if you can’t be faithful to him.”
“And what about my children?” she countered. When I didn’t answer, she went on. “Look, screwing Jason is about the sex. Nothing more. He certainly can’t offer me anything more than that.”
Once, over drinks, Debbie had suddenly gotten emotional and told me how Ben had hurt her while she’d been pregnant with their first child. He and a female colleague had been working together on research about juvenile diabetes, and apparently Ben had almost cheated on Debbie. He couldn’t be reached as she’d gone into labor, and had arrived at the hospital after their son was born. When Debbie grilled him as to his whereabouts, he’d broken down and admitted that his colleague had tried to seduce him in his office at the university, and that they’d kissed for quite some time before he came to his senses and realized he couldn’t go through with having sex with the woman. He’d been infatuated with her for months, culminating in a moment of weakness.
To his credit, Ben immediately stopped working with her, then stopped working altogether to be a stay-at-home father. Debbie didn’t know if he’d been entirely truthful about what had happened, and didn’t press the matter, but it was clear to me in her retelling of the story that she had been deeply wounded by what Ben had done. Her trust in him had been forever shattered. Add to the mix the fact that Debbie’s father had abandoned her and her mother for a younger woman when she was only nine years old, and it was clear that Debbie had major trust issues where men were concerned. The way I saw it, her infidelity now was a way of guarding her heart, a way of protecting herself from utter devastation should Ben ever say he was leaving her.
I gave Ben credit for having been honest with her, and personally would have written off his actions as immaturity, or even last-minute fear over becoming a new father. And if I couldn’t forgive him, I would have moved on.
“I don’t see how you can cheat and not feel guilty,” I said.
Debbie shrugged. “I guess I did feel a bit guilty when I got home last night—until Ben came out of the kitchen smelling like meat loaf and wearing this ridiculous apron he thinks is cute. My guilt vanished like that.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “Vanessa, we’ll chat later. Take that call. It’s not like we both don’t need to be working. Because I did sign Lori Hansen!”
I watched Debbie head out of my office, thinking that in many ways she was like a man. The fierce, ambitious blonde was the breadwinner in the family. Her husband stayed home with their three kids. And here she was, the one having an affair with a subordinate, the way so many men in positions of power do.
Once again I pressed the hold button, realizing for the first time that maybe it was Eli on the line. I cleared my throat and started speaking in my most professional tone. “Thanks for holding—”
“Oh, Vanessa. Thank God.”
My heart picked up speed at the sound of Carla’s voice. She was my neighbor and babysitter, and if she was calling me so soon after I’d arrived at work, that meant something was wrong with my daughter.
“Carla—”
“Vanessa, you have to come home. You—you just have to. Right now.”
“Oh my God. Something happened to Rayna.” Had my two-year-old fallen down the stairwell, or gotten into something poisonous, or burned herself? Panic clawed at my throat. “Carla, tell me what happened!” I pushed my chair back and shot to my feet, already reaching for my purse. “How bad is it?”
“No, it’s not Rayna.”
My pulse was pounding so loudly in my ears, I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “Rayna’s okay?” I asked.
“Yes, she’s fine. She and Amani are beside me, coloring.” Carla blew out a frazzled breath. “Vanessa, it’s…it’s Eli.”
“Eli?” Panic turned to confusion. Why would Carla be calling about Eli? Had he returned home already and by chance gone to pick up Rayna? I fully expected him to leave Leroy’s place and head straight to the studio, where he and a few former athlete friends were working on their new passion—a hip-hop demo. I had my doubts as to whether or not they’d get a record deal, but I supported Eli nonetheless.
“Maybe you don’t have to come home,” Carla said suddenly. “You have a TV there, right?”
“Why do I need a TV?”
“Vanessa, listen to me. Turn on the TV to CNN. Right now. There’s a commercial playing, but the story’s coming up next. Oh, Vanessa. I’m so sorry.”
Carla had me wondering what the heck was going on. Why would Eli be on the news? Had he been arrested for something stupid like drunk driving? I dropped the phone and raced to the conference room. Thankfully, there wasn’t a meeting going on, so the room was empty. I found the remote, turned on the television and fumbled around with the buttons until I got to CNN.
I caught the tail end of a Viagra commercial, and then CNN began again. The female news anchor announced this hour’s headlines. I bit my fingernail, waiting for her to say something about Eli.
“Also this hour, the bizarre death of Eli Johnson.”
I gasped, stumbled backward. I landed against the conference table and gripped it for support.
Bizarre death? Eli was…dead?
I sucked in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly. Then my mind began to race, searching for answers.
Surely it wasn’t my Eli Johnson.
Of course not. How could it be him? Eli had stormed out of our apartment just after nine the night before and said he was going to stay at his best friend’s place. I knew Eli, and he wasn’t a morning person—and definitely not a Monday morning person. It was highly unlikely that he was out of bed already, much less in time to have died a bizarre death. And if anything had happened to him, wouldn’t Leroy have called me before the media got hold of this info?
No, it didn’t make sense. It had to be another Eli Johnson.
Still, the minutes that passed seemed like hours before the full story of Eli’s death began. I was anxious to hear confirmation that my Eli was alive and well—and still pissed at me.
“And in what the police are calling a bizarre crime of passion, former Atlanta Braves player Eli Johnson was found murdered early this morning.”
I didn’t have to hear the news anchor say “former Atlanta Braves player” to know it as my Eli—because a picture of him flashed on the screen to accompany the broadcast.
And then my world crumbled.
“Shortly after seven this morning, Johnson’s body was found in an upscale Miami home, in the exclusive area of Bal Harbour…”
I must have cried out, because someone came running into the conference room. And the next thing I knew, arms were wrapping around me. I didn’t move, my eyes glued to the television screen.
“Apparently, he was killed by a bow and arrow,” the reporter said, enunciating her words to match her shocked facial expression. “But if that weren’t bizarre enough, Johnson and his female companion, Alyssa Redgrave, were both shot with the same arrow, their bodies bonded together in death as they had been in passion. Conrad
