by Gina LaManna
She stopped at the picket fence before the restaurant. The place maintained an aura of rustic ambiance, though Anne knew for a fact that it was brand new. The materials had been roughed up to look worn, the wicker chairs supposed to look like something out of Country Living when really, they’d likely been purchased from an overpriced boutique catalogue.
But it wasn’t the decor or the sunny day or the sight of her friends that stopped Anne in her tracks. It was the sight of a uniformed cop standing by the table. The look of horror on Penny’s face. The deadened stare in Eliza’s eyes as she looked at the officer and murmured four awful words.
“I’d like my lawyer.”
God, no, Anne thought. This can’t be happening.
Penny raised her gaze then and caught sight of Anne. Their eyes locked in nervous trepidation. Anne couldn’t bring herself to unfreeze from her position. She merely stared back at Penny, wondering if their lives had spiraled wildly out of control.
Was it possible that their dirty little secrets were about to become very big twisted truths?
THIRTY-THREE
Two Weeks After
February 2019
Eliza blinked as she rounded a corner on the famous hike, pausing to wait for Anne to catch up. The sun beat hard on her shoulders. She’d put sunscreen on, though why she’d bothered, she wasn’t sure. They were coming for her. She wouldn’t see the light of day except for in the prison yard if the police had any say in the matter.
“I really…” Anne gasped. “I really…don’t…think we should be doing this. You might be recognized.”
“We should act exactly the same as we did before,” Eliza said. “We have nothing to hide.”
“Eliza—”
“We’re almost there.”
Eliza squinted ahead to where she could see the peak of the Runyon Canyon trail, LA’s hottest hike. Celeb sightings were frequent on these trails. It was not a place to spend time if one was trying to stay out of the spotlight. But Eliza wasn’t trying to stay out of the spotlight. She was trying to live her life.
“Damn it, slow down,” Anne said. “I’m fat. I can’t keep up with you.”
“You’re not fat,” Eliza said, though even she knew it sounded mechanical. She was just too focused on sweating out her frustrations with the investigation to pay all that much attention to Anne’s fitness complaints. “It’s good for us. Plus, I’m trying to make a point. I won’t swap out my friends because of a stupid rumor.”
“Maybe it’s not—”
“The top is just ahead. You can do it.”
“For crying out loud, Eliza! Stop. Just stop.” Anne threw her hands up in the air. She was sweating, her face pink, her arms glistening under the toasty afternoon temps. “Just stop.”
Eliza spun around, wiping her brow with the edge of her tank top. “What?”
“I am hiding something.”
“What?”
Eliza felt the first tingles of wariness creep down her scalp at the look in Anne’s eye. Roman had been dead for two weeks. The police were in the middle of a full-fledged investigation, and it seemed their only suspect was Eliza.
It’s always the wife, she thought dryly. These last few weeks, when the panic had tiptoed up Eliza’s spine and grabbed hold of her consciousness, the only thing that calmed her was to remember that she was innocent. And even if she wasn’t completely innocent, there was no evidence to put her in an orange jumpsuit.
“I lied to the police.”
“Why would you lie?” Eliza shifted to the edge of the path to allow a young, gloriously fit couple to power by. “And why are you telling me this now?”
“I didn’t know what to do. Everything happened so fast, but now… The weight of the secret has been killing me.”
“What did you do, Anne?”
“I didn’t do anything. But on the night Roman was murdered, Mark didn’t come home.”
Eliza let out a huge sigh tinged with relief and frustration. “What the hell, Anne? You scared me. Is this about Mark’s affair again? I’m telling you, there’s not—”
“It’s not about the affair,” Anne said. “It’s about Roman. I told the police that Mark was home with me. As you know, they’ve been asking everyone for alibis.”
“Right…and?”
“And that was a lie.”
“He was probably with—”
“He might not have been with her,” Anne said. “I don’t know where he was.”
“You don’t think he had anything to do with Roman’s death, do you?” Eliza eyed the path with skepticism, but they were alone. “Just because your husband is an adulterer doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. Sorry, but I think you’re being paranoid. He didn’t have any motive to want Roman dead.”
