had let my guard down with Katharine and the bitch had fucked me over. She wanted to be gone? Well, good riddance. She could stay gone. When she finally called for her things, I’d send them along with divorce papers.

I froze, the bottle partway to my mouth. The chasm in my chest that had been threatening to crack open all day, broke. I sat down heavily, no longer interested in the bottle.

She wasn’t a bitch, and I didn’t want her gone. I wanted her here. With me. I wanted her quiet voice asking me questions. Her teasing laughter. The way she would arch an eyebrow at me, and whisper “go fuck yourself, VanRyan.” I wanted her to listen to my ideas, and hear her praise. I sighed, the sound low and sad in the empty room. I wanted to wake up beside her and feel her warmth wrapped around me, the way she had enfolded herself around my dead heart and revived it.

I thought back to our argument a couple weeks ago. The way she tried to convince me love wasn’t such a terrible thing.
Had she been feeling something for me?
Was it possible? I had dismissed her as being overdramatic—the sadness in her eyes, the weariness of her voice when she told me she was tired of lying, and the guilt that weighed on her. I had insisted we weren’t hurting anyone. Graham got a great employee, Penny had a wonderful care home, Katharine would move on to a better life once this was over, and my life would continue. No one would be the wiser, and no one would suffer.

How wrong I was—because we were both suffering.

I wanted my wife back, and this time, I wanted it for real.

I simply didn’t know how to get it.

I paced and brooded for hours, the bottle of scotch never far from my hands. When my stomach growled around two o’clock in the morning, I realized how long it had been since I had eaten anything. In the kitchen, I yanked open the refrigerator door and grabbed a container with leftover spaghetti. Not even bothering to heat it up, I sat at the table, twirling the cold pasta and chewing. Even cold, it was good. Everything Katharine made was delicious. My mind drifted to the night she had made me filet and asparagus with béarnaise sauce—a meal that rivaled anything I had eaten at Finlay’s. My praise had been honest, and her reaction had been one of her rare blushes. With her fair skin, she often had traces of color on her cheeks when she cooked or drank something hot. When she was angry, or nervous, her skin flushed a deep red, like a burning element, but her soft blush was different. It highlighted her face, making her even prettier than usual.

“I like that,” I mused.

“Like what?”

“The way you blush. You don’t do it often, but when I compliment you, it happens.”

“Maybe you don’t compliment me enough.”

“You’re right, I don’t.”

She laid her hand over her heart in mock shock. “Agreeing with me and a compliment? It’s a rare day in the VanRyan household.”

I threw back my head in laughter. Picking up my wineglass, I studied her over the rim. “When I was a child, for a while, my favorite dessert was ice cream with strawberry sauce.”

“Only for a while?”

“Nana made it for me. After she left, I never got it again.”

“Oh, Richard—”

I shook my head, not wanting to hear her sympathetic words.

“She would give it to me, and I loved to mix the sauce into the ice cream. It turned everything pink and soft.” I traced the edge of the table with my finger. “Your blush reminds me of that.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then came over to me, bent down, and dropped a kiss onto my head. “Thank you.”

I didn’t look up. “Yep.”

“And if you think your pretty words are getting you out of the dishes, forget it, VanRyan. I made dinner. You clean up.”

I chuckled as she left the kitchen.

My fork froze midway to my mouth. I had loved her even at that moment. The easy banter, her teasing, the comfort I found with her presence—it had all been there, but I hadn’t recognized it. Love wasn’t something I knew or understood.

I dropped my fork and pushed the container away, my appetite gone. I looked around the kitchen seeing her touches everywhere. They were all over the condo. Little pieces of Katharine she’d added, making the place more than somewhere I lived. She made it into a home. Our home.