Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  To my uber-talented “partner in crime,” aka cover designer extraordinaire Torrie Cooney, who put up with my endless indecision and lack of any real vision for what I wanted this darn cover to look like—you are a saint. Once I finally got it together, as usual you picked up the ball and ran with it, giving me yet another stunning cover that I’m absolutely in love with. I owe you a cocktail, girl!

  To Nicole Wayland for your copyediting prowess, professionalism and patience as you answered my numerous (and I’m sure, annoying) questions. Thank you to Karyl Paige for lending me your eyes and expertise.

  I drew from some pretty varied resources when it came to researching this book, including, HowDunit—Book of Poisons by Serita Stevens and Anne Bannon, The Writer’s Guide to Psychology: How to Write Accurately About Psychological Disorders, Clinical Treatment and Human Behavior, by Carolyn Kaufman, Psy.D and What to Expect When You’re Expecting: 4th Edition by Heidi Murkoff and Sharon Mazel. DP Lyle’s website, www.dplylemd.com, also proved to be a valuable resource and provided a key piece of information that inspired me to take this story in a completely different direction from what I had originally envisioned. Any mistakes here are my own and, as is the prerogative of anyone who pens fiction, I freely and willfully also made up a bunch of stuff.

  On a final note, while the “love locks” ritual on the Pont des Arts bridge recently ceased, for Natalie and Jason, the tradition will live on.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of

  Bianca Sloane’s upcoming book

  Live to Tell

  Visit www.biancasloane.com

  to be notified about this book’s release.

  Chapter 1

  My wife never would tell me how she found out about my mistress.

  I hate to think it was some trite cliché on my part—the scrap of a hotel receipt, lipstick on the collar of a shirt on its way out for dry cleaning, the overheard remnants of a frantic, hushed phone conversation.

  No, more likely what was closer to the truth was the refrain our two boys heard throughout their rambunctious childhoods and rebellious adolescence: that Jillian has eyes in the back of her head.

  Jillian’s eyes always fascinated me. Actually, everything about Jillian fascinated me. The snowy blonde hair that crawled down her back in a wild cascade of curls and cowlicks, her frost-white skin, and the icy-blue spheres that had cut through to my bone that warm fall day on Harvard Yard when she threaded her way through a throng of people to interrupt my scrutiny of Gray’s Anatomy to ask for a light. The first time I looked deep into those eyes, I saw cartwheels spinning inside. It had knocked me back, astounded me, so certain was I that a girl that regal, that . . . cold, couldn’t possibly have any sense of fancifulness or cheer inside one inch of her long, slinky frame.

  I fell in love.

  Of course, those were the early days. The rich, heady days when all we had ahead of us was the lusciousness of making love until the sun came up (or went down, as it were), of lounging in bed on Sunday mornings and perusing the paper—she entranced by the arts section, me burrowed in the front page. The days when we thought there would be no one else for us to get lost inside of.

  It’s hard to know when the cartwheels stopped spinning inside Jillian’s eyes. I just looked into them one day, and the jubilance and light had been replaced with immovable chunks of stone.

  I suppose to some degree I was the wrench that caused those cartwheels to grind to a screeching halt. I was a lousy husband. I didn’t cheat—well not until much later—but by then, it was a foregone conclusion. I don’t know if Jillian herself had any lovers. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did, and I don’t know that I would have blamed her. I do know I spent too much time chained to the hospital, tending to the maladies of my patients, growing my practice into a thriving business. My tee times and squash matches held higher esteem for me than anything transpiring under my own roof. When I was home, I did little to engage myself in the domestic dramas of report cards, Little League, or who lost what tooth, preferring to sequester myself in my study with a glass of Scotch and the latest issue of Golf Digest. I retained Jillian to escort me to hospital functions and charity events, to beguile the bloated gasbags my family lineage dictated I cater to on occasion. Jillian was made for that sort of thing, having descended from Philadelphia’s Main Line, little drops of American royalty coursing through her veins. Her mother was something like the fifteenth cousin, thirty-seven times removed, of Grace Kelly, a calling card the family would slide facedown across the table when they wanted to strong-arm you into doing their bidding.

  While I said to “some degree” I bore responsibility for the flaccid state of our matrimony, to the other degree it was Jillian who had tipped me into my malaise. It’s the sour tune put-upon husbands have been wailing since the dawn of time. You try to help, to take the load off your wife, do your part. That is, until she figures out you’re all thumbs and shames you into not even trying anymore, since you’ll just screw it up anyway. She reduces you to being a yes-man and all you’re left with is a befuddled wonderment as to how you got here. Retreat and surrender are easier than battle.

  Indeed, I had long ago given up warring with Jillian. I never won.

  Divorce was never a topic of conversation. At heart, we were both too lazy, too bound by decorum and tradition to go through with the formalities or intricacies such an act would entail. It seemed easier, simpler to maintain the status quo.

  What is it that people interviewed for those true crime shows always say when one spouse kills the other—divorce is always an option?

  In hindsight, had one of us taken that particular fork in the road . . . well, this story would have a much different ending.

  About The Author

  BIANCA SLOANE is the author of the suspense novels Killing Me Softly (previously published as Live and Let Die), chosen as “Thriller of the Month” (May 2013) by e-thriller.com and a “2013 Top Read” by OOSA Online Book Club, and Sweet Little Lies. When she’s not writing, she’s watching Bravo TV or Investigation Discovery, reading, or cooking. Sloane resides in Chicago.

  For playlists, reading guides and to sign up for her author newsletter, visit her website at www.biancasloane.com.