James Patterson - Honeymoon

She didn’t want to jump to conclusions. There was such a thing as a “good” lie, and she held out hope. Maybe he was surprising her with something.

Miles later, when she saw a sign announcing Greenwich, Connecticut, straight ahead, she thought of her favorite jewelry shop there, Betteridge. She tried to picture Craig presenting her with a small box topped with a bow, telling her that he made up the trip to Chicago so he could surprise her with a gift, a little white lie.

But Greenwich came and went.

And with it, so did much of Nora’s hope. She still didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but she was as close to the edge of anger as someone could get. Anger, hurt, a lot of mixed emotions—and none of them good.

That’s when Craig entered the town of Riverside, Connecticut. The way he was driving, it was pretty clear that he was familiar with the area. Why was that? Eventually he turned down a dead-end street.

Nora stayed by the corner, finally easing to a stop. She looked around. The houses weren’t huge or anything, but they were well maintained. A far cry from his apartment in Westchester.

So what is Craig doing out here in Connecticut? Why the suitcase? Why lie to me?

About midway down the street his BMW pulled into a driveway past a red mailbox. Nora watched intently as he got out of his car, her eyes straining to cover the distance.

He stretched, then walked up the front steps of the house, a white Colonial with forest green shutters.

Before he could knock, the door swung open and out ran two young boys.

They jumped into his arms and he hugged and kissed them in a way that instantly ruled out uncle, cousin, or volunteer Big Brother. Craig Reynolds was definitely their father.

Does that mean he’s… married?

Nora’s eyes shot to the front doorway at the sight of someone else. Her heart pounded and she wanted to throw up. But as quick as Nora saw the woman standing there, she realized she couldn’t be looking at Mrs. Craig Reynolds. Not unless he had a thing for foreign-grandmother types. This woman had nanny written all over her.

Then someone else caught Nora’s eye. Leaning out of the far window on the second floor was another woman—attractive in a suburban kind of way. She was waving down to Craig. Something different written all over her.

Wife.

Nora threw her head back against the seat of the Jaguar and cursed like crazy. Every four-letter word in the book. “You fucking liar, cheat, scum, Craig!”

Nora kept watching as he herded the two boys inside; she couldn’t take her eyes off them. She was trying to sort everything out. There was still a part that didn’t make sense: why did he have an apartment in Westchester if he lived out here?

No sooner did she finish mulling the question than the front door opened again. Craig and the two boys came out, laughing and trading playful arm slaps, and now his sons each had a knapsack. Craig had a large duffel bag. They all piled into the BMW. They were leaving. To go where?

Nora glanced up at the DEAD END road sign in front of her. She shifted into drive. She couldn’t have Craig pass a parked green Jaguar for a second time that morning.

Turning into the next street over, she sat there and stewed for a few minutes, figuring out what to do next. She couldn’t care less where Craig was taking his kids. It sure wasn’t a seminar in Chicago, with him as the featured speaker. What else was there to know besides that he was cheating on his wife?

Nothing.

She decided she’d drive back to Westchester. Later, at some point, Craig would call her. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?

But before getting back on the road, Nora couldn’t help herself. She had to take one last look at his cute little house in the subs. A closer look. It was almost as if she couldn’t believe what she’d seen in the past few minutes. Craig was sure something else, wasn’t he? Actually, he was more like her than she could have dreamed. Maybe that was the attraction?

She turned down Craig’s street and slowly approached the driveway. Suddenly she slammed the brakes. And stared. On the side of his red mailbox a name was stenciled, faded but still legible.

Nora really couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

The name on the mailbox was O’HARA.

Chapter 85

FUELED BY RAGE, betrayal, maybe even a little heartbreak, Nora drove like a demon back to Westchester. She was out of her mind and seething with contempt.

But she was also besieged by unanswered questions, dangerous ones. Why the setup by O’Hara? Was there really an insurance policy? And what about the sex—how did it factor in? The only thing she knew for sure was that she’d been lied to, and by an expert.

How about that, sweetheart? Lied to by a pro.

She arrived back at the Westchester house and went on a rampage, breaking expensive things left and right. She upended a table and ripped down a painting. She hurled a Baccarat vase against the wall. Shards of glass were everywhere.

Then it was Nora who got smashed.

She drank more than half a bottle of vodka, mumbling to herself the entire time until her words became one big slur. She vowed revenge, but the planning and plotting would have to wait. By midafternoon she was passed out on the sofa in the living room.

She didn’t wake until the following morning. The hangover was almost a blessing, wicked as it was. It immediately took her mind off of what had made her drink in the first place.

Not for long. Simply by brewing coffee, her wrath returned. It was the smell. Vanilla hazelnut. The same coffee she’d shared with Craig after he first introduced himself.

Only it wasn’t Craig. It was never Craig.

The hangover eventually eased. With a clearer mind, she came back to those unanswered questions. First and foremost, why was O’Hara posing as someone else?

Forget about the insurance policy, does the Centennial One company even exist?

After seeing the office in town, she took for granted that it did. Now all bets were off. Nora picked up the phone. She dialed information in Chicago, asking for Centennial’s supposed home office.

“Please hold for the number,” said the operator.

But Nora wasn’t convinced that proved anything. She wrote it down and dialed.

“Good morning, Centennial One Life Insurance,” said a woman with a pleasant-sounding voice.

“Yes, may I speak with John O’Hara, please?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. O’Hara is traveling.”

“Can I have his voice mail?”

“Unfortunately, the voice mail system is down right now,” said the woman.

“How convenient.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

“If you’d like, I can take a message.”

“No, that’s okay.” Nora was about to hang up. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“It’s Susan.”

“Actually, Susan, I do have another question. Can you tell me if a Craig Reynolds is still employed with your company?”

“Hold on, let me check the directory. Reynolds, you said, right?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, here he is. Mr. Reynolds is with one of our offices in New York. Briarcliff Manor, to be exact. Would you like the number?”

“Sure.”

Nora took it down. “Thanks, Susan.”

“You’re quite welcome, Ms.—” She paused. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

Nora hung up. She immediately went to her purse and retrieved the business card “Craig” had given her. Sure enough, the numbers matched.

“Oh, you’re good, O’Hara,” she mumbled to herself as she grabbed the car keys.

But the honeymoon’s over.

Part Four