Free Blood Red by Wendy Corsi Staub Page A

question her. She and Katie have spent plenty of Saturdays from dawn to dusk at the Woodbury Common Outlet Mall down in Central Valley, well over an hour away. She hasn’t had the heart to go back there since her daughter left for college, but with the holidays looming, she’d probably have gone alone sooner or later.
    But lying to her husband . . . is that a good idea?
    Of course not. It’s a terrible idea.
    But what choice do you have?
    The truth: that’s her choice. Maybe she should just tell Jake that she’s going to the city for the day tomorrow. Leaving out the part about meeting Rick would make her guilty of omission, but not a lie.
    That’s the kind of reasoning Rowan might have used in her troubled youth when her undiagnosed disability left her frequently suffering the consequences of her impulsive tendencies. Time and again, she disappointed the parents who loved and trusted her.
    â€œDon’t you let her down,” her ravaged father told her the day she made her deathbed promise to her mother.
    â€œI won’t, Daddy. I promise. I’ll make her proud, and you, too.”
    She could see the doubt in his green eyes and spent years trying to erase it. She isn’t convinced she ever fully did.
    But Jake . . .
    Jake never once looked at her that way. Unlike Mom and Dad, he never knew her as a truth-­bending opportunist.
    If she tells him she’s going to the city, he won’t ask questions. He might want to come with her, though. When they were living in Westchester, they made an annual excursion to see the store windows on Fifth Avenue and the tree at Rockefeller Center. The kids were little and the crowds were overwhelming and it probably was never as much fun as it was supposed to be, but Rowan has fond memories of the city at Christmas and she knows Jake does, too. She can imagine him saying, We’ll both go, and Mick can come, too. Maybe we can grab Knicks tickets . . .
    No. No, that won’t work. Maybe she should just forget about seeing Rick Walker in person. Maybe she should just write back right now and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, tracking her down and sending an anonymous package.
    As she stands weighing her options, her phone rings in her hand, startling her. Her thumb comes down on the Send button and the message she was just deciding to delete goes zinging out into cyberspace.
    Ten minutes later, back in the bleachers, she sneaks a peek at her account and finds a reply.
    I’d love to see you! I’m free all day tomorrow. Name the time and place.
    Okay. So there it is. She’s going, which means she’s lying.
    Reminding herself that it’s for Jake’s own good, she watches the rest of the game grimly and is relieved when he doesn’t show up after all.
    She’s in bed when he gets home, pretending to be asleep.
    Another lie, on the heels of the note she left for him on the kitchen counter: Going shopping first thing in the a.m., probably won’t be back till dinner.
    Old habits . . .
    Dammit.
    But it’ll be the last lie ever, she promises herself as her husband begins to snore peacefully beside her.
    S aturday dawns damp and dreary, perfect for staying in bed. That’s where Jake and Mick are when Rowan leaves the house after too little sleep and too little coffee. Extra caffeine would only make her even more nervous, if that’s possible.
    In the large master bathroom—­which had been a sleeping porch before she and Jake renovated the house—­she dresses in jeans, boots, and a black turtleneck. After surveying her reflection, she pulls a gray cardigan over the turtleneck. No need to display her curves. Then she decides that the cardigan isn’t flattering and swaps both sweaters for a blouse and blazer. Unbuttoning the top two buttons, she glimpses cleavage and hastily buttons both. Now she looks like a prim schoolmarm. She settles on just the top