The Assistant: A gripping psychological thriller with a nerve-shredding ending Page 7

  “Are all the ants gone?” Laura asked.

  Vanessa put her mug on the counter and pulled her hair over her left shoulder. She twisted it into a coil and laid it alongside her breast. As she bent slightly and ran her fingers along the side of her knee, her hair fell across the side of her face. She straightened and pushed it back.

  “Well, are they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. They always come inside when it rains.”

  “Do they?”

  “You’ve never noticed?”

  “The jelly donut in my trash all night didn’t help,” Vanessa said.

  “I guess not. But still, the rain brought them in. I hope you don’t have an ongoing problem with them,” Laura said.

  “Why would I?”

  “Once they invade, they keep coming back. It’s instinct or something. Groupthink. A new group might already be scouting it out, now that the spray has evaporated.”

  “I think they came in because of the donut, and if people don’t throw their garbage in my trash, there won’t be any more problems.”

  “People don’t always do what they should,” Laura said.

  “No, they don’t.”

  “In fact, you could almost say that most of the time they don’t do what they should.”

  Vanessa stared, her eyes dark and smoky with artfully smudged liner.

  Laura moved toward the microwave. She had the distinct impression that Vanessa blamed the jelly donut on her. There were many things that could be blamed on her, but not that. “You look upset,” she said.

  “Did you throw the donut in my trash? To attract the ants? You seem to know a lot about them. It sure gave you a chance to sneak into Hank’s office without an appointment.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Vanessa rubbed her leg again.

  Laura smiled, imagining the phantom sensation of the ants’ thread-like feet beneath Vanessa’s silky slacks. Even tickling the corner of her eye. “It’s hard to get rid of all of them. Unless you spray every single crevice. It takes a lot of diligence.”

  Vanessa folded her arms across her ribs, pinning her hair to her side.

  “What’s that on your wrist?” Laura said.

  Vanessa gave a little shriek, stepped back at an awkward angle and flapped her arms away from her body. “Where?”

  Hank appeared in the doorway carrying a coffee mug. “What are you doing?”

  Vanessa didn’t turn. “Where is it? I don’t see anything.”

  “Maybe I saw that little mole,” Laura said.

  Vanessa folded her arms again. Her eyelids were lowered, darker than ever. She turned toward Hank. “I thought there was an ant crawling on me.”

  Hank handed his mug to her. “Would you make me an espresso?”

  Vanessa reached for the mug. He didn’t immediately release it, hanging on as if he wanted to hold on to it while she operated the machine.

  The silence continued. Speaking now would sound forced, trying too hard to break the thick mood. Laura didn’t want to be the one. Besides, she didn’t want to have a conversation with Hank on any topic that Vanessa might take and reshape, making it her own.

  If Laura said something weather-related, food-related, pop culture-related, it would leap from her lips like the toads and lizards that fell from the girl’s mouth in that fairy tale. She was beginning to feel like an intruder in a private moment. Hank…waiting for his espresso when he could easily prepare it himself. Vanessa…who knew what was going through her mind. Perhaps she thought she’d been demoted to kitchen help, or possibly she was thinking about ants, longing to scratch vigorously but not wanting to appear disgusting in Hank’s eyes.

  Now, Hank was staring at Vanessa’s throat, the opening of her sweater, the way it spanned her collarbone, the soft hint of her breasts.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. I got distracted for a minute.” Vanessa stepped closer to the machine and pulled out the receptacle packed with wet grounds. She dumped them into the trash.

  While she prepared a fresh scoop, Hank backed away and leaned against the counter. He glanced at Laura. “Are those updated spreadsheets coming soon?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see them in my inbox when I get back to my desk?”

  “I don’t know about that. But soon.” She twisted the silver band on the middle finger of her left hand. It felt solid and cool.

  As his gaze moved away from her, Laura studied his profile. It wasn’t right that a man could look like that—dark hair, dark brown eyes, and the shadow of a beard that always made a man look dangerous. She couldn’t figure out why that was the case, or why it was so appealing. It was biological, most likely. A man that’s dangerous is strong by implication. He can provide adequate protection, and a woman was wired, as much as Laura resisted it, to find a man who would keep her offspring safe. Although she had no offspring and didn’t require safety, she couldn’t ignore Hank’s power. It hovered around him, invisible yet pungent. There was no way Vanessa was immune to that. If Laura noticed, then so did Vanessa. The one-carat diamond on her left ring finger didn’t erase biology.

  “Do you need anything else?” Hank was looking at Laura again.

  “Not really.” Was he dismissing her?

  He continued to hold her gaze. No, he wasn’t dismissing her. She had it backwards. His look was admiring. He was thinking about how sharp she was, about how she’d caught an oversight made by people that theoretically should have had a better grasp on their pricing structure. He seemed unable to look away. They understood each other perfectly. All the irritation she’d felt after talking to Brent dissolved.

  The espresso was done. Vanessa poured the thick liquid into the cup and handed it to Hank.

  “Thank you.” He put it under his nose as if he was inspecting the bouquet of a freshly opened bottle of wine. He turned toward the door. He walked into the hallway and quickly turned the corner without looking back.

