by A. R. Torre
If Matt meant what he’d said . . . a divorce with no split assets, a thousand dollars a month in alimony . . . I’d have to get another job. I had a voice mail on my phone from the HR director at Winthorpe Tech, one I hadn’t had the stomach to listen to. I knew what it would say. Thank you for your time with us, but there is no need to return. My items were probably already boxed up and sitting at the front desk for my pickup. Maybe I could sue them for wrongful termination. Sexual assault. I still had the recommendation letter from Ned. I could get another job at another firm that didn’t run in William Winthorpe’s circles.
I got out of bed and slowly stood, my back protesting. I needed to get to a gym, maybe the tiny one I’d spotted just off the lobby. I wasn’t brave enough to face the filler-enhanced faces at the Atherton athletic center. Too many Atherton wives attended there, and word had probably spread to a few of them. But what version of the events? The masked intruder? My potential involvement?
It was all ridiculous. I was innocent! Maybe not completely innocent, but my crimes were focused on seduction—not murder. I didn’t need to poison Cat Winthorpe—I could take her down in other ways. And why would I hire someone to kill Matt? I loved Matt. I did. Despite the gray tooth in his smile and his growing gut. Despite the fact that he once called caviar “jelly seeds” at a party. Despite all that—I loved him. Who else would desire me in such a complete and unwavering way? Even if I had entertained thoughts of leaving him—I would never have gone through with it. Not unless William Winthorpe had proposed, which he might have, if I’d had more time with him.
It had all been going perfectly until the hard right turn that had thrown me into hell. Hell and a queen-bed hotel room with a rattling air conditioner and questionable pay-per-view options.
I dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra, lacing up my Nikes while mentally moving through my daily affirmations. I opened the door to my room, my key card in hand, and came to a stop at the sight of the newspaper tossed in front of my door, an identical copy at each adjacent room.
LOCAL WIFE ATTEMPTS MURDER, AUTHORITIES ALLEGE
The headline could not have been in bigger font, a bold sans serif that competed with the photo of me—a horrible shot where my mouth was open, my attention sideways. I picked up the paper and studied the photo, which was from the July Fourth fireworks party. I looked terrible. Terrible and old and angry. Local wife attempts murder? How many people had seen this piece of trash? I pictured all my new friends, their features pinching in distaste, manicured hands reaching for their phones, frantic to share the news. Oh my gawd . . . did you hear? Neena Ryder tried to kill her husband. Kill him. It would hit social media, message groups, text threads. It would be everywhere within an hour.
Returning to my room, I engaged the dead bolt and sank onto the bed, reading the article in its entirety as my gut twisted into a tight knot.
When I finished, I read it again. I tried for a third but headed for the bathroom instead, my stomach heaving in protest. I vomited, then sank to my knees on the white floor mat and hugged the edge of the dirty toilet.
The article had included a quote from William, one in which he had called me “a deeply disturbed individual.” How could he have said that? Had he not felt our connection? Had our kiss, our sex, meant nothing? Among all the sparks and subterfuge, I thought there had been a genuine connection between us.
I had eight thousand dollars in my bank account and no job. No assets that weren’t controlled or being taken by Matt. This was supposed to have followed a simple path—a secret affair that led to William Winthorpe paying me off or falling in love with me. Two very clear outcomes, neither of which would have risked everything I had worked so hard for. Our house in the right neighborhood. Now a crime scene. My job at the right company. I’d be fired. My social standing in the right circles. Destroyed by this article. A husband who worshipped and loved me. Who had kicked me out of my own home. Mentioned divorce.
How did it all disappear in the course of a few days? Though if I really examined it . . . it was in the course of a few minutes and a misfired gun.
I almost wished the gun hadn’t misfired. Matt would be dead, and I would have everything. The house. The life insurance. The money in the bank. His company. I might have been investigated, but at least I would have the money to hire attorneys, a crack team that could shine the light on this shoddy investigation and find the true killer. I warmed to the idea of being a rich widow, sympathetic looks all around. Finally, I’d be able to watch what I wanted on television. Get rid of his ugly leather furniture. Live without dirty towels on the floor or sports magazines on the coffee table or junk food filling our pantry.
