The Woman Inside Read online

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  Copyright © 2019 by E. G. Scott

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  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Scott, E. G., author

  Title: The woman inside : a novel / E. G. Scott.

  Description: New York, New York : Dutton, [2019]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018031288| ISBN 9781524744526 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781524744540 (ebook)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.C6623 W66 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018031288

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For our parents

  contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part OneChapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part TwoChapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Part ThreeChapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  prologue

  HE FLASHES A million-dollar smile before getting into his bloodred BMW. It purrs to life and the sound of pebbles crunching under tires reminds me of the first time I was brought here. The circumstances were very different. I was never meant to leave.

  That night, I relied on my remaining senses since I couldn’t see where he was taking me. The tidal wind through the trees could have as easily been the ocean in the darkness, the pungent notes of pine and salt mixed together. My heart was at a standstill as I felt the car slowing and heard the rocks beneath the treads. I had no idea how my life would change once we stopped.

  The friendly honk of the horn brings me back to where I’m standing, in front of the house. I wave goodbye, the three canary-yellow carats on my finger sparkling in the afternoon sun. The car accelerates, kicking up a wave of smooth rocks. He looks back once more and winks, his handsome profile in the driver’s side becoming obscured the farther away he moves until he is no more. I expect it isn’t the last I’ll see of him.

  I step over the threshold and smile as I close the world out. So much has happened to get me to this one step in my new life. I live here now.

  I absorb the grandness before me. What has been built around the cold slab I lay on, barely alive that night, is a dramatic contrast to my surroundings now. The double-sided stone fireplace ascends breathtakingly to the top of the cathedral ceiling and beyond. The many surrounding windows create a lovely prism effect on the hardwood floors. I stand in the apex of the foyer for a few minutes, breathing it all in. The open second level looks like a choir loft, and the foyer like a pulpit.

  I walk through each room, slowly taking in every detail. I flash back to the last time I was here, in the dark, severely in pain, unsure of my survival. Every inch takes on new meaning now. I run my hands over carefully selected wood, stone, and granite and take my shoes off to feel the various wonderful textures under my feet.

  I pass by the basement door, knowing it may be a long time until I can traverse those steps without thinking of that first climb in the darkness. But I’m thankful I’m back now, and on my terms. I’ve resolved to leave the dark pieces below, locked away. Now is the time for new beginnings.

  The smell of industrial-grade cleanser hangs in the air, any evidence of what happened here otherwise erased. I don’t care. It is a reminder of how hard I’ve fought. The house around me is silent. Peaceful. I feel a hard-fought new emotion, calm happiness, hovering somewhere between my heart and throat.

  Paul is everywhere. He is in the cherry floors below and the pine beams above. He is in the sweeping picture window that dominates the entire back of the house, looking out onto a stage of dense trees and sky. It cuts deeply that this house was not constructed for me. But it was built with love. And desperation.

  I close my eyes and picture my first night here. The sound of his car idling. The darkness. Being cast aside, then found again. Another chance for everything I’ve ever wanted.

  The darkest roads lead us to the light eventually.

  part one

  one

  REBECCA

  After

  DUFF ALERTS US to their presence before the doorbell rings.

  Paul bolts from our naked tangle into gym shorts and a T-shirt. I stay unmoving under the cool sheets, my back to him. In spite of the collective disappointment and frustration, he kisses me quickly before descending the stairs to greet the unwelcome interlopers into our morning of unsuccessful lovemaking.

  Heart pounding, I pull a
nightgown over my raw skin. I wait until they move into the kitchen with our excited Newfoundland, Duff, in tow, his nails clicking on the wood and then tile floor behind the men, before I move to the top of the stairs. I am out of sight but can hear their questions and Paul’s calm responses.

  I wait for my cue to join him, then quietly repeat a mantra with each step. We will not be caught. We will not be caught. We will not be caught. We will get away with it.

  Little do I know that two detectives showing up at our door will be the easiest part of today.

  * * *

  I PUSH PILLS for a living.

