Every Last Secret

by A. R. Torre

  So, this was the path he was taking. A childish T-shirt and making me get a taxi home. I pinned him with a look and went to step inside. He didn’t budge, his body blocking the doorway.

  I glared at him. “Are you going to move?”

  “You have ten minutes to get anything you need out of the house.” He spoke slowly, his words slurring. “Any longer and I’ll have that officer escort you out.” He pointed to one of the police cars parked on the edge of our drive, its parking lights dimmed.

  I gawked at him. He was the one who had thrown me under the bus, he was the one who had given them the code to the safe, yet he was throwing me out? “Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours? I had to take a taxi here. Why aren’t you answering my calls?”

  “I loved you.” He wilted a little against the doorframe, but he would forgive me for the affair. He just needed some time. Some soothing. A reminder of how much he loved and needed me.

  “Move out of the way.” I pushed forward, using my shoulder to force him back. My purse strap caught on the door handle, and I yanked, almost tripping over Matt in an attempt to get fully inside the door. “What are you—” I shoved off him and made it to my feet. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s wrong with me?” He gripped the door with one hand and slung it closed with a ferocity that shook the entire wall. “You hired someone to kill me.”

  “Oh my God.” I threaded my arms across my chest, watching as he thudded past me and into the kitchen. I followed him, pulling on his arm. “Matt. You can’t honestly believe that.”

  “I believe it,” he sputtered. “You pathetic whore.”

  My mouth gaped, and there was a full moment where I couldn’t even formulate a reaction. Matt didn’t speak to anyone like that, much less me. I couldn’t think of a time he’d ever said anything remotely rude to me. He knew better. Yet now, after everything I’d been through, had been accused of, he was making it worse. I swallowed. “You never called Mitchell, did you?”

  It had been so embarrassing, expecting to see our attorney and then having a public defender walk in. The man had taken ages to appear and hadn’t known anything about me or Matt or our history. Mitchell would have known I was innocent. Mitchell knew me. I could have told Mitchell everything and not sounded like a . . . a . . . a pathetic whore.

  Matt’s accusation echoed, the words fitting for how I had felt in front of that public defender. I’d been forced to tell him the intimate details of my relationship with William and had seen the judgment flicker across the man’s craggy face. I’d hotly contested his questions about hiring someone to kill Matt and could tell he didn’t believe me.

  “Oh, I called Mitchell,” Matt sneered. “I called Mitchell and made it very clear where his loyalties should lie.”

  My cheeks burned at the realization that Matt was the reason the public defender had been assigned to me. And I had believed in him the entire time in the station. Assumed, however naively, that he had been back at home, believing in me.

  I let out an awkward laugh and tried to understand where all this had gone so wrong. “But . . . it’s all crap, Matt. I didn’t hire someone to kill you. You know I didn’t do that.”

  “So, I’m unlucky?” He lifted his arms out to each side, and I couldn’t believe I was being subjected to these accusations. I should be getting a hot shower right now. “I guess we just happened to be missing the screws on the railing I like to lean against every morning? I guess the liqueur you bought specifically for Cat just happened to contain antifreeze? I guess, out of all of the houses in this town, some random psychopath happened to come into ours, without breaking a single window or lock, and stick a gun in my mouth?”

  “You can’t be serious,” I sputtered.

  “Cat went to the hospital, Neena. I was one misfire away from death. Was it worth killing both of us for William?”

  God, I hated that woman. Screw the shooter coming after my husband. He should have entered that diamond-encrusted mausoleum and shot her pretty little face right between the eyes. Then we’d be in our home, happy as pigs in crap, and it’d be their life being picked apart right now.

  “You’re lucky that Cat kept the police from investigating that limoncello. We protected you,” he spat out.

  “Were you protecting me when you told them to look in the safe? Did you enjoy stressing me out, holding that over my head?” I could feel tears burning at the corners of my eyes, my very thin thread of self-control frayed to breaking. “I fainted, Matt. I fainted when I thought that they were going to find my will. Why put me through that?”

