“A body of water is probably the best place,” she says, her voice still so soothing and gentle. “It’ll help get rid of any evidence, and the police almost never have the resources to properly search the deep ones.”
I sigh a deep, shuddering sigh.
“Last week they pulled a car out of Evans Lake that had been there since 1977,” she says.
“A car?” I say.
For half a second, I forget about Eli.
“Yup,” she says. “I think it was a Buick.”
“No one noticed it there?”
Adeline just shrugs.
“Apparently not,” she says. “I think the trick is to make sure it doesn’t float back to the surface. Because if someone finds a hand on the shore —”
“Okay, okay, you have to watch fewer true crime shows,” I say.
“I’d be really good at murder, though.”
“Adeline, you’re a nurse,” I say.
“Well, besides the murder part,” she says. “I think I’d be really bad at that. Except with Eli.”
I sniffle. I lean my forehead against my hand, a tissue wadded up in it.
“Murder is probably worse than sending someone’s boss a naked picture,” I say.
Despite myself, I replay it. The picture. Montgomery’s face. The punch to the gut of knowing that Eli picked money over me.
“I thought he’d changed,” I say, another wave of misery washing over me. “I mean, he was still kind of an asshole but I thought he was an okay asshole. But no, he just got worse and meaner and bad and fuck everything, Adeline, I quit. I fucking quit life.”
I say that last part with my forehead against her kitchen table.
“It’s okay to quit,” she says.
“I am getting twenty cats and moving to the mountain,” I say. “Cats don’t even know what money is.”
“Aren’t you allergic to cats?”
“Don’t ruin my plans,” I tell her.
“Sorry.”
I take another deep breath and look over at the clock on her stove. It’s 6:30.
“You should go to work before you’re late,” I tell her.
“I’ve got a few minutes.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
She keeps stroking my hair, pulling it off my face where it’s sticking to my tears.
“Stay here tonight, okay?” she says.
I just nod.
“Take a bath, watch a movie, you know where all my stuff is, right? Use a toothbrush from the hall closet, I just got a value pack of new ones.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Fuck, his toothbrush is still on my sink. His pillow probably still smells like him. I think there’s bacon still in my fridge that he bought last week.
I let Eli into my life and he fucked me over. He fucked me over and he wasn’t even sorry.
Pressure pounds at the back of my eyes, and I push at them with my fingers, like I can ward it off.
“Go to work,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Violet,” she murmurs.
“Fine-ish?” I try.
I look up into her blue eyes, her eyebrows knit together. She’s been sitting here for almost three hours, listening to me sob the same stupid story over and over again. Adeline might be an actual angel.
“Seriously,” I say.
She stands, glancing at the clock again.
“I think there’s a relaxation aromatherapy candle under the bathroom sink,” she says.
“Does that work?”
“No,” she says. “Aromatherapy’s bullshit. But it smells nice, and that’s something.”
“Thanks,” I say.
She grabs her stuff, pulls her hair back, grabs some yogurt and an apple from the fridge.
“Try to sleep, okay?” she says, kissing me on the top of the head. “You know the Netflix password. No romcoms, promise?”
“No,” I mutter.
“Violet.”
“Fine, no romcoms.”
“Movies with explosions only,” she says, grabbing her purse. “I want to come back in the morning and find that you’ve watched The Rock’s entire body of work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Eli’s a shithead and an asshole and he’ll get what’s coming his way,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning. Explosions!”
She shuts the front door behind herself. I rub my eyes. I blow my nose again, then put my mug in the sink and my tissues in the trash.
I don’t feel better. I still feel like a hamburger wrapper that someone left on the side of the road, discarded and tossed aside. But I also don’t feel worse.
I head into her living room, flop on the couch, fire up Netflix, and find a movie that stars The Rock, because I’ll do anything to keep my mind off Eli.Chapter Forty-TwoEliThe guy who opens the door is heavyset, fiftyish, white, and has the bearing of someone who’s accustomed to giving orders. I’ve never met him before. He must not live in town.
“Help you?” he asks, hands on hips.
“Hope so,” I say. “We’ve been having a problem with some of our pantry items growing legs and walking off, and Montgomery thinks you might be able to give us some idea of who’s to blame.”
I smile at him, the easy, charming, good-old-boy smile I learned from growing up around my dad’s cop buddies. I pretend my palms aren’t sweating.