  I’m paid ridiculously well for it. I’ve spent the last twenty years getting to know doctors and what they need to help their patients feel better. I know how to talk to them in a way that allows them a feeling of superiority, but they also trust what I have to say and want what I sell. I can make side effects and drug names sound poetic. I can also tell in a matter of minutes which perfect pill will work the best for each person I encounter. I especially know the chemical alchemy that works the best for me. Self-awareness is important.

  By the time I reach my desk, it is well past nine A.M. and the morning’s events so far have me rattled. I feel like we composed ourselves as well as we could, but doubt and worry linger. I’ve treated myself to an extra chill pill on the commute to regain some measure of calm.

  The red light on my phone blinks ominously. Mark has already sent me an email to come to his office and a nearly simultaneous text reiterating the request. I look up and see him standing in the doorway of his office with his usual Starbucks order in hand. “Marv” is written on the cup in sloppy cursive and I laugh in spite of the day’s tone so far. In his other hand is his usual prop, an unlit Cuban, which he’ll chew and slobber over on and off all day until he can smoke it in the comfort of his home. His face looks more serious than smug, which is unusual. He summons me with a gesture and turns on the heels of his Gucci shoes. Someone could use a Xanax. I guess I can’t blame him. I’ve just learned that he’s also having some trouble at home.

  I raise my eyebrows in his direction and deposit my stuff on my chair. I try not to pay too much attention to the conspicuous glances of my coworkers. Most of them are medicated from alprazolam to Zoloft, but there are more than a few whose dosage I could recommend upping. It is a remarkably unhappy group of people given the mood enhancers we have access to.

  I swallow back the growing feeling of dread that started brewing with my unexpected visitors this morning, steel myself with a flick of half an Oxy into my mouth, and wash it down with my coffee. Always black. The dairy and sugar will kill you. I head toward Mark’s office.

  “Rebecca, take a seat.”

  It is immediately apparent that he is not closing the door in the same way he has been in previous weeks, when cubicles emptied and he’s tried to convince me of the virtues of the “magic” bottle of vodka in his desk, known to transform bad decisions into “irresistible ones” (like frantic clothing removal). Unluckily for him, I don’t believe in magic, and both vodka and Mark make me nauseous. But he has been more persistent with Sasha gone, and the alarming rate of my increasing cravings and depleting supply is making it harder to say no to him.

  “Mark.” I give him my best coy smile and coil a lock of hair around my finger. “Why so serious?”

  He’s unamused. Angry even. And I know why.

  His wife, whom he thought had up and left him three weeks ago, turns out, is missing. Whether he knows that I’ve been informed of this by the police yet is undetermined. If Sasha and I were actually friends and not just pretending, I might actually have some clue as to her whereabouts. Whether or not I would have shared this privileged information with the detectives this morning, I can’t say for sure. And I certainly would not have confessed to Paul or to the police that her absence does not bother me one bit.

  His face registers something resembling concern, but he unfurrows his brow quickly. This isn’t what he wants to discuss with me. I’m a little surprised that he’s continued coming into the office in the midst of the investigation, but I suppose the routine is comforting for him. I appreciate the need for the predictable during crisis. Paul and I have been doing exactly the same.

  I want to feel bad for him, but I know what a terrible husband he is. I’ve heard about his apathy frequently in the locker room at the spin studio from Sasha and heard many whispers down Cubicle Lane of his infidelities. And have been hearing the best of his worst pickup lines firsthand, regularly, for years.

  I consider telling him about my early morning visitors but think better of it. He’s pensive while he sips his coffee. His face darkens.

  “Rebecca, I can’t protect you any longer. People are asking questions. Someone made an anonymous tip to corporate that our relationship was ‘questionable.’ I’ve got all kinds of heat on me now from the morons in HR. I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but it was monumentally stupid. With the world as it is now, I’ll end up losing my job, not you, over some dumb jokes. And there’s been some speculation about your access to the drug samples.”

  It takes a moment for my panic-stricken synapses to connect. The residue of this morning’s painkiller has rendered me a tad paranoid and disoriented. I’m not sure how to respond, so I nod and mirror his seriousness.

