Speak of the Devil: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  “And you’re about to be a very rich one, at that.”

  Nathan catches the blonde’s eye. I clear my throat, and she crosses my mind—not the girl at the bar, but the reason for this meeting, the one that’s behind nearly everything I do. It’s funny the way it happens randomly. I like to think it’s a sign. She’s thinking of me too.

  “It’s my formula,” I say to Nathan. “If I’m going to sell it, and I’m not sure I am—because of line fifty-six—then I’m going to make damn sure the deal is in my favor.”

  He points to the dollar amount listed on the contract. “If that’s not favor…I don’t know what is.”

  No one takes proper meetings these days. Business is no longer handled in the boardroom, or in the office where it should be. Everything now is supposed to be social. Dinner, drinks, golf. It’s all the same to me. That is to say, boring. But according to my attorney, this is how it works.

  So, when Nathan texts and asks if he can run up to my apartment after our dinner meeting has concluded, after he’s made the call, after he’s spoken with the other side’s counsel, I don’t think much of it. I’m too interested in what they had to say.

  He shouldn’t combine business and alcohol, and if he fucks this up, we’re done.

  Unfortunately, when I open the door, he isn’t alone. I can’t say I’m terribly surprised. Just annoyed.

  “Elliot.” Nathan motions with the flick of a wrist. It’s all for show. “Jennifer. Jennifer, Elliot.”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets and balance on my heels. “Hello, Jennifer,” I say. I don’t invite them in. He’s brought the blonde from the bar. This is a disaster in the making. Nathan Foster has terrible taste in women.

  I should know. Dare I bring this up now—he’s always saying we should leave the past in the past, but I’ve seen how that works out.

  She bats her eyes. “It’s just Jenny.”

  Jesus.

  “Jennifer is thinking about buying in the building and was wondering if she could check out your floor plan.”

  I glance toward the elevators. “Actually, the place is kind of a mess.”

  “It won’t take long,” the girl who calls herself Jenny says. “I just want to get an idea of what I might be working with.” She laughs. Nathan and I do not. “I’m a very visual person.”

  “Check out the website,” I offer. “That should help.”

  “I’m sorry, Jenny,” Foster counters as he shoots me a look. “My friend here isn’t usually so rude.”

  “He’s an attorney, for what it’s worth.” When she tilts her head and offers a blank stare, I’m forced to help her out. “He gets paid to lie.”

  “Elliot. Come on.” He leans against the door angling his body partway through. “Just show the lady your apartment. It’ll take all of ten minutes…”

  Against my better judgment, I invite them in. Nathan manages to weasel his way out the door within ten minutes. Much to my dismay, he leaves the blonde behind. “So,” she says, “I’d love to see the master suite.”

  What the hell, I figure, I’ve committed this far. Might as well see it through. Her skirt is very short, her legs are long, and the night is young. I show her the guest room.

  I can’t imagine Emily would approve of another woman in our bedroom, but she can’t be too pissed about the guest room. After all, she’s on the hook for the separation. She can’t expect me to turn into a monk. And I know Emily. I’d never win her back like that.

  After a brief attempt at small talk on Jenny’s part—or was it Jennifer?—we do what she came here to do. It isn’t great. She’s overzealous; she overplays the part. She makes it clumsy. There’s not much worse than clumsy sex. It’s only slightly better than spending the evening alone. Maybe Nathan was right. Except for the fact that she’s sprawled out naked in my guest room and now I have to wake her.

  This part is never fun.

  There’s no polite way to tell someone they’ve overstayed their welcome. Which is probably why I decide to put it off until after I’ve made the phone calls that have been on my mind since dinner.

  Tapping the number at the top of my favorites list, I stare at the skyline as her voice comes on the line. Part of me is wondering where she is, part of me is wondering if she is thinking of me too. The other part is bracing myself. I never know what will happen when I hear her voice.