  “Oh, please.” He shook his head at me. “You’d already removed it. Probably destroyed it. What was there for you to faint over?”

  I froze at the implication of his words. “I didn’t remove it, Matt. I—”

  “I spoke to Cat this morning, and we decided—”

  “We decided? Where did you talk to Cat? Did you see her? Was she here?” He knew the rules. I’d been very clear for the two decades of our relationship and drawn his lines in bloody red paint. Having a woman in our house, alone with my husband, was a football field outside those lines, and he knew it.

  “You are not going jealous psycho on me right now.” He held up his hand, and I wanted to grab it by the wrist, flip that switch by the sink, and shove it down the garbage disposal. “What matters is that she agreed not to mention the poisoning to the detective or share the broken railing with them.”

  “Oh, how kind of her,” I sneered. “So generous. I should write her a freaking thank-you card. You believe that act? She probably poisoned herself.”

  “Sit down, Neena.”

  Had he ever said my name in such a cold way? He pointed to a stool. “I’m going to explain this to you one time, and I swear on my life, if you say one word before I finish, I’m going to slap the shit out of you.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it, stunned at the stranger standing before me and the words he’d just growled at me. Stunned at how, if he had only shown this side of himself earlier, I might have actually respected him. Stayed loyal to him. I sat.

  “I’m having Mitchell’s office prepare divorce papers. I’ll file on Monday.”

  “You’re doing what?” The words exploded out of me as my panic flared.

  The impact of his hand threw me backward, the stool tipping. I scrambled to grab the edge of the counter and failed, the expensive three-peg stool leaning to one side, the soles of my shoes sliding along the tile as stars dotted my vision.

  He hit me. Matt had hit me.

  If he had pulled up his shirt and produced a third nipple, I wouldn’t have been more surprised.

  I tugged at the edge of the counter and found my footing, my legs weak as I struggled to stand, my vision clearing. Matt stood across from me, still and silent, and stared at me as if I were a stranger. Me.

  He pointed to the stool, which lay on its side, the wood knocking on the floor as it rocked a little in place. “Sit back down. Shut up. If you speak again, I’ll hit you again.”

  It was pure torture to keep my mouth closed. What was he thinking? My cheekbone throbbed. I’d have a bruise. How would we explain that to the police?

  I lifted the stool and righted it. I moved dully to sit atop it, my hands sweating as I gripped the counter and vowed to myself to stay silent. In my head, a slow-motion picture of Cat Winthorpe played. Laughing at my arrest. Feeding carbs and sugar to William in a sexy negligee and making him fall back in love with her. I was the one who was supposed to win this game. Me.

  Matt continued as if all were fine, as if he hadn’t just abused me. “You will not contest the divorce and will give me all the assets of our marriage, including my company.” He looked at me, making sure that I was following his ridiculous monologue.

  He might be saying this now, but he couldn’t mean it. Through everything, Matt was my rock. The only one who loved me through my flaws. The only one who looked at me as
if I had value. The one who had provided for me since the moment I’d lost my father. That emotional security had been the only constant in my life for the last two decades. It had been the foundation I had depended on when I had stepped out on him. His love for me . . . it wasn’t going anywhere. It couldn’t go anywhere. Him leaving me was never a piece of this plan.

  “I will give you a thousand dollars a month in alimony for two years. That’s all you’ll get. Not one dollar of the bonus from Ned Plymouth. Not one dollar of our stocks or savings or the equity in this house.”

  I would never agree to that. He was crazy if he thought I would.

  “You’ll sign the settlement agreement and leave me alone, because if you don’t, if you ever come near me—I’ll tell them about your father. I’ll tell them the story that you detailed in your will. And they’ll believe it, especially if I have Cat beside me, sharing everything about the liqueur you gave her and the details of my fall. They’ll believe your confession, and they’ll dig up his body, and you’ll go to prison.”