  “You are a great rep, or you were a great rep. But you’ve gotten sloppy and frankly embarrassing for the company. I get that you like to get fucked up, I like to get fucked up too, but you’ve been taking too much of the samples and people have started to notice.”

  Fuck. It is dawning on me where this is headed. Absurdly, I picture his wife, Sasha, pedaling for her life next to me in spin class, where she’d been rain or shine every morning, until she wasn’t.

  “I’m not taking anything beyond what you’ve been giving me. Honest.” This is of course a lie.

  “Your work has slipped. You’ve been acting strange for months now. Come on, Rebecca, you know better than anyone that all this shit has bad side effects. You’ve been taking too much. This is rookie behavior. And let’s face it, you are getting a little too old to still be a rep.”

  Just like Mark to twist the knife. He can’t help himself. My back tenses.

  “Mark, you know how much money I’ve made for this company, and how much money I’ve saved for them—”

  “Rebecca, please. I have bigger problems than you right now. I’ll make this simple. You’re out. You can do this the dignified way and resign, leave immediately, and not attract any more attention. Or I can make an official complaint about your deep dipping into the samples that will bring a lot of unwanted attention your way. I can keep HR off your back if you don’t make a thing out of this. I think it’s in your best interest to keep your dignity intact, don’t you?”

  It’s in his best interest if I quit. If he fires me, he knows I could flip things on him and tell HR about his “stupid jokes.” Even worse, I can tell them what I know about his questionable relationship with the truth as it pertains to a certain catastrophic drug trial. But somehow I know this information will be more useful to me in other ways. I decide to save it for a rainy day. Still, I need Mark more than he needs me.

  “Rebecca?”

  I open my mouth to unleash.

  “Don’t make a scene. Unless you want to be cut off completely from our arrangement outside of work. We’re done here.”

  His tone is so admonishing it takes the wind out of me. But I’m relieved that he isn’t cutting me off outright. And I know bringing any more attention on me, and Paul by association, would be monumentally stupid right now.

  I feel woozy and need fresh air more than anything. I nod, move from the chair to my workspace, and pause to grab my purse. When I reach for my laptop, Mark’s assistant, Christina, a trout-lipped twenty-five-year-old in a dress better suited for a casino, pounces and yanks it from my hands.

  “T
hat belongs to the company.” Her shit-eating smile reveals unnaturally white teeth. She never liked me.

  I don’t look back. I can feel them all staring. I keep my composure long enough to make it to the elevator. When the doors close I allow myself one solitary sob and suck it up so hard I feel like my rib cage might break open from the pressure.

  By the time I get to the ground floor, I know what I need to do. I may have to deceive Paul slightly in order to get him to the airport. The real question is, do I want him to be part of the new life I’m imagining?

  I move to my car and get myself seated and locked and start the engine before I exhale. I pop the glove box open and am relieved to see my passport is still where I left it from last week’s trip to the DMV. I retrieve it and put it in my purse. I debate driving home to pack but decide we can get whatever we need when we are comfortably out of the country. New start, new wardrobe. I calm at the thought of warm sun on my face and shoulders, washing down easily procured painkillers with margarita chasers. We can be free of all this in under five hours if I move quickly. I’ll buy the tickets online on the way to the airport. I’ll even treat us to first-class tickets. God knows, I’ve earned it today.

  I fire up my iPad, grateful for the 50 percent battery power, which should be enough for me to get everything I need in place before it needs to be charged again. I haven’t looked at the balance recently enough to know how much exactly is in our joint savings account, but it’s somewhere north of a million at this point. I open the Citibank app and log in with our shared credentials.

  I practically choke when I see the puny number on the screen. I’m confused. I refresh a few times and the same much smaller amount remains. It is nowhere near enough money. This can’t be right. I’ll have to go to the bank. I quell the beginnings of a brewing panic attack.

  As I pull the car out of the lot, I see their gray Crown Victoria pulling in. The shorter one glances in my direction and I think I see him do a double take, but I look away quickly and pull onto the main road. In the rearview, I watch the car edge into the spot next to where I was. I slow my pace and see their familiar frames stepping out of the car and moving toward the office building.