“What if I told you it’s not paranoia?” Anne swiped at her forehead with the back of her wrist. “What if I told you there was a reason?”
“Mark has only met Roman a handful of times. Why would he ever want Roman dead?”
“Trust me on this,” Anne said. “He’s not the only one. I wanted him dead, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Eliza, your husband made some bad choices,” Anne said. “I didn’t kill him. But what if my husband did?”
THIRTY-FOUR
One Month After
March 2019
Roman Tate was dead. Now, Anne’s marriage was dead. She couldn’t take the lies anymore. She had suspected the end was coming for some time and had ignored all the signs. She hadn’t wanted it to be true. But now that she had to wonder if her husband was a crooked cop, an adulterer, and a murderer all in one, she was beginning to see things in a different light.
“I’d like you to get rid of it,” Anne said with a flick of her wrist at the movers. “Now, please.”
“But—”
“The garbage is fine,” Anne said firmly. “Even better, put it in back by the bonfire pit. We’ll burn it.”
The mover looked toward Anne’s old, mangled vanity. A sign of everything that had gone wrong in her relationship with Mark. What had once been quaint and quirky had grown ragged and old, smudged with the fingerprints of children and the wear and tear of a busy household. While Anne had grown unhappy with the steadily deteriorating state of her vanity, her husband hadn’t seemed to notice anything wrong at all.
He gave a shrug, then gestured at his colleagues and gave a low whistle. The men wrapped the vanity with a heavy cloth, then retrieved some sort of dolly to lug the thing downstairs. Anne stood out of the way and watched, her chest tense and her breathing forced.
If the affair had been the only trouble with her relationship, Anne could have moved on. She could have made things work with Mark. She could have forgiven him quickly and swiftly, and while the betrayal had hurt, she would have swallowed her pride for the sake of her family. Unfortunately, the truth—a slippery, black snake—had slithered into their lives, and it was so much more.
Mark was due back at the house today. He was scheduled to arrive at noon, and it would be the first time Anne had seen him since Roman had been found dead. Murdered, Anne reminded herself. The same day Anne had asked her husband to move out.
The police still hadn’t arrested a suspect. They’d questioned Penny, Eliza, and Anne over and over. Anne wondered if the other women had broken, shared their secrets with the police. Is that why the cops are hanging around? The authorities hadn’t let their suspicions of the three women drop despite a lack of evidence. Anne couldn’t help but feel she’d already been condemned in the eyes of the police.
Plenty of people had motive, Anne thought wryly. And with that, Anne wondered—not for the first time—where Mark had been on the night of Roman’s murder. She hadn’t asked him. Instead, she’d kicked him out of the house. Had she asked him to leave because of the state of their marriage or because she was afraid of him? Of what he was capable of doing?
Anne had told Mark that she needed time to think things through, and she couldn’t think with hi
m sleeping next to her. His response had been simple. So you know then. Anne had pointed toward the door, and Mark hadn’t argued. He hadn’t even tried to offer an explanation.
Anne glanced down at her phone, debating a call to Eliza. At the last second, she dropped her cell back into her pocket. This—the vanity—wasn’t Eliza’s problem. The poor woman had enough to deal with already. The loss of her husband, a police investigation, a company that was a complete and utter mess…
Instead, Anne debated dialing Penny’s number but quickly dismissed the thought. The poor girl was in just as deep as Eliza but for a myriad of different reasons. Compared to Penny and Eliza, Anne had limited problems.
It was better she didn’t talk with her friends anyway. The more they spoke, the more Anne suspected the police would think they’d gone in on something together. Eliza had disagreed, telling Anne and Penny that she thought their caution made them look guilty and that they should continue to interact with one another as usual.
“I’m not losing my friends over this,” Eliza had announced to Penny and Anne the day after Roman’s death. “I’m not staying away from you because of one ridiculous rumor that I offed my husband.”
A response had been on the tip of Anne’s tongue. She wanted to ask Well, did you?
