Three Single Wives: The devilishly twisty, breathlessly addictive must-read thriller

by Gina LaManna

  Anne sighed, returning to fiddle with her dresser some more. She was determined to fix it so the damn drawers didn’t squeak. For some reason, the state of the vanity had become an obsession for her in recent weeks. What had been a minor inconvenience for more than a decade had suddenly become a major headache. She couldn’t stop fixating on the stupid thing.

  Wiping sweating palms on yoga pants that hadn’t seen the inside of a washer in far too long, Anne set to work. She’d been picking away at this project for days, but the Wilkes household had been more chaotic than normal as of late.

  Harry had picked up a nasty bug at daycare that had been transferred from one child to the next until the rotation was complete. Anne had been up to her elbows in sick children for weeks, so much so that she’d barely had time to think about Mark.

  And when she did finally focus on her husband, he pretended everything was hunky-dory. The last time they’d gone out to dinner while Penny watched the children, they’d skipped all four courses and had spent the night making out in the van and ordering McDonald’s drive-thru sundaes. Was it any wonder Anne was baffled?

  It was only when she stopped to think that she found herself in trouble. Anne still hadn’t decided what to do with the information she’d gleaned from the private investigator. It seemed too crass and trashy to confront Mark head-on with it. But she couldn’t go on ignoring the fact that he was lying to her. And on the path to trading her in for a busty little coed.

  “Damn it!” Anne raised one leg and propped her foot against the dresser as she yanked against the stuck top drawer. “Stupid piece of junk! Let go—”

  Anne yelped as the drawer squeaked loose with a grating cry of wood on wood. She flew back, plopping harshly on her tailbone as the contents of the drawer flew everywhere. Underwear landed on the floor, and the small tub of makeup she kept stashed out of sight from her children clattered away, tubes of lipstick and mascara rolling under the bed.

  Mark found her like that. Sitting on the floor, a comatose mess, staring blankly at the rubble scattered around their bedroom. The drawer hung open, leaning precariously from its perch like a wiggly tooth not quite ready to fall out. Anne didn’t notice any of it.

  She didn’t move the first time Mark called her name, nor did she move the second. The third time, she twitched to attention. Without responding, she rose to her feet, wincing as her heel came to land on a set of tweezers that would no doubt be bent out of shape. The only nice pair she had left, gone for good.

  She blinked and instructed herself not to cry. It worked, but only just.

  “What are you doing here, honey?” Mark asked, the original smile on his face melting away as he caught sight of the look on Anne’s. “Is everything okay? Are you… Should I call the doctor?”

  “Stop it! Just fucking stop it!” Anne swiveled to face him. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Anne, please.”

  “I’m telling you everything is fine,” Anne insisted. “Just peachy.”

  “Did I do something?” Mark raised his hands in surrender. “Is it the kids? Long day?”

  “Long day?” Anne raised one of her eyebrows, her voice taking on a high-pitched whine that rivaled the screech of the broken drawer. “Try a long couple of weeks. Are you aware it’s been a game of whack-a-mole around here? One kid pukes, and I clean it up. Before I throw out the trash, the next turns around and gets sick all over everything. It’s been weeks, Mark!”

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry so much of the burden around here has fallen on your shoulders lately. But they’ve all been through it now, and we’re on the tail end of the bug—”

  “We?” she blurted. “We?”

  “I mean…” Mark studied Anne as if the right answer was elusive. “I know I’ve been working a lot—too much, probably. But we’ve had some big cases come in, and I couldn’t pass up the overtime.”

  “Right. Well, thank you for your sacrifice.”

  “I took you out to dinner. It’s not like we haven’t spent any time together.”

  “I appreciate that. I do. But what I really need is about a week of sleep.”

  “You’re not thinking…”

  “Yes, Mark.” Anne wheeled to face her husband. “I’m thinking about running away for a week and leaving the kids with the babysitter. Again. Is that what you wanted me to say?”

