The Scandal

by Nicola Marsh

  “Fine, C.C.” His grin widens as I resist the urge to slug him again. “I don’t know this girl. Never met her.”

  “So you won’t object to taking a paternity test then?”

  “I object, but I assume it’s pointless? That you’ll file some trumped up charge, get a court order and I’ll end up having to do it regardless?”

  Now it’s my turn to smirk. “Something like that.”

  “In that case, I’ll do it.” He shrugs, as if presenting DNA for implication in a possible murder means nothing. “I’m a busy man. I run one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies on the eastern seaboard. So let’s get this over with.”

  He stands so quickly I jump, annoyed by his sudden move that I shove the table hard into his thighs. He doesn’t even flinch.

  I’m surprised and a little uneasy he’s agreed so fast. “We’ll do the test now and expedite results, so don’t leave town.”

  The first chink in his indifferent armor appears; his fingers inadvertently flex, like he’s trying to grab hold of something. “Are you actually trying to tie me to this unsavory business?”

  I nod, glad his impenetrable façade is wavering. “I’m trying to solve a murder and considering we suspect Jodi only came to Gledhill to tell her baby’s father the news, and the first person she searches for is you, we’re exploring all possibilities.”

  He’s shaken, finally. I see it in the nervous fiddle as his fingers adjust the cuff of his coat. “Let me get this straight. You think I didn’t want the baby so I killed her?”

  I shrug, like accusing my best friend’s husband of murder is something I do every day. “Something like that.”

  His lips thin and his eyes turn mean. “Let’s get this paternity test done.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to open the door. He storms out without looking back.

  I usually have a gut feeling about suspects but I didn’t get a true read on Avery. It bothers me as much as his willingness to provide a saliva sample.

  Something’s not right here.

  I’m hoping it’s not my theory.

  Thirty-Three

  Elly

  As if this bizarre day can’t get any stranger, my lover turns up at the medical center.

  I’ve seen him around here before but we don’t interact beyond a casual greeting. In private he deliberately teases me for working such a menial job, when he knows how much I love it. We’re the number one center in the Hamptons. Excellent doctors, experienced specialists, with a separate cosmetic surgery wing for the many procedures booked months in advance. We’re high profile and I manage the entire place. I’m proud of the way I have everything running smoothly.

  I’m also suspicious. Why is he here? We’re never seen in public together. He gets off on the illicitness, I can’t afford to hurt my friend by us being sighted. Though if we were spotted out and about, no one would suspect a thing. We’re friends, of sorts. So the fact he’s hovering in the doorway of my office, looking edgy and glancing over his shoulder, is a big deal.

  I muster my best dazzling smile, the one he likes because he thinks he’s made my day just by being in it. Men are idiots. “What are you doing here?”

  He doesn’t return my smile. In fact, he hasn’t done his usual leer after checking me out, the first thing he does whenever we meet. I like it. Not from a sexual viewpoint but because every time he treats me like some object he owns, I know I hold the power.

  My ex had never objectified me. He’d been sweet and loving and attentive. He’d made me fall head over heels and trust him implicitly. Making his ruse all the harder to stomach when I discovered the truth. These days, I prefer cocky and charming. I can control men like that.

  I don’t ever want to be emotionally sucker-punched again.

  His gaze is darting around and combined with the fact he’s shown up here, something’s not right. He steps into my office and closes the door. “I came to see you.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my surprise. He likes sassy so I fire a comeback to test him. “That’s a first.”

  He doesn’t respond with a smart-ass remark and I realize something even more startling. He’s nervous. He’s fidgeting with his cuffs, tugging on the end of his tie, smoothing his jacket. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to find the right words to explain why he’s here.

  Finally, he halts in front of my desk, his expression apologetic. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  I feel like he’s driven a stake through my heart, the pain is that swift, that intense. In all the warped scenarios of how our affair ends, this isn’t one of them. I’m the one in control. I hold all the power. I’ve envisioned dragging him along for another week then dumping him. Revealing the truth and making him feel the pain he so carelessly inflicts on other people; especially his poor unsuspecting wife.

  Since my golden life disintegrated I’ve had to reinvent myself. Once I’d taken care of the physical transformation – I’d had some non-intrusive cosmetic work done on my face and invested a sizeable chunk of my settlement on a designer wardrobe – I’d assumed a role, becoming a honeytrap for cheating men.

  When I messed with their heads, I felt like I was messing with my ex.

  When I screwed them over then dumped them, I was dumping my ex.

  When I forced their hands and insisted they tell their wives the truth, I felt like I was doing their wives a favor, giving them the gift of honesty that I never got.

  With my lover, it has been different. I have allowed myself to feel something and while the end is inevitable, having the power yanked out of my hands is unpalatable.

  I’d planned on giving my friend the greatest gift any woman can receive when living a lie she doesn’t know: freedom. She deserves better than this asshole. She means too much to me.

  The end has been coming because I can’t go on like this. I’d planned on instigating steps shortly so in all my imagined scenarios of how we’d end this isn’t one of them. This is plain wrong. I need to gain the ascendancy and take back control. I stand and move around the desk, close enough to touch him if I want. I don’t.