  Maybe I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. Tonight the sound of it hits me like a gut check. I close my eyes.

  This is Emily. Leave a message at the beep.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

  You’re going to be so proud. Wait and see.

  Thirty-seven days. The clock is ticking. This deal is supposed to close in thirty, which doesn’t leave much time to hammer the rest of the details out. If only I were sure about the offer on the table, the latest in a slew of them, maybe I’d feel more settled.

  I dial my assistant. I need new sheets for the guest room. The call goes straight to voicemail. It’s past midnight. When I call back, she answers. The highest thread count you can find, I say. Emily appreciates quality.

  Once the quality issue is taken care of, I scroll my contacts list. Anything to avoid hopping online. Over eight thousand numbers are programmed into my phone, and not a single one of them make any sense to call. What they need is some sort of hotline where you can call on objective strangers to seek random advice about life. Maybe when this deal closes and my plan is in place, I’ll get on that.

  Who am I kidding? I don’t even like most people.

  I glance over my shoulder toward the guest room, and I know better. Judging by the small talk she attempted, I have a feeling “Jenny” or “Jennifer” or whoever she is, isn’t much for conversation either. Not when it comes to things that count.

  I could ask the bartender or the piano man their opinion on the offer. First, I have to get Nathan’s bad idea out of my apartment. When I go in and attempt to wake her, she sloppily attempts to pull me back in bed for another round. It wasn’t that great the first time, and I rarely make the same mistake twice, so I give up and let her go back to sleep.

  In my home office, I type up a few emails, respond to a dozen more, and when I can’t think of a single thing left to occupy me, to keep me from getting myself into trouble, I head back down to the restaurant to listen to the man on the piano.

  It’s the back of her head I notice first. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as heads go, but this one signifies fresh blood. I’ve never seen her here before. She’s seated at the bar alone, head cocked, brow knitted, listening to the piano man play. This in and of itself is not unusual. Any number of women come here alone, looking for a date, looking for a man. Looking for something.

  It’s the way she watches him that gets my attention. It’s her intense focus that holds it. Attraction is an invitation for greater knowledge, so I shift my stance, leave the booth I’ve been seated in and select one closer to hers. When the song ends and she lifts a glass of red from the bar, I feel a sudden need to see it touch her mouth. There’s time for that. Right now, it’s her fingers I’m captivated by. They’re long and slim. Capable. I bet she plays.

  Just when I think she’s going to place the glass to her lips, and that I’m going to miss the pleasure of watching such an event, she pauses and glances around the restaurant. Is she waiting for someone? Or just searching like all the rest of them?

  Her eyes scan the room. She looks toward the entrance. They say people often experience an extrasensory phenomenon that allows them to sense that they’re being watched. Scopaesthesia. She is gifted.

  I have to know more, and so I stand and go to the maître d’. I request the table directly in front of the bar, blocking her view of the piano man. It’s striking how easy some things can be.

  Now she doesn’t have to sense me watching her. She can know it.

  I order a glass of red, whatever she is having, even though I’m not a fan of depressants. There’s enough of that
in the world as it is. When the song changes, she lifts her wineglass to her upper lip, sniffs it the way the perfect connoisseur might and then places it back on the table. Her skin is pale, smooth, creamy white. Skin that’s never had its day in the sun. Nothing could be more erotic.

  I like what I see: confident shoulders, precise features, small nose, large eyes, capable chin, curves that hold the promise of peaks and valleys worth being explored. After all, the eyes control only twenty percent of the vote when it comes to senses.

  She leans forward, and I appreciate the way her blonde hair cascades, spilling into her eyes, covering her face. I wonder how that pretty face reads when she’s unsure of herself, and I like the way she doesn’t immediately move to brush it away. It shows she’s confident; it shows she’s comfortable in her surroundings.

  She really shouldn’t be.

  It isn’t exactly love at first sight. But it isn’t a second longer, either. I’m not an indecisive person. When I see something I want, I know immediately.