  Laura picked up her soup. “That was odd.”

  “What?”

  “That he came all the way down here just to ask you to make espresso. Why didn’t he text you?”

  “Maybe he needed to stretch his legs.”

  Laura laughed. “He was stretching something all right.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She didn’t even know. It had shot out of her mouth, like so many of her thoughts did. There was no doubt in her mind there was some kind of deeper connection between them. She was going to find out what it was.

  Brent would tell her she was losing focus on her goal, but she’d grown far beyond her current job. It was time for more responsibility.

  While Hank dragged his feet about giving her what she deserved, what she’d earned, she needed something to entertain herself. Besides, maybe she could use it as leverage. Whatever it was. In case Hank had doubts about promoting her to Director of Marketing Operations. She savored the title on the back of her tongue. The job was hers. She could feel it. But a contingency plan was always good.

  7

  Vanessa

  AN ARTIFICIAL BLANKET of light spilled across the flower garden that ran the length of the front porch. It looked worse in the harsh, too-bright spotlight than it did during the day. Everything was brown from frost, but instead of remaining brittle, the rain had turned the stalks and dead blossoms soggy.

  The stems of the gladioli, which had bloomed late, lingering into the warm days of early October, were split open, revealing black gunk. Vanessa had meant to dig everything out in the fall, but the weekends slipped past. Unseasonably warm weather in early December and all the holiday tasks had pushed her into complacency. When the frost hit, followed by heavy rain, the last thing she wanted to do was shiver in the cold mud.

  She unlocked the deadbolt and went inside. She turned off the porch light throwing the dead flowers into darkness. She removed the cork from a bottle of Zinfandel and poured a small amount into a glass. She took a sip and opene
d the refrigerator. She’d planned ravioli for dinner. It was a simple task—breaking apart the frozen raviolis, but it left a fine dusting of flour all over her fingers that congealed to a pasty coating. Washing and cutting vegetables for a salad was equally uninspiring.

  She closed the door. It would be nice to go out, but Matt rarely suggested it. If she casually introduced the idea, hoping it would become his, he’d pick Black Angus or another chain restaurant. Tasty enough, but not very exciting. The same old thing.

  The garage door rattled open and his sixty-six Mustang rumbled into its spot. She poured a bit of wine into another glass and set it on the counter. The metal door panels clattered back into place and he came into the kitchen. He kissed her, picked up the glass, clicked hers, and took a sip, all in a single, fluid movement.

  “Let’s sit down and relax before you start dinner,” he said. “I didn’t eat lunch until almost two.” He picked up the bottle and carried it into the other room. She followed and sat beside him on the couch. He poured another splash into both glasses.

  She crossed her legs and took a sip. Her high-heeled boots made her position awkward with her knees jutted up. She inched forward. She sipped her wine while he talked about his day—problems with clients and a complete structural overhaul of a website he was building for a software startup. By the time his words trailed off, her glass was empty.

  Matt picked up the bottle.

  “I shouldn’t have any more yet, I didn’t eat much,” she said.

  He poured a small amount into his own glass. “I guess I could eat something now.”

  She tipped her head back and shook her hair away from her face. She ran her tongue across her upper lip. “It’s nice to sit and relax.”

  “Well, which is it? Hungry or more wine?”

  She could drop hints and lead him right up to it and by the time he got there, it wouldn’t be anywhere close to being his idea. “I feel like going out.”

  “Okay. Sure.” He put the bottle on the table. “Even though I’d rather stay here and get naked with you.” He leaned toward her and pressed his face into her hair. He took a slow, deep breath and exhaled. “Black Angus sound good?”

  “I guess.”

  “If that’s not where you want to go, tell me. The way you look right now, I’d take you anywhere.”

  “Anywhere?” What fun was it if she had to suggest eating out and also come up with an interesting restaurant?

  He put his glass on the table. “Not anywhere, I guess. If I could, I would, though. You know that. But we’re common people with common tastes, right?”

  She loved him. More than anyone in the world. But the last thing she wanted to be was common. That word made her feel there was nothing remarkable about her, or him, or their lives. She was nothing special.

  Hank could afford to take her anywhere; he wouldn’t have to qualify it. She stood and stepped around the table, anxious to escape the betrayal seeping into her thoughts. It could never happen. Would never happen. “It’s kind of insulting to call me average.”

  “I said common. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s what the world is made of. It’s the key to happiness—not wanting things you can’t have.”

  She knew he had these views, but tonight they struck her as defeating. It was important to go for everything you could get in life, not settle for what was easy or what everyone else had. She wasn’t even sure he appreciated what he had. Not really. Men would kill to have a woman who looked like her. Matt accepted it as his due, or somehow failed to recognize how lucky he was. It wasn’t that she thought she was better than him. She wanted him to feel, and act, as if he would die without her.

  He was staring at her. And not in that way. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just hungry. We can talk at dinner.”

  “Is there something we need to talk about?”

  “Don’t twist things around. Let’s go. We’ll probably have to wait for a table. And I’m really hungry.” She wasn’t that hungry, but she couldn’t stand here any longer, doing nothing. Minutes dribbling into the past, the evening disappearing, her life slipping out of her grasp while they talked about trivia and she felt nothing but dissatisfaction.