  “What do you mean?” I sound blasé, like I don’t give a crap. But I do. I want to end this my way.

  He doesn’t react to my offhand tone. He stares straight ahead and I’ve never been so grateful not to have a glass-walled office. We don’t need prying eyes for this final confrontation.

  He rubs the back of his neck, another nervous tell that’s uncharacteristic, before finally facing me. “What if I end my marriage so I can be with you?”

  The bottom drops out of my stomach and my palms grow clammy. I feel light-headed, woozy, like all the air has been sucked from the room.

  When we started up, this was never my end game.

  I remember our first time together so clearly. He asked me to meet him at his office in the city, giving some vague excuse that it would benefit both our careers. I knew it was BS. But I wanted to see how far he’d go, if his flirting to that point was all bluff.

  Like the others, I had no intention of sleeping with him. So I’d worn a sedate mid-calf pale blue sheath and hit record on my cell before entering his office. But my lover was different from all the rest. Because of my friendship with his wife we’d socialized together and I’d been privy to how charming he could be. I felt like I knew him and a small part of me liked him. When I’d gone to his office that day I’d hoped he wouldn’t put the moves on me, proving himself different from all the rest.

  For a brief time, I thought he was. He’d made me a drink and we’d chatted about our respective jobs, money and where we’d like to be in five years. That’s when it happened. He mentioned something about a hotshot investment banker in Chicago who turned everything to gold if I was interested and I knew, I just knew, he was talking about my ex-husband.

  Inexplicably, tears had filled my eyes, he’d comforted me and somehow we’d ended up having sex. It should never have happened but when he held me afterward, it was the first t
ime since the rape that I felt halfway human. I thought it would be a one-off considering my connection with his wife. A connection I would exploit when the time came for her to know the truth. However, as we became firmer friends I struggled with my conscience. With the other guys I’d targeted for vengeance I hadn’t been close to their wives. It had been easier to tear their lives apart in the name of helping those unsuspecting women when I didn’t know them.

  But I had second thoughts with my lover, considering his wife was so nice. I held him at arm’s length after that time in his office but he pursued me relentlessly and I eventually gave in. I justified my capitulation as doing my friend the ultimate favor. That she may even thank me when the time came. Totally warped logic, I know, because she’ll hate me for lying to her just as much as she’ll hate her husband.

  But I can’t help it. This is who I am these days, some kind of black widow who can’t stop the crusade. I need to ruin the lives of all the cheating, lying bastards who lead duplicitous lives.

  Now my lover wants to make our arrangement public, I’m flabbergasted. I don’t need a full-time man in my life. I don’t want him. His lies and unfaithfulness toward his wife makes my skin crawl while a small part of me wants to run into his arms and be held. I need to play this smart.

  “You’re serious?” I wave my hand between us, and the sapphire ring he gave me as a present for my last birthday catches the light. “You want us to be together?”

  “Yes.” His response is instant, no hesitation, bold and confident, so like him. “It’s time.”

  None of this makes sense, but I find myself asking, “Why now?”

  My heart’s beating erratically, making me slightly breathless. Something’s not right and I need to find out what the hell he’s playing at.

  “Because my marriage has been over for a long time.” He shrugs, like exchanging vows means nothing. “Because I’m tired of the hiding and leading a double life.”

  He takes my hand and stares into my eyes. I’ve seen many emotions in those eyes before. Desire. Lust. Ownership. Passion. Candor is rare and it disarms me more than his words. “I’ve never done this before with anyone else so I knew that once we started up it would lead to this moment.”

  I gape, the implication behind his declaration so startling I can barely comprehend it. I want to laugh, it’s so outlandish, but with him staring at me with absolute sincerity it’s hard to doubt him.

  “I don’t want to be the guy that lies anymore.” He squeezes my hand, like a simple touch will convince me. “I want to be your guy. If you’ll have me.”

  A host of responses, both suitable and otherwise, whir through my head, pinging off my skull like corn kernels in hot oil: random and haphazard and potentially dangerous. I should cut him down in response but I don’t. I’m flummoxed.

  So I settle for honesty. “I don’t know what to say.”

  I see the shutters lower, as if I’ve wounded him. “You’ve never thought about it? You and me as a real couple?”

  As if. My motives may be warped but I’m not stupid. Why the hell would I trade one deceitful, cheating asshole for another?

  So I do what he’s done often enough: I lie. “I may have thought about it but only in that vague, nebulous way of ‘this will never happen’.”

  The slightest frown does little to detract from his mesmerizing good looks. “Why not?”

  “Because your wife is one of my friends, for a start,” I snap, annoyed by his obtuseness. “How can we ever be together in Gledhill without people hating us? She’s well known around here. Our names would be mud.”

  It’s an excuse he’ll accept because he needs to be liked. He walks into a room and commands attention like it’s his God-given right. He couldn’t imagine being hated.