If the gun hadn’t misfired, there was the possibility that the gunman could have turned it on me. But honestly, death would be better than this. I checked the dramatic statement for accuracy and was horrified to see that it was true.
Death would be better than life as a divorced and penniless social pariah.
And yet . . . it could get even worse, because that envelope from our safe was still missing. Who could have it?
It had to be Cat who was behind all this. Cat, who had probably faked her poisoning. Cat, who had put lies in Matt’s head about the railing. Cat, who had probably hired someone to kill Matt—all so she could hold on to her shaky marriage.
But how had she gotten into the safe? When had she planted the photos? How long had she been planning this?
And if she was the one with my will, what did she plan to do with it?
CHAPTER 52
NEENA
Two weeks later
My new life sucked. Somehow, I was climbing the steps to an apartment, my keys jingling from my hand like a janitor. When I opened the door, I’d be looking at a room of rented furniture, the additional fifty bucks tacked on to my monthly rent as part of a never-ended Christmas special.
I didn’t belong here. Not in this cramped one-bedroom, not in this low-rent part of San Francisco, not on the losing end of divorce proceedings that seemed to hollow me out more and more with every meeting.
I didn’t even recognize Matt. For one, it was his teeth. The man who never seemed to care about his appearance now had veneers. They sparkled from his mouth every time he opened it, and he was suddenly opening it a lot, filled with opinions on everything from alimony to what car I should be driving. He knew I had an issue with American cars, yet that ended up being my option—he’d buy me a cheap sedan, or I could buy my own.
I took the sedan with its cloth seats and clunky styling, my head ducked in shame whenever I entered and exited it. My old car, the BMW that I had always taken for granted, now taunted me from a roadside spot at the used-car dealership, its windshield covered by a price tag I couldn’t afford.
Couldn’t afford. Two words I’d run from my entire life. Two words I’d buried in the dirt after I walked down the aisle with Matt. Two words I’d forgotten the second I’d gotten my degree. Two words that had come back to bite me.
I made it through the door and heaved my computer bag onto the round dining table, rubbing my shoulder with a sigh. Turning back to the door, I flipped the dead bolt and worked the security chain into the slide.
Trudging to the narrow couch, I sank into the cheap polyester, not bothering with removing my heels. I could feel my new job prospects wobbling loose. Maybe it was the desperation in my voice. Maybe it was the newspaper article, which was taking top spot when you did an internet search for my name. Or maybe it was the gossip. Word of my affair had spread, and I had a new appreciation for Ned Plymouth, a private and quiet individual who had kept his money (and his business) to himself. The secret termination agreement had been the only swell in the serene lake of our affair’s existence.
Cat and William Winthorpe, on the other hand, were a tsunami. Volunteer committees I’d worked hard on had suddenly deleted my name from their rosters and sent polite You are no longer needed cards. My book club, which Cat wasn’t even a part of, asked that I no longer attend.
My personal shopper at Neiman’s, across the country in New York City, left me a snippy voice mail that made her opinion clear. The judgment and loathing came from all directions, and whatever stone Cat found too heavy to turn over, William flipped with ease.
The worst were my past employers. I’d had to weed my résumé down to practically nothing, as the Winthorpes turned every past reference against me. Matt refused to give me a positive recommendation from Ryder Demolition, and Ned Plymouth wasn’t returning my calls, so I’d crossed his name off my résumé for fear of the unknown.
I could feel myself sinking. Drowning. In college, I’d experienced this feeling, this helpless detachment as I had watched my world crumble. Of course, back then it was caused by a sorority rumor of an STD, a minor blip that could have been easily overcome by a catty retort and simple manipulation. But I wasn’t Dr. Neena Ryder back then. I was young and insecure, with a too-big nose and too-small breasts. I wilted, withdrew from school, and fell in love with Xanax and Matt’s constant reassurances.