  IT WAS NEARLY 7:30 by the time they were seated. It was another ten minutes before the bottle of Cabernet was open and their glasses filled.

  Vanessa hated the wineglasses here. They were too small with a narrow opening, and the glass was too thick. They were practical and dull and designed for utility, not the elegance of delicate, beautifully sculpted glass, a work of art in itself, complementing a moist cork and silken liquid.

  She took a sip. The taste was as sharp as her thoughts, as if the wine hated her as much as she hated it. Or at least hated the glass it was served in. The food here was fine. Good, actually. But there was too much of it.

  Matt unwrapped his utensils and spread butter on a slice of the soft, whole-grain bread sitting on the wood cutting board between them. “You haven’t told me how your day was.” His voice was firm, almost demanding.

  “It sucked, actually. There was an ant invasion in my cube. Thousands of them.” She scratched the hard bone behind her ear. “It was like a piece of black fabric running across the counter. Some jerk left a jelly donut in my trash.”

  He chewed and took another bite. “Gross.”

  “They sprayed and it still smells like chemicals.” She thought about telling him how Laura had defied her and snuck into Hank’s office. The timing of it made her wonder again about the owner of the donut. But it was just too fantastic. And too much effort to explain.

  “Maybe you should lock up your trash can at night.”

  She laughed. “Then they’d leave candy wrappers on my desk.”

  “Yeah.” He pulled off another slice of bread. “I thought you were hungry.”

  “Not for bread. I’ll wait for my salad.” She took a sip of wine. “Some other stuff is going on.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s this rumor—”

  “Isn’t there always?” He leaned back and pushed his bread plate away as the server set their salads in front of them. Vanessa accepted the offer of fresh ground pepper. Matt declined.

  Matt stabbed a slice of carrot, but his fork wasn’t able to penetrate the thick slice. He stabbed again. “Do you want to hang out with Charlie and Caroline this weekend?”

  “Sure.” She waited for him to ask about the rumor. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Like he’d said, there were always rumors, and his thoughts had moved elsewhere. After a few minutes of eating in silence, she took a sip of wine. She put down her fork, then picked it up. “The rumor is about me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They think Hank and I—”

  “Are doing it?”

  She put down her fork. She reached for the wine bottle. She added a splash to her glass and took several sips. “Why did you say that?”

  “It’s the most logical rumor about a boss and his secretary.”

  “Administrative assistant.”

  “Right. A boss and his admin.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not unless it’s true.”

  “Why doesn’t it bother you?”

  He put a forkful of lettuce with a crouton balanced on top into his mouth and chewed.

  Would he ask whether it was true? It didn’t seem as if that had crossed his mind, except as a factor contributing to his lack of concern. She should have expected it. He was calm, no drama. She liked that about him. Nothing rattled him, and he didn’t draw irrational conclusions. But neither did he seem inclined to worry that there could be a hint of truth, or a possibility, of Hank wanting her.

  “I don’t like people talking about me behind my back,” she said.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it. That’s how people are. You do it too.”

  Tears pricked the edges of her eyes. He should defend her honor, even if it was only privately. He should worry that Hank was nearby every da
y, aching for her. She wanted Matt to want her so badly that even the suggestion of a threat would enrage him. Not enrage, exactly. But fill him with passion. Instead, he was crunching through savory toasted bread and lettuce like cattle dining on wild grass, oblivious to anything but the food in his mouth and the food still to be consumed. “I’m worried this will hurt Hank’s reputation.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “Aren’t you…don’t you feel anything?”

  He swallowed and turned toward her. “I trust you.” His pupils were large, filling the blue, as if an eclipse of the sun was taking place inside each eye, the universe shrunk to a pair of human eyes, vast and unknowable.

  “It’s not about trust.” Her voice was slightly louder than it should have been. She’d talked to him in a public place to prevent him from overreacting, but what had ever made her think he’d overreact? That was a fantasy. A fantasy in which he was consumed with desire for her—where he stroked her skin and kissed her slowly, all over her body, surprised her with a steaming bathtub sprinkled with rose petals, where they sank into the warm water and drank wine and ate chocolate. Or whatever. Something extravagant and new. A fantasy in which he showed up at work and couldn’t keep his hands off her and they did it in Hank’s office. On his desk, pushing Hank’s outrageously expensive Montblanc pen and leather-covered calendar onto the floor.

  “Then what is it about?” he asked. “I know you love me. I don’t think you’d cheat on me.”

  The main course arrived—steaks with foiled-wrapped baked potatoes and a heaping pile of steamed, buttery vegetables. The salad plates were cleared, and they began carving into their meat. Matt spread open the potato and slid the butter over the exposed surface. Once it was melting evenly, he smeared sour cream over the flesh, poking it into the crevices. “Should I be worried?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “They made it sound like I’m—”

  “I’m sure no one believes it. You aren’t going off in the middle of the day with him or anything like that.”

  “I think most guys would be jealous if their fiancée told them something like this.”