  Mark’s eyes narrowed. “That is not funny.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Sweetheart, I understand you are stressed and tired and exhausted and sick of the kids being sick. But you’re taking this out on me. Can we just talk about it? Maybe make an appointment with Dr. Olsen?”

  “I don’t feel like talking, and I especially don’t feel like talking to a shrink.”

  “Come here. I think you need a back rub and a nice bath. Take a little time to cool down, collect yourself, and this will pass.”

  “What exactly will pass?”

  “This…the rough patch. Whatever it is. The kids are growing up so fast. The twins will be out of diapers soon enough. Car seats will be next. Before you know it, you’ll be wondering where your babies went.”

  “That’s not what this is about. This is about my life falling to pieces, Mark.” Anne waved her arms toward the dresser. “Look at the stupid vanity. The drawers don’t work. My things are ruined. I wake up the entire house every time I need to grab a bra. And for crying out loud, it’s not even a real vanity! It’s a set of drawers playing dress-up.”

  Mark stilled. “I never knew that bothered you. I thought it was sentimental. We made it, you and me. It was one of the first pieces of furniture we owned together.”

  “Yes. We still own it almost twenty years later, and it’s a piece of crap.”

  Mark looked at the tipsy drawer, the clothes scattered on the floor. Then he quietly began to pick everything up and pile it into haphazard stacks on the bed. Underwear. Makeup. A few bras that had toppled out.

  When he finished, he gently slid the drawer back into place, tested it a few times. Aside from the errant squeak that had been there for years and never bothered Anne before, it worked perfectly. Then he went through and checked every other drawer. They all worked just fine. Once he finished, he turned and left the room.

  Anne sank back to the floor. Tears were stuck somewhere deep in her psyche, not interested in leaving. She felt stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck. She couldn’t cry; she couldn’t calm. All she could do was stare at the dresser, every chip and flaw on display, formerly charming, now a nuisance.

  When the sun went down outside her bedroom window, Anne finally pulled herself together. She stepped into her closet and stared at the racks of clothing there. Nothing would work.

  She reached down, fumbled through her shoeboxes, and found the lucky winner. Sitting on the floor of her closet, shrouded by old dresses and jeans hanging over her shoulders, Anne released the emergency bottle of vodka from her stash and tipped its contents into her mouth. She frowned, smacked her lips. God, her tolerance was getting strong. Since when had Grey Goose started tasting like water?

  Anne took one more swig and then tucked her darling bottle back into the box where it belonged. She kicked it against the wall and then stood, waiting for the alcohol to kick in. It did but just barely as she thumbed through her dreary old selection of clothes.

  Everything Anne owned screamed “mom” across it in bold, invisible letters. Yoga pants. Button-down shirts. Sweatshirts that boasted the name of Gretchen’s dance studio or Samuel’s soccer team. Even her jeans were high-waisted and unattractive.

  It wasn’t until Anne really got creative digging around in the back of her closet and unearthed the few things she’d hoarded from her pre-baby days that she found a winner. A bright wrap dress in a shade of blood red that Anne had purchased some ten years back on a shopping date with Eliza. She’d never worn it.

  Anne pulled it out and held it against her body. Because the fabric was flowy and the style a wrap, it was forgiving enough to slide easi
ly around Anne’s four-babies-later physique.

  After thirty minutes of preparations, Anne paraded downstairs, expecting everyone’s heads to turn. Unfortunately, she had overestimated her family’s observation skills.

  When she reached the landing, she found Gretchen sitting on the couch with a bowl of ice cream in her lap and a can of whipped cream next to her. Samuel was perched like a cat on the high back of an armchair where, like the cat, he wasn’t allowed to climb.

  The twins were fussing with one another on the floor in front of the TV, alternating between staring at the screen and whacking one another with a toothbrush in the shape of a banana. Mark had put on a ball game and kicked his feet up on the ottoman.

  As Anne watched, Mark leaned over and swiped the whipped cream from his daughter. He encased the entire tip in his mouth and depressed the nozzle until it hissed with the blissful sound of ejaculating whipped cream. Then he shot a cheesy smile at Gretchen before swallowing.