I couldn’t fall back in that hole. Wine was one thing. Pills were another.
I shifted until my head was on the armrest and tried not to think about the renters before me, their dirty arms resting on the same ledge. Spilled food, drops of beer, all soaking through the navy fabric. I was lucky it didn’t squish against my ear.
I let out a sigh and tried to remember why I’d thought William Winthorpe was a good idea. Pulling myself upright, I stretched forward, looping my finger through the handle of my purse and tugging it toward me. Opening the neck of it, I grabbed the bottle of wine and placed it on the table, then looked around for a cup.
The floor hurt, but I couldn’t seem to move my legs. It was the wine. Too much wine. Had I ever drunk so much? The last time I was like this, it was a decade ago. William—no, Matt—had carried me to bed. Brought a bucket to me and wiped off my face after I vomited. He’d been a good caretaker. So loving. So forgiving. That night, he’d sat beside me in bed and run soft fingers through my hair until I fell asleep.
Now, I had no one to play with my hair, or to carry me to bed, or to bring me a bucket when I threw up. The vomit was coming. I could feel it, churning the wrong way through my intestines.
I struggled to roll to one side and stared at my cell phone, the silver device close enough to my forehead to almost touch.
I’d have to file for bankruptcy. I’d have to find a new job. Doing what? Fitness? God, I’d be one of those women. In my late thirties and bouncing around in Lycra all day long, posting Instagram messages of carb control and inspiration, using hashtags like #fitover40 and #persistence.
I reached for the phone. I needed to call William. Surely he remembered how good we were together. Hadn’t he seen that? Felt it?
I dialed his number, but like every other time, he didn’t answer.
EPILOGUE
WILLIAM
One year later
The Ryders’ house came down in thirds. First, the side with the master suite, with that porch where Matt had fallen off. Their bedroom and master bath all crumpled under the wrecking ball, sagging into the interior of the house like a rotten pumpkin.
Next, the front fell. The porch that Neena had so painstakingly decorated for the Fourth of July, all in a gaudy attempt to compete with my wife. The grand foyer, where police dusted for shoe prints. Matt’s study, where Neena signed their divorce papers. Everything was destroyed, dismantled, and chucked into the dumpsters. Ten of them were filled and carted out of the neighborhood’s service entrance, only to make the empty journey back.
The rest of the home followed. The kitchen where Neena and I whispered our agreement to stay away from each other. The living room where we all toasted our friendship. The pool, the cabana, the hot tub. Crews spent a week removing it all. Cat sat in our backyard gardens, a cup of hot chocolate in hand, and watched it occur, a small smile playing across her beautiful face.
My mother once said I had a weakness for crazy women. She voiced that opinion back in third grade, when I developed a crush on Sylvia Pinket, the girl who trotted around the perimeter of our recess area pretending to be a horse. On days when the wind was rough, she’d whinny and prance, then plant her hands in the dirt and kick up her back feet. I thought she was beautiful. Eight years later, after she peed in the punch bowl at the Rotary Club Christmas banquet, a psychiatrist confirmed all our suspicions and shipped her upstate to the loony bin, ending any fantasies I had of unbridled Sylvia passion.
My penchant for crazy women, it appeared, never ended. While I thought it had taken a hiatus with Cat, I was wrong.
My wife, like Sylvia, was crazy.
I’d always suspected it but finally confirmed it. Not that a little bit of crazy was a bad thing. Honestly, it turned me on to know how much work my dear wife put into our marriage, to see the smooth lies that came out of her mouth, the faux concern she painted for others’ sakes, the orchestration of events she managed to effortlessly direct, all for the sake of our marriage.
If Cat were Sylvia, she’d have had everyone at that ball peeing in their own glasses, then pointing fingers at the other guests. And that, among other things, was why I loved her.