  “We wouldn’t live here.” He releases my hand, like I’ve hurt him with my logical questions. “We could live in the city, anywhere, really. Our jobs are transferable.”

  “You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you?”

  I sound shrewish, and he’s not happy. He’s lost the edginess but his gaze keeps darting around, as if looking for an escape route.

  He paces a few steps, stops, and grabs my upper arms so I can’t move. “I’m not good with words, never have been. But I love you, Elly. I want us to be together. Say yes.”

  He’s insane and for an absurd moment I’m tempted to blurt the truth, to tell him why I’d allowed him to touch me in the first place, that I’m broken inside and seeking comfort, that this has been about revenge and tearing his life apart once his wife learns the truth.

  He doesn’t care that I haven’t responded and continues. “If you say yes, I’m leaving my wife at the end of the week. It’ll take that long for me to pack my things and organize my finances so there’s no mess.”

  He’s delusional. Of course there’ll be mess when he leaves his wife, most of it landing on my head.

  When I don’t answer, his fingers dig harder into my arms. “I love you. I want you. Please…”

  The frantic edge to his plea shocks me more than his declaration. He never asks anyone for anything. He demands it. He gets it. So why is he here, trying to sway me with empty promises? He likes being married. I see it in the way he parades his wife around like arm candy, how he dotes on her, how proud he is of her. He would never leave her voluntarily. His declaration is unorthodox, suspicious and an outright fabrication. Why? Why now?

  As I ponder a way to extract myself from this bizarre situation he misreads my head tilt for a nod and swoops in for a searing kiss.

  “Stop.” I try to push him away but he ignores me, kissing his way along my jaw, toward my ear, where he whispers, “There’s just one thing…”

  Thirty-Four

  Claire

  As I wait for the results of Avery’s paternity test the next morning I follow up on routine stuff that I’d already delegated to other officers but want to recheck in the name of thoroughness. I do this if I don’t have a solid theory, like checking CCTV footage to see who left Gledhill in the early hours of the morning after Jodi was killed. With The Rise on the outskirts of town, whoever visited the area would’ve been picked up by the cameras dotted through town and along the highway.

  The coroner has given me a rough timeline: time of death had been around eleven-thirty so I start scanning license plates from eleven onwards, something a junior officer has already done but I want to see for myself. Not many people leave town in the middle of the night so it doesn’t take me long to scan the footage. It’s short, but not so sweet.

  Because one license plate leaps out at me, exiting Gledhill just after midnight and re-entering town around five forty-five a.m.

  My husband’s car.

  I blink, rub my eyes and refocus. It doesn’t change facts. Dane, who told me he slept in his car at the beach that night he never came home, lied.

  And his movements fit the opportunistic window.

  He could have a perfectly logical explanation. He’d wanted to drive around to work off his anger toward me after my slip up with Griffin. But if that was the case, why lie? He’d told me he’d driven around for a while after he stormed out then he’d slept in his car. But the CCTV footage indicates otherwise and with that timeline he would’ve barely had enough time to reach the city, spend five minutes there, before turning back for home.

  It doesn’t make sense. Why would Dane have to make a sudden trip to the city yet not stick around?

  I don’t like mysteries and I hate them when they involve people I care about. I can’t shake the feeling I may have stumbled upon something life-changing when I’ve had to deal with enough crap lately.

  I check my computer for the umpteenth time in the last half hour. Paternity test results still aren’t through.

  “Damn.” I thump my desk, garnering several raised eyebrows from the cops around me and I hold my hand up in apology.

  I need to do something. I can’t sit here and feign concentration when all I can think about is Dane lying
to me.

  I need answers.

  Starting now.

  I fire off a quick text to him, asking him to meet me at home. Thankfully, he’s working locally in East Hampton today.

  It will be the first time I’ve seen him since Jodi’s murder. When I’d called him after arriving back at the station direct from the scene he’d already been on the road, heading into the city. He sounded gutted when I told him about Jodi and the baby, asking inane questions like “But how? When? Where? Who would do such a thing?” but now I wonder: Had it been an act? Had he already known?

  I can’t believe I suspect my husband of being complicit in a murder. This is the man who nursed me after a nasty bout of the flu, who held my hair back from my face when I had bad gastro, who cuddled me for hours when I sobbed after hearing the news of our infertility. He’s been nothing but gentle and loving and supportive all the years I’ve known him.

  Except recently… when he overreacted and punched holes in our wall…

  I make it home in fifteen minutes. He walks in the door five minutes later.

  “Hey, honey, how are you holding up?” He envelops me in a hug, the kind I crave. I’d usually snuggle in, marveling at how well we fit when my arms slide around his waist. Today, I’m stiff and unyielding. He notices.

  “You’re not okay,” he says, releasing me and heading for the fridge. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He pulls out a beer and my eyebrows shoot skyward. He only glances at me after he takes the cap off, equal parts furtive and guilty.

  “Don’t judge me. I need this.” He raises the bottle in my direction before taking a deep slug, his throat moving convulsively as he swallows like a thirsty man having his first drink in days.