  I will kill Cat. I didn’t know how or when, but I’d do it. I’d cut her brakes, or push her off a mountain, or get her drunk and drown her in her giant ridiculous pool.

  I risked a glance at Matt’s face and inhaled at the contempt and hatred that seeped from the look he was giving me.

  Somewhere inside, there was still love. There had to be.

  I pushed off the stool and bolted upstairs, needing to get away from that look before it broke me in half.

  CHAPTER 49

  CAT

  I stood on our roof deck and gripped the thin spindles of the ladder. Built into the far end of the deck, it allowed someone to climb onto the roof, where they could walk along the pitched surfaces and see almost 360 degrees around. Around my neck the binoculars hung by a thick strap.

  I made my way onto the peak and carefully walked down the opposite slope, settling in one of the elbows where the roof changed direction. Finding a comfortable position on the tile, I watched the front yard of Matt and Neena’s house.

  I’d missed her entrance, the taxi coming and going while I argued with William. I asked him again why he’d done it and was given a mountain of explanations that boiled down to one thing: because he could. She’d pursued him, and he’d been too weak to resist the ego boost.

  I’d expected that this confrontation would unfold in a similar fashion to what had happened with the dowdy secretary. I’d scream about Neena, and he’d scoff and ridicule. I was prepared for that, but this was an entirely different William, one who looked at me with an almost rabid devotion, which contrasted completely with the fact that he’d screwed her in our company’s boardroom.

  William had apologized, over and over again, and I was already sick of hearing it. I didn’t want his apologies. I wanted him to hate her, to grow nauseated at the sound of her name, to constantly associate this affair with pain and headaches and horror. I wanted him to bind himself to us and to vow to never so much as look at another woman.

  I’d dismissed his apologies and told him I needed some time for myself. After two hours at the bar with Matt, I soaked in the tub, followed by a quiet dinner in the library, and now—fresh air on the roof.

  I had needed the time to think and wanted this final moment for myself.

  I thought of Matt’s announcement that he would kick Neena out and wondered if he would actually stick to it. I’d had to tell him that I was leaving William, had to set that false trail to give him something to initially follow. I knew he’d need a push. I’d never seen a husband with such devotion and blind acceptance. I couldn’t let Neena and William have an affair and her be forgiven and loved as if nothing had even happened.

  Matt had proven it in our conversation at the White Horse. Last time I didn’t even confront her with it. I found out and never did a thing about it. The confirmation of what I’d already known had warmed me, the tequila blurring the edges of my actions with a rose tint I’d already grown quite accustomed to.

  He would have forgiven cheating, but murder? Could any spouse forgive that? Could any husband still love his wife knowing that she wanted him dead?

  No.

  No.

  No.

  Which was why I’d had to do this. I’d had to show him how terrible his life was with her. I’d had to force the break, or he’d never have done it on his own, and she would never have any repercussions for her horrible actions.

  I cupped my knees to my chest and strained to hear anything from the Ryders’ house. At this angle, I could see their bedroom windows, but the room was dark, their activity still restricted to the downstairs.

  Neena had to be overwhelmed right now. Confused. She was probably turning hostile. Calling him crazy. I imagined them screaming, her face mottled in rage, surgically enhanced features twisting in ugly patterns as she denied crimes she knew nothing about.

  She’d really made it all too easy for me. So focused on my husband. So rabid for time with him. She had been so concerned with destroying my marriage that she never paid attention to her own.

  The lights flicked on in the big front window, and I tilted as far right as I could, watching the progression of their movements as the stairwell lit, then the second-floor hall. I gripped my knees in anticipation, praying that when the bedroom light came on, their curtains were open.

  The four windows exploded into action, glowing bright yellow against the dark night. I lifted the binoculars and adjusted their focus, breathing a sigh of relief at the part in the curtain that was wide enough to give me a peek.