And I really did love her. Even more this week than last, and more this year than the one before. I think it’s rare for couples to still be in love after a decade of marriage, but we are. Which is one of the reasons I still can’t wrap my head around why I ever gave Neena Ryder a second glance.
Maybe because I like crazy women, and she fit that bill to a T.
Maybe because I’d grown comfortable in my love for Cat, and Neena posed a risk I needed to take.
Maybe because part of me wanted to see if I would get caught and what my sweet, perfect wife would do when she found out what I’d done.
Maybe because seeing Cat’s response pacified the insecure part of me that was reassured by watching my wife fight for me.
I’d wanted to see that crazy. I’d yearned for it. I’d been sloppy and reckless and waited to see it flare.
But it hadn’t. Mystifyingly, it hadn’t, and I’d continued further over the line with Neena, a masochist eager for his beating, certain that surely, any day now, I’d come home to a royally pissed-off wife. I’d plodded forward and completely missed the bread crumbs that Cat scattered until I was sitting across from her and signing the paperwork to buy Neena and Matt’s home.
I’d moved through the closing on autopilot, thinking through all the events that had brought us to this point, still struggling with my confidence that Neena Ryder could not have possibly attempted to kill Matt. And if not her . . . I’d met Cat’s eyes across the conference table, our gazes connecting, and realized, before she’d even cracked a smile, that she was behind all of it.
It was brilliant of her, expertly played, a cat lying quietly in the bushes and watching all her mice dance to their deaths. Thank God she scooped me out of the fray. Had she wanted to, she could have burned me at the stake right alongside Neena.
But she didn’t, and I loved her even more for her mercy.
I heard the office door open and turned to see her coming in the room, her eyes bright, smile big. “I just came from meeting with the architect,” she said happily, dropping a roll of paper down on my desk and unfurling it across the surface. “Look.”
I rolled forward in my desk chair and reviewed the plans. “Looks nice.”
“Nice?” She arched a brow at me. “Come on. Give me your feedback.”
I tried harder, pushing to my feet and coming around the desk to stand next to her. Bending over the architectural drawings, I tried to imagine the space. There would be a second guesthouse in the area where the Ryders’ home once was. A spacious outdoor kitchen and day spa overlooking the valley. Gardens that stretched between both lots, fountains that rimmed the pool, and an outdoor pavilion for eating and parties.
We didn’t need the space, but we also hadn’t needed the constant reminder of our old neighbors, Cat’s irritation and anxiet
y blooming with each new couple who toured the listing. I also think she enjoyed the act of literally destroying the home that Neena had never had a chance to really enjoy.
“The new firepit will be here.” She pointed. “And they’ll expand our pool and add an infinity edge. We’ll keep the small hot tub on our lot, but this . . .” She dragged her finger over to where the Ryders’ gazebo once was. “This will be the new hot tub, with a heated lap pool coming off it.”
I smiled at her. “Do I want to know what all this will cost me?”
“No.” She grinned back, hoisting herself up on the desk and looping her hands around my neck, pulling me between her open legs. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I whispered. “And I love you.”
“Forever?” she asked, tilting her head and waiting on my response.
“Forever,” I promised, surging forward and pressing my lips to hers, frantic to prove it.
CAT
I stood at the edge of the electronics store parking lot and watched as Neena pushed in a row of carts. She wore a bright-blue collared top with cheap khaki pants that flapped around her ankles. As I watched, she paused, tightening the hair in her ponytail before resuming her task.
When she passed by me, I called her name. She glanced over and then froze. Jerking her head from side to side, she looked around for help, then cautiously regarded me. “Don’t come closer,” she called. “You can’t come closer.”
I stepped forward, holding up my hands as every part of her tensed. “I’m not here to get you in trouble. I’m approaching you at your job, and the parking-lot cameras will prove it. This isn’t a violation of our protective order against you.”
“What do you want?” Her jaw trembled, and I looked away from the weak action, focusing on her brilliant blue eyes.
