Chapter 11 - The Eve of the Eighteenth
Thursday, October 17.
The sky was a heavy, slate-gray sheet, drizzling cold autumn rain across the glass windows of our bedroom.
Mark packed his leather roller bag on the bed. He folded his new charcoal suit inside a garment bag, packed three silk ties, and tucked his leather dopp kit into the side pocket.
"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you to the airport?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the armchair, watching him zip the suitcase shut.
"No, sweetie, don't be silly," Mark said, checking his watch. "The traffic on the interstate is miserable in this rain. I called a town car. It'll be here in ten minutes."
He stepped over to the chair, knelt down beside me, and took both of my hands in his. His hands were warm, clean, and steady.
"I'll call you as soon as I land in Boston tonight, okay?" he said softly, looking into my eyes with an expression of intense, believable devotion. "Don't wait up for me if it gets late."
"Safe flight, Mark," I said.
I didn't kiss him. I simply reached out and adjusted the lapel of his coat, feeling the crisp new fabric beneath my fingers.
Five minutes later, a sleek black sedan pulled up to our driveway. Mark loaded his suitcase into the trunk, waved to me from the backseat as the car pulled away, and vanished into the cold October rain.
The moment his car turned the corner at the end of the street, I moved.
I went upstairs to our home office, opened my safe, and pulled out three folders containing our real estate deeds, joint account statements, and tax returns for the past five years. I packed them into my leather briefcase alongside the white envelope from the kitchen drawer.
Then, I drove downtown to the Grand Hotel Bellevue, checked into a suite under my maiden name, and opened my laptop.
At 6:30 PM, my phone chimed with a text message from Mark:
Just landed at Logan Airport. Rain is heavy here too. Heading to the hotel for a quiet dinner and an early night before the conference tomorrow. Love you.
I looked at the digital GPS tracking dashboard on my laptop screen.
May you like
The tiny blue dot representing the cellular beacon I had slid into the lining of Mark’s leather garment bag three days ago was not at Logan Airport in Boston.
The blue dot was currently moving at fifteen miles per hour along Riverfront Place, turning into the underground parking garage of Unit 402.