  Even perplexed, her face is young. Her hair is still partway in her eyes, and I realize she is listening rather than seeing. Nothing could be more seductive.

  It takes eight notes before she finally straightens her back and tucks her hair behind her ear, and I realize why I can’t stop staring. The resemblance is uncanny. She looks so much like her that it hits me in the solar plexus. It’s in the movement—the slight of a hand, the tilt of her chin. It’s in the square of her shoulders.

  I have to talk to her. There is no hesitation in the two steps it takes me to reach the bar. She looks up at me, unconcerned and unquestioning.

  “May I join you?” I ask, gesturing to the empty stool beside her.

  The expression in her eyes registers that she is unsurprised by my request, and why would she be? A beautiful woman like her, alone in a restaurant, alone at the bar, alone anywhere is certain to be familiar with unwanted and unwelcome attention.

  She fingers the stem of her wine glass. I appreciate the opportunity to get a closer look at her hands. “I’m expecting someone.”

  I hide the disappointment I feel. “That’s too bad.”

  Her brows rise, but she doesn’t offer a response in return. She doesn’t have to say that she wants me to move along; she just expects that I will.

  I extend my hand. “Elliot.”

  She takes it in hers. She really shouldn’t be so accommodating. “Amanda.” She shakes more firmly than a woman should. Then she looks away. She’s watching the door. I think she’s realized she isn’t going to get rid of me so easily.

  I drive the point home. “Try again.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s just that you don’t look very much like an Amanda.”

  She almost smiles. “What do I look like?”

  The second most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I rub at my chin and take her in. It’s an easy deterrent. Gives me permission to get a better look. “I don’t know…a Genevieve or a…Calista…a Helena…maybe.”

  “So, Greek then?”

  I laugh. No. Definitely not Greek. “Maybe.”

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m afraid my parents weren’t that cultured.”

  “You could never disappoint me.”

  “I beg to differ,” she says, like it’s a challenge.

  I’m about to offer her my business card when I sense movement just over my shoulder. I see it in her eyes first.

  “There you are,” she calls. She stands, finessing herself around me. I watch as she places her hand on her guest’s forearm, and when she leans in to kiss his cheek, I understand—the game point goes to her.

  It takes a million years, but finally, she turns her attention back to me. “It was a pleasure…”

  She’s already forgotten my name. “Elliot.”

  “Sorry.” She plays it off. “I don’t know what’s come over me…must be the wine.”

  What a perfect liar. The glass hasn’t touched her perfect lips.

  “Well,” I say, stepping back to make room for her guest. His eyes never leave mine. Men are skilled when it comes to perceiving threats, far more so than women. “It was very nice to meet you, Amanda.”

  I watch her expression shift from the corner of my eye. She chews at her bottom lip. Most of my attention is focused on him. Either she’s telling the truth about who she is—or she’s lying to everyone.

  I order the Beef Wellington, even though it’s late, and I’ve already eaten, and I hate mushrooms. It takes the longest to prepare. Maybe I’m interested in proving a point, and maybe I’m just avoiding the inevitability of getting my mistake out of my apartment. Whatever the case, I’m intrigued by the woman at the bar and her date. I don’t bother straining to hear their conversation. I don’t gawk. I observe from a discreet vantage point, which is what I do best.

  They leave together without dining. It’s preposterous, but I have to know. I’ve built a career around making judgment calls based upon simple observations. Something doesn’t add up.

  I ask the bartender if he’s seen her before. He hasn’t.

  I tip him well and offer to throw in another twenty bucks if he’ll tell me how she paid for the glass of red. For another dime, he offers the name on her credit card.

  It isn’t Amanda.

  Chapter Three

  Vanessa

  I always find the most interesting secrets are the ones you keep from yourself. If properly inventoried, I might find I have a fair amount of those. But today is not the day for the kind of self-reflection required to right my life. And in any case, I must stay drunk on hope. Of course, it helps if I remind myself—and it certainly doesn’t hurt—that Sean is out of town playing with his mistress. Golf.

