Page 62 of Thicker Than Water
It’s a moment before he replies, his face blank, as if processing my answer. “That’s— Wow, that’s great,” he repeats. “Really great.”
But his enthusiasm doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, there’s something like confusion there—or maybe a haze of hurt. It’s an odd reaction, and when he sees me examining it, he clears his throat, clears that cloudy look from his eyes.
“How areyoudoing?” he asks. “With, you know, everything.”
“Not too well,” I admit, releasing a small laugh. “I’m just… really confused. Which is why I’m here, actually. I was wondering if— Well, first: Do you know who Henry Hendrix is?”
His brow twitches—not quite a furrow, but a flicker of apprehension. “Yeah.”
“Okay, well…” I pull out my phone, then bring up the photos Sienna took of the arrest report. “Sienna has this theory,” I say, and I explain it to Wyatt, his face almost blank as he listens, like he’s working to remain neutral. When I’m done, I pass him my phone over the coffee table. “It’s the last four pictures. Sienna highlighted what she thought was especially important.”
He scrutinizes the screen, zooming in with his thumb and finger. When he finishes studying the final picture, he hands the phone back to me, still giving nothing away.
“I don’t know why Jason was at the restaurant,” I say, “but Sienna thinks Henry might have framed Jason. That maybe Jason said something to him that night that made Henry think he was involved in Gavin’s financial schemes. So, I’m wondering what you think, in your professional opinion. Is Henry a viable suspect?”
Wyatt sighs, dragging a hand over his face. I hold myself stiff to keep from squirming.
“No,” Wyatt says. “I’m sorry, but he’s not.”
It isn’t disappointment, exactly, that sinks through me, but it’s coarse and heavy, like swallowing the pit of some fruit. It would have been so nice for Sienna to be right. I would have known, then, how to talk to Aiden tonight; I could have told him there’s another suspect in the case, someone we’ll make sure the cops consider. I could have given him the same hope his aunt already floats on. I could have kept him whole, for a little while longer, distracted from all the evidence I don’t know how to explain.
But it’s exactly that evidence that had me expecting this answer from Wyatt. And now I got what I came here for—confirmation that I’m not wrong to dismiss Sienna’s theory, to suspect my own husband. I just wish it felt satisfying, or soothing, or like anything other than a crater in my gut.
“It’s because there’s nothing tying Henry to the crime, right?” I ask. “Not like there is with Jason.”
“They checked him out,” Wyatt says, “soon after the body was discovered. Because, in one sense, Sienna’s right—the altercation at the restaurant definitely made him a person of interest. But as I already told her, Henry has an alibi for the night of the murder. I guess I’m not surprised she’s still pushing it, though. We know Sienna’s stubborn like that.”
He forces a weak smile, attempting to connect over our shared understanding, but I can only frown, puzzled by his response.
“She talked to you about this?” I ask. “When?”
The change in his face is immediate. His cheeks flatten, erasing his smile, and his eyes go wide, his features somehow both slack and taut, like he’s trying—and failing—not to show a reaction.
“Oh. Yeah, it was nothing, she just asked me the other day about who Beck had looked into before Jason, and then I saw her today at the station, when she requested the arrest report.”
My lips part in surprise.
“It was nothing,” he says again, scratching his jaw.
But I shake my head, my vision murky, as if a fog has rolled into the room. Because that isn’t nothing. That’s two encounters. In just a few days. When less than an hour ago, Sienna sniped at me for even suggesting she speak to Wyatt.
“We’re not back together or anything.” Wyatt picks at his pantleg, eyes roving across his thigh.
“Back together?” The thought hadn’t even occurred to me.
I don’t talk to Wyatt. I don’t see Wyatt. I’m on a very strict No Wyatt Diet.
When I pictured her saying those words on the phone, I imagined her cheeks flushing—the same splotches of pink she always gets when we speak of her ex. For months now, I’ve thought of that blushas the burn of her anger, beneath which her pain still smolders. But now I wonder if I’ve been seeing it all wrong—if it was never about her sadness or rage, but instead the flush of a secret. The flush of shame.
“Wyatt. How often do you see Sienna?”
“No, it’s not like that,” he protests—even though I haven’t accused him of anything.
You know me better than anyone. You should know I’dneverdo that.
“It’s just… sometimes, you know, she— We just…” He trails off, shifting in his chair.
I watch him cross his legs, then uncross them. I watch his fingers pluck at the fabric of his pants. I watch him press his gaze to the table between us, then hold it there, to keep from watching me in return.
