James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“Mully’s a god ,” he was fond of telling her, usually over their second bottle of Bordeaux, which they shared while hanging out on the couch.

After she’d taken a few more steps down the hallway, Sarah could hear something else. It was running water. Just as she’d thought.

Sure enough, when she reached Ted’s bedroom she could see that the door to his bathroom was closed. He was taking a shower. There was even a little steam slipping out through the bottom of the door.

She smiled. Perfect. She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face.

The only decision left was when to lose the raincoat.

Sarah quietly opened the bathroom door, then tiptoed in her bare feet across the tile, the steam billowing all around her, thick as a San Francisco fog. Ted liked his showers hot .

Later, she was sure, he’d crack a goofy joke about her making this one even hotter.

Here goes nothing. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

The raincoat dropped to the floor as Sarah opened the fogged-up shower door. She even threw her arms out as if to say, “Ta-da! Here I am!”

Surprise, honey!

Ted was surprised, all right. Incredibly so.

Of course, so was the other woman in the shower with him.

Chapter 36

IT ACTUALLY TOOK a few seconds for it all to sink in for Sarah—a few long, torturous, and utterly humiliating seconds that seemed to last an eternity.

This is really happening, isn’t it? And I’m standing here buck naked to boot.

“Sarah, wait!” said Ted.

But she wasn’t about to wait. Who would? Sarah scooped up her raincoat, hastily gathering it to her chest before running out of the bathroom. As if the situation couldn’t get worse, she slipped on the wet tile, nearly falling, twisting an ankle.

“Damn you, Ted!”

Ted’s bedroom was a blur as she hobbled through it, but even so she still caught the clues she’d somehow overlooked. The indentations on not one but two pillows on top of the unmade bed. The two wineglasses on the table next to it. Was it a Bordeaux, you prick? How did she not see any of it?

She already knew why. Because she’d trusted him.

There was a part of her that wanted to turn back, to have it out with Ted right there in front of the “other woman,” whoever the hell she was.

But that part of her stood no chance against the unbearable pain she was feeling. In those few seconds standing almost paralyzed in front of the shower, she’d surrendered to her instincts, and those instincts had told her to run. Flee! Scram! Get outta there! She couldn’t help it.

And that stung Sarah even more.

At work she always managed to garner the courage, the moxie, the balls to stand her ground no matter what the situation. But here—not wearing her badge, not wearing anything—she could only run. She felt helpless, ridiculous, and ashamed.

“Sarah, stop! Please!” Ted called out. He was behind her now, racing to catch up while tying a towel around his waist. He was dripping wet.

Sarah stopped in the foyer. She didn’t want this playing out beyond his apartment and possibly in front of a neighbor. Besides, she still had only the raincoat pressed against her body.

“Turn around,” she said.

Ted blinked, confused. “What?”

She glanced down at herself. He wasn’t about to see her naked, not now. Not ever again.

He got it. “Oh.”

Sarah put on the raincoat while Ted faced the other way. “I just want to explain,” he said over his shoulder.

“ Explain? What’s there to explain? You made a big mistake and I made an even bigger one by thinking you were different from every other player in D.C.”

He turned back around. “I’m not a player, Sarah. What are you even doing here? You should’ve told me you were coming home.”

“Why? So you could keep lying to me?”

“I never actually lied.”

“This isn’t a courtroom, Ted. You’re not a lawyer right now.”

“I could say the same for you.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It means you never stop being who you are.”

“Is that what this is about? My job? You should’ve told me if you had a problem with my being an agent.”

“I didn’t think I did,” he said.

“So the girl in the shower, what does she do?”

He didn’t want to answer, but Sarah stared at him until he finally did.

“She works in my office,” he said.

“Is she another attorney?” But Sarah knew she wasn’t.

“She’s a paralegal,” he said sheepishly.

“You mean she works for you. You oversee her.”

“So you’re a shrink now, too, huh? Fine!” he said with a huff. “Next you’re going to tell me that I’m threatened by you.”

“Are you?”

“You know what? I came out here to apologize, but fuck it, I’m not sorry.”

“I can see that. I get it, Ted. Trust me, I do.”

“I’m a guy, Sarah. A guy doesn’t like having a girlfriend who—” He stopped.

“What? What were you going to say?” she asked. “Apparently, I can take it.”

“How do you think it makes me feel to know that my FBI-trained girlfriend can kick my ass?” he blurted out.

Sarah shook her head. “First of all, it’s ex -girlfriend, if that’s what I was to you. And second, as for how it feels…I don’t know,” she said. “But maybe it feels something like this.”

She balled her fist and decked him with a roundhouse punch so hard that he crashed back against the wall, knocking a framed photo of him on his Harley-Davidson to the floor, the glass shattering into pieces.

Calmly, and without another word, Sarah turned and started to walk out of the apartment. Her work here was done.

But then Sarah couldn’t resist. She turned back to Ted, who was still sitting on the floor, holding his jaw.

“So? How does it feel to have your ass kicked by a girl? I’m not even that big, Ted.”

Chapter 37

MAYBE IT WAS just a coincidence or maybe it was karma, but the song streaming through Sarah’s iPod headphones the next afternoon as the plane began its descent into Salt Lake City was Sheryl Crow’s “A Change Would Do You Good.”

She could only hope. Fingers crossed. Toes, too. But you know what else? She hated the way it had ended with Ted. She just hated it. It was embarrassing, just awful. And sad, too. She thought that she’d loved him.

The drive from the airport out to Park City was a good start. With nothing but wide-open road in front of her and soaring mountains on the horizon, it was like a forty-minute deep breath. Convertibles never looked good on expense reports, so Sarah made the most of the sunroof on her rented Chevy Camaro 2SS.

Sometimes it just feels damn good to stick a hand up toward the sky at sixty-five miles an hour and feel the cool air whip past your fingertips.

Sooner than she thought possible, she was in Park City at the police department.

“Agent Brubaker, I’m Steven Hummel. Good to meet you,” said the local chief of police.

He greeted her personally at the front entrance of the station instead of sending out his secretary or some assistant. That was always a good sign. A good rapport usually followed.

Sure enough, Chief Hummel was the down-to-earth sort, which made sense for a town that could have doubled as the western field office of L.L.Bean. Park City was a hiker’s paradise in the summer and—the two-week invasion by soulless Hollywood types for the Sundance Film Festival every January notwithstanding—a skier’s paradise in winter.

Hummel may have been buttoned up in his uniform, but as she looked at his tan, weathered face and tousled salt-and-pepper hair, Sarah could easily picture his off-duty look. Jeans, a plaid shirt, and probably a cold, locally brewed beer in his hand.