  She burst into giggles at the sight of her father’s antics until she toppled over sideways, tucking her head on his lap and curling her legs up next to him on the couch. Mark laid a tender hand on her forehead and playfully tugged his fingers through her hair. Gretchen pointed at the TV and asked a question about the game, and Samuel hurried to give his input, looking quite pleased when Mark praised his answer.

  Anne inhaled sharply at the sight of her neat little family enjoying life without her. They hadn’t noticed her absence nor her presence. Gretchen took pride in sassing back to her mother, but the second Mark came home, she perked right up into a sweet little girl. Samuel selectively couldn’t hear when Anne spoke directly into his ear, but when Mark whispered a question from ten miles away, Samuel rushed to answer. Anne had never felt more invisible.

  A spurt of jealousy streaked through her. Why did Mark commandeer such love and attention when he didn’t deserve it? The children were oblivious to Mark’s lies. All they saw was the wonderful man, the caring, devoted father Anne thought she’d married.

  With a whisper of shame, Anne reminded herself that they didn’t need to know any of it. Mark could be a bad husband and a good father all at once. That was what made the inner workings of her heart so sticky to maneuver. She didn’t love the husband he was becoming, but she still admired the father he was to their children. What did that mean for their marriage? For their family?

  “Mark,” Anne said sharply, the jealousy eating away at her tone. “We don’t stick the can directly into our mouths in this house. That is how we pass around sicknesses in one continual cycle.”

  Before Mark could respond, Gretchen reached for the can and tipped it upside down. She made a tower of whipped cream straight on her tongue before lazily handing the can back to her dad. Anne wasn’t sure whether Gretchen had simply perfected the art of tuning Anne out or if she’d heard her mother and staunchly ignored her.

  “Gretchen!” Anne snapped. “What did I just say?”

  “What?” Gretchen said, turning to face her mother with a defiant look. “Dad did it. If Dad does it, why can’t I?”

  “Gretchen,” Mark began uncertainly. His eyes flicked toward Anne with a look that said he knew he should be punishing Gretchen but that he really didn’t want to follow through. “Listen to your mother.”

  “Actually, listen to your father,” Anne corrected. “I’m going out tonight.”

  Mark’s eyes landed more solidly on Anne, and he gave a low whistle. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you,” Anne said stiffly. “I don’t know exactly when I’ll be back, so don’t wait up.”

  The words took a while to sink in. Between the ball game in the background and Anne’s red dress, Mark was clearly struggling to line up the puzzle pieces. He tilted an ear toward the TV as if listening to the game while his eyes fixed on Anne’s cleavage. In his defense, her cleavage hadn’t been visible to the public eye since sometime circa 2013.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  Anne felt weak with frustration. Her daughter didn’t listen, and neither did her husband. Samuel might as well be the cat for how much attention he paid anyone else. The twins were excused from Anne’s wrath, but they had spent the last hour entertained by a single banana toothbrush, so that wasn’t saying much.

  “I said I’m going out,” Anne said calmly. “I figure since you’re home, you can put the kids to bed.”

  “All of them?”

  Anne merely blinked. “Unless you’d like to pick and choose your favorites.”

  Mark shot to his feet. “I’m just surprised. Er, I was hoping to watch the game, and…” His eyebrows knitted together. “You didn’t say where you’re going, did you?”

  “Eliza’s new company is throwing a book launch party. I think it would be good for me to get out for the night.”

  Anne could see Mark racking his brain for the mention of any such party. A tiny part of Anne would normally have felt bad for misleading her husband, but she didn’t have room for an extra dollop of guilt this evening.

  “Be careful with the twins. If they chew on that toothbrush too much, the bristles come off. Samuel is not allowed on the back of the chair like that. I suggest you get him down before he hits his head trying to leap off the back like Tarzan again. And Gretchen will try to tell you her new bedtime is eleven thirty. It’s not. Lights out by nine. That means books, teeth, bath, everything else.” Anne glanced at her watch. “That doesn’t leave you much time, and the twins both need a bath. Samuel will need a snack.”

