Page 83 of Resist
“Oh, you poor thing. I’ll get you some water and Tylenol.”
Before I can object, she’s out of the room, and I try to force out the breath lodged in the back of my throat but instead, my ribs tighten around my lungs even more.
She hurries back, concern etched on her delicate, pre-makeup features. “Should I stay here and take care of you?” She worries her lip between her teeth. She places the water, Tylenol, saltine crackers and a banana next to me on the cabinet.
She doesn’t ask if that’s what a good, real wife would do, stay at home and take care of me. I think she’s asking because she cares and wants to make sure I’m okay, which serves only to saw at my heart even more.
I shake my head. “No, I’ll be okay. I’d rather you didn’t hear my relationship with the bathroom today.” I offer a crooked smile. “I don’t want my wife thinking I’m cheating on her with a porcelain bowl. We heard what the Protocol girls think about boy farts.”
She winces, before caressing my cheek with crushing tenderness.
“We can’t both fall behind. I think Georgia is going to have a messenger bring me a new manuscript from the office to read in the bathroom. I finished the two I brought home on Friday.” I gesture to them on the chair next to the door. “Could you bring them back in for me and pass them to the editing team?”
Most editors these days prefer to work online and save to the cloud, but there’s something much more intimate about reading the words of a book on physical pages.
I find it much more engaging to give thefirst, twenty percent or so, of a book a shot during my first listen. And if there’s something that draws me in, I print it off and see how it feels between my fingers. Georgia—and probably everyone else at Blackwell—thinks I’m a little beyond quirky, but my process hasn’t let me down yet.
Corabelle nods. “Of course. And please don’t feel like you have to work when you’re sick. Being married to the boss doesn’t mean you can’t rest when you’re unwell.”
The sickening acidity in my stomach swells. Fuck. I might drown in this guilt. “I’ll survive.” I hope.
She eventually tucks me in, pulling the blanket all the way up to my chin. “If you need me, call, okay? Nine-one-one me if you have to. I don’t mind coming home.”
“Thank you.” My face is hot when she touches my forehead again, pursing her lips together as she hesitates again. “I don’t like leaving you when you’re under the weather.”
I give her a shaky smile. “I appreciate it, but if you stay in this room you might catch it too.”
“Could have already caught it,” she counters with a shrug. “If it’s food poisoning it’s not really contagious.”
“You’d risk catching an unknown sickness from me?”
She smiles at me. “I guess so.” She pats the bed and pushes to standing. “I’ll have my cell with me all day, even in meetings. I’ll check in but keep your phone on silent so I don’t wake you, okay? Go back to sleep, rest, and let’s hope that’s enough for this to pass.”
Going back to sleep is a good idea, I can’t suffocate in my guilt if I’m unconscious.
By the time I wake up a couple hours later, she’s gone, and the apartment is quiet. I eat the banana she left by my bed, head to the kitchen to make myself some tea. I was going to make coffee, but the wife left out a box of peppermint tea next to a mug at the kettle with a note.
S,
Avoid the temptation to drink coffee when you’re sick like this. Stick with tea, it’s better for your stomach.
— Corabelle
I love that she took the time to write her full name. Another needle inches its way into my chest. Fuck. I need to get this over and done with.
By the time I’ve made my tea and poured enough honey in the mug so my drink tastes like minty sugar and less like the dirt it started as, it’s just before eleven. A perfect time of day to go snooping in the office of the woman I’m living with.
As I cross the threshold, betrayal slaps me in the face. What am I even looking for in Old Man Blackwell’s belongings? The boxes aren’t labeled, so I’m hoping there might be some ledgers, bank statements, maybe even some personnel files that are conveniently marked “Fired Because I’m a Rapist” stamped across the front.
My blood ripples under my skin, flaring with the anger my relationship with Corabelle has been diffusing. I’m here for Mom. My wife’s father stole years from my mother by taking something from her that wasn’t his to take. I need to look in these boxes for Mom’s sake, even if it hurts me, and eventually my fake wife. Even if it costs me any potential future we may have been slowly creating together.
The first two boxes take over an hour to sift through, and they’re mind numbingly boring records. Inventories of books that were submitted to Blackwell Publishing, detailed records of what was kept, why it was kept, what was rejected, and why it was rejected.
The third box is a box full of old-as-fuck paper ledgers. I’m guessing these were the original financial books from Corabelle’s grandfather. Great grandfather? Either way, they’re too old to be what I’m interested in. Even if Corabelle’s ancestors were as disgusting as her father, they—and any potential victims—have probably passed away.
I need evidence on her father. Once I get that, maybe I can carve out some time to make sure there are no survivors or victims of anyone else in her family. But right now, I just have to be selfish and think of Mom.
Box number four is more up-to-date accounts. This might give me what I need, a list of payouts to members of staff to cover up his actions. Something. Anything.