  I don’t mind so much. Gives me room to breathe.

  Or so I thought. Somehow, I’ve managed to fool myself into thinking that everything is less hectic with him away.

  It never is.

  It is, however, loads more peaceful.

  That all changes in forty-eight hours or so.

  You take what you can get, I guess.

  And now I’m taking a moment to remind myself of everything I’m grateful for. Not only because it’s mandated by the church but also because…well, I can’t remember the rest.

  Someone can hold false promises and still land on truth from time to time. This reminds me. I have to ask Matty if he misses Daddy. Sean will want to know that I have. He will want to hear it. I make a mental note to send a text, and then it dawns on me—this is why I’m rummaging around the kitchen. I was looking for my phone. Not only do I have to check in on the Instalook thread about the gratitude thing, I need to double-check my calendar. I pause and lean my hip against the counter. What am I grateful for? Ah. It hits me. Rest. That’s what I’ll post about. Life’s little pauses. They’ll like that.

  In fact, it’s true. I really must slow down. Running on autopilot only works in certain situations, and this isn’t one of them.

  Who am I kidding? I can’t slow down.

  Not today, and certainly not this week.

  Maybe next.

  If only I knew where my phone was, I could tell you for sure.

  I meant to check to see if I’ve had any new appointments added earlier, but Matthew needed his snack and I got distracted. I promised myself and my son that I’d take the day off, but these things are not always in my control.

  Speaking of control, while I’m at it, I should probably check Sean’s itinerary. He gets cranky if anyone other than me picks him up at the airport. I’ll admit his idea of what constitutes wifely duties is a bit skewed. It’s a shame; I have a feeling an airport run will mean missing Pilates. I really can’t afford not to go. Not again. Not after missing last week. Plus, with the holidays creeping up, I have to be careful. Routines are everything here. My husband reminds me often about the importance of keeping up appearances.

  Keeps the questions at bay. Keeps my sanity.

  Obviously, these
things only matter when they’re in his favor. Self-interest and all—no one’s immune. Certainly not a man like Sean.

  My eyes scan the kitchen once more. Where could it be? I’ve checked in all the usual spots: the dining room table, the charger in the office. I gloss over the bar a third time just in case I missed it the last two times. I haven’t.

  I do, however, spot my vitamin bottle on top of the fridge. Shit. My eyes dart to the clock on the oven. I should have known. I’m late for my dose. My mind always races when this happens. It’s prone to taking me places I don’t want to go.

  Just the feel of the bottle in my hand eases my anxiety. I turn it over in my hands. What a godsend these capsules are. Helps with the high on life feeling, for sure. Twisting the cap, I shake a few into my hand.

  It’s not like I need them. They’re just vitamins we get from the church. Performance enhancers, they call them.

  All I know is—they work. It’s obvious now, even doing something as mundane as standing at my kitchen sink staring out into the yard. The leaves have started to fall; it looks magical. This town, this neighborhood…it’s all magical. This is exactly where I’m meant to be. There’s nothing quite like it: the inclusiveness, the incentives. There’s nowhere else I’d rather raise Matty.

  I’m happy here. Or I will be soon.

  There’s no denying it took a lot to get here—a lot on my part, and as my husband likes to remind me, a fair amount on his part too. Finally, though, things are beginning to settle. Proof that hard work pays off, Sean says.

  Whatever the case, we did what anyone who wants a better life does: we did what we had to do. In turn, Sean moved up in rank significantly within the church and our lifestyle upgraded along with it. We traded our old town for Austin, which means we’re extra lucky, because we’re stationed at New Hope’s headquarters. My husband assures me this is the best place for us. Personally, I’d wanted to start a satellite location, especially with so many sister cities popping up. I did my best to convince him we should start fresh. He refused to budge, and I guess I’m glad.