  Neena stomped across the bedroom, her arms swinging, mouth moving. She stopped and spun, stabbing the air with her finger as she yelled something. I strained to see Matt, letting out a soft sigh when he appeared in the doorway, his own face red, his mouth jawing as he delivered something right back.

  I wanted to cheer at the presence of his backbone. I gave him that. I watched as he pointed to the floor. He must be talking about the money.

  The cash had come from our safe, the stacks of bills rewrapped with fresh bindings in case the originals held William’s or my fingerprints on them. I’d worn gloves when I’d handled the money, through I’d been sure that fingerprints couldn’t be lifted from dirty currency—and why would they try? Neena’s fingerprints would be all over the other items in the hole.

  I thought of the red box I’d placed in the hole and the moment she’d unwrapped her birthday gift and turned over the red container. Shake it, I’d said, and almost laughed at the thought of her following my instructions, her stupid play right into my hands. She’d opened the box and stared dumbly at the vibrator I’d grabbed off a discount rack at the local sex shop. She hadn’t realized that she’d just given me the best thank-you gift possible—evidence. I’d gathered the box and the wrapping paper, stuffing them back in my bag and distracting her with chatter, the theft of the packaging unnoticed in the rest of the evening’s festivities. After all, William had been there. I could have sliced myself from crotch to neck, danced naked amid the blood spurt, and I would have barely gotten a side glance from Neena.

  It had been her eyes that had given me my first indicator of trouble. They’d watched him whenever he walked out of the room. Lit up whenever he spoke to her. Caressed his face when he smiled. I’d seen those eyes and known, from the beginning, that she would be trouble.

  Now, I watched as she crouched before the bedroom dresser, yanking at drawers and slamming items onto the bed. She moved to the Bakers’ old safe and worked her fingers over the dial, putting in the combination—that same combination that I’d found on the sticky note years before. She disappeared behind the door of it, and I imagined her looking through the scant items, searching desperately for the envelope that the cops had never found. I reached into the pocket of my robe and closed my fingers around the envelope I had taken from their safe. The one marked Neena’s Will and Testament. I had almost skipped right over it in my exploration of the contents. After all, how interesting could a w
ill be?

  But, as it turned out, Neena’s was a real showstopper.

  I pictured her panic, the frantic flip through papers once, twice, a third time. She really should have used a safe-deposit box. This entire setup had been a cakewalk. The morning of Matt’s fall, I’d had hours of alone time to move through their home and sift through her drawers, her closet, her life. While William and Neena had waited for Matt at the hospital, I’d tested my old key in the home’s back door and verified it still worked. I’d checked the empty cubbyhole in the floor and envisioned how it could be used. I’d found the photo I’d taken of the safe’s sticky note and tried the combination, smiling when it still opened the vault. I’d gone through the contents and read everything, including her will.

  I remember my mouth falling open, my eyes darting around the empty bedroom, looking for someone to share the item with. I remember reading it a second time, then slowly folding it back into thirds and sliding it back into the envelope. I remember putting her house back in order and throwing away the trash from the railing, then returning to my home and lying down on the couch, the envelope warm in the back pocket of my pants.

  I’d lain there and thought through everything. Remembered the conversation with William and Deputy Dan about the broken railing. The murder-attempt possibility that we had just scoffed over. I moved around puzzle pieces in my mind until they fit into place. Red flags to plant. Red herrings to deceive. The careful destruction of a life, one interaction at a time.

  I made the plan and then sat on it for a long time. A time in which I watched her creep in. A time in which I monitored my husband’s call activity and read his emails and text messages and placed a hidden camera in the one place in Winthorpe Tech where something might happen—the boardroom. I behaved until the afternoon that I watched the video of her sitting on the heavy mahogany table, her knees open, her hands clutching at William’s shirt. Her, bent over, face contorted in pleasure.