  “A snack?” Mark echoed, as if that were the deal breaker. “What sort of snack?”

  “Not ice cream,” Anne said, “since it looks like that’s what you let them eat for dinner.”

  Mark ran a sheepish hand through his hair. “I just… We kept waiting for you to come down and say dinner was ready, and then they got hungry, so I let them have a little snack.”

  “It sounds like you have everything taken care of.” Anne checked her watch again. “I really should be going.”

  A panicked look appeared in Mark’s eyes. “You’re really going? I thought—wasn’t I invited? Maybe we could get the babysitter to come by…”

  Anne let Mark flounder for a few moments. When he petered out, she smiled.

  “I’m sure you have everything under control,” she reiterated. “Don’t worry about waiting up for me. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

  “Anne—”

  “I already told you,” she said calmly, leveling her gaze on Mark’s and daring him to bring up the unmentionable incident. “I am leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

  TRANSCRIPT

  Prosecution: How often did you see Roman Tate while in a relationship with him?

  Penny Sands: I didn’t keep track. There’s no journal with a tally or something. Why does it matter?

  Prosecution: Weekly, biweekly, daily?

  Penny Sands: I don’t know. I suppose a couple of times a week.

  Prosecution: Where would you meet?

  Penny Sands: Mostly where it all started. The Pelican Hotel.

  Prosecution: Why there?

  Penny Sands: Well, my apartment is a dump, and Roman was still living with his wife. I’m sure you can understand why that would’ve been awkward.

  Prosecution: Then how did you end up in Eliza Tate’s living room on the afternoon of February 13?

  FIFTEEN

  Six Months Before

  August 2018

  Penny gasped at the price. Three dollars for a stupid can of beans? She stood there, blocking the aisle as she hugged a plastic basket to her chest, gazing at the can in her hands like it was a brick of solid gold. At the Mexican supermarket down the street from her apartment, she could buy a bag of dried beans for eighty-nine cents that would last her a week. This was highway robbery.

  Still, Penny plunked the damn beans in her basket with a frustrated flourish before stomping toward the front of the store. Swinging by the cold case, she nabbed a stupid Fiji water and add
ed that to her tab, too. When she reached the meat section, however, she lost her nerve. The price stamped across the chicken breasts was just too much. Instead, she reached for a head of lettuce that was two shocking dollars more expensive than it needed to be.

  Then again, that was the price tag of her field trip to the ritzy grocery stores near Beverly Hills. Heading over to the sample cart, Penny snagged two chunks of cheese instead of the customary one. If she was going to donate half her savings to this stupid store, they could at least feed her lunch.

  She was halfway into the cheesecake sample at the bakery when she felt the hand on her arm. Choking down a bite of buttery crust, she turned and pasted a look of surprise on her face.

  “Penny?” Roman’s voice asked a question, but the look in his eyes said he wasn’t fooled. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

  “Oh, hi.” The cheesecake was suddenly sticky. Penny swallowed. Again. “Just doing the weekly grocery shopping.”

  Roman’s eyes flicked to her dismal basket. In his arms, Penny noted, was a spread of delicacies. Fresh produce, beautiful fruits, packages of meats and cheese, and even a bottle of champagne. What’s he celebrating? she wondered aimlessly.

  “I see,” Roman said. “That looks like some diet.”

  “Just the essentials today. How about you?”

  “Same,” he said. “Just on my way out.”

  “Me too.”

  Penny scurried toward the register first, as if that would make her cover story hold water. She wasn’t convinced Roman believed her. She wasn’t convinced she cared.

  “We’re together.” Roman’s voice rolled warmly over Penny’s shoulder as she set her basket next to the clerk. “Please ring these up together.”

  Penny’s shoulders went rigid. “You don’t have to—”

  “You’ve barely got anything.” Roman waved her arguments away. “It’s not worth the paper of two receipts. You’re saving the world, Penny Sands, one receipt at a time. You can’t say no to that, can you?”