Honeymoon - James Patterson [64]
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.”