But she never asked. Neither had Penny.
Just like Eliza hadn’t asked Penny or Anne if they’d done it.
None of them wanted to know the answer.
The door downstairs opened as the movers shuffled the vanity outside. Mark slipped through the door behind the movers and made his way upstairs, looking confused as he entered the bedroom. They faced one another in silence. It was Mark who spoke first.
“So this is it?” he murmured. “You haven’t even asked me to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Anne said firmly. “It’s the lying that I can’t handle. I could’ve gotten past the rest of it.”
Mark looked like he wanted to say more, but at the last second, his face crumpled. He looked Anne dead in the eye. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’ve made up your mind. It’s over.”
Anne closed her eyes. “Yes, Mark. It’s over.”
Mark made his way toward Anne and stood before her, studying her with a quiet intensity. In one swift, unexpected move, he took Anne in his arms and pressed her to his chest. Anne felt the dampness of tears on her skin.
Anne found herself hugging him back, her nails digging into his skin as she wished upon all the stars that things were different. But they weren’t, and their tender embrace came to an end. Anne lifted a file that contained divorce papers from the bed and handed it to her husband. He tucked the folder under his arm and left the room without a backward glance.
Anne waited for the lump in her throat to fade. When it didn’t, she ignored it instead. Picking up the phone, she dialed the one person who would know what to say.
“Eliza,” Anne said, “are you free?”
There was a long hesitation from the other end of the phone. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. I can’t talk now.”
“It’s Mark.”
“I’m sorry, Anne,” Eliza said briskly. “This will have to wait.”
THIRTY-FIVE
One Month After
March 2019
Eliza sat in her newly leased, barren office, fingers flexed over her computer keyboard. She’d gotten the keys to her first solo office just three days after her husband’s death and, simultaneously, three days after the loss of her only client. It was salt in the wound to sit behind her desk and pretend to work, but what could she do? She was on the hook for six months of rent. She might as well use it.
Humming a tuneless tune, Eliza stared listlessly at her hands. To anyone peering in from the outside, it would look as if she were deep in thought. Truth be told, she was simply killing time, musing over a chip in her nail polish and wondering when it had gotten there.
In another round of irony, in the month since her husband’s death, Eliza had found herself suddenly in the black. She’d been able to pay off all her debts, including the loan to Jocelyn and Todd, in large part due to the sale of Roman’s cars. All was going well in the world of Eliza Tate. Except, of course, for the fact that her husband was dead.
A knock sounded on the door, startling her from the study of her chipped nail. Eliza jerked to attention, fielding a flash of annoyance that she hadn’t gone ahead and hired an assistant. The CEO of Eliza Tate PR shouldn’t be opening her own damn door. Then again, the CEO of Eliza Tate PR needed to get clients in order to need an assistant.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Eliza opened the door to reveal two uniformed policemen standing in the hallway. “Can I help you with something?”
“Mrs. Tate?”
“That’s me.” She glanced pointedly at her shiny name plaque on the door.
The taller cop’s gaze followed, but he didn’t appear amused. He scratched at the back of his head, then glanced over Eliza’s shoulder. “May we come in for a moment?”
“I’m very busy, so I hope we can make this quick.”
Eliza returned to her seat. She sat, folded her hands across her desk (tucking the chipped nail out of sight), and tried to look disinterested in whatever the cops had to say.
On the inside, however, Eliza trembled with nerves. Ever since she’d come to this country, she’d felt uneasy around law enforcement, as if they would somehow sniff out the fact that she didn’t belong. That she was an imposter, an intruder.
She wondered if the fear would ever leave her very marrow, despite its ridiculousness. She’d been married for ages, a working member of society for even longer. She belonged in this country as much as anyone else, but old habits died hard.
She studied the cops, wondering what had brought them crawling out of their cave. The police had bothered her plenty in the weeks after Roman’s death, but she’d finally started to think they were through with her. Eliza had even started to wonder if they’d just give up on her husband’s case and move on to the hot, new murder du jour.
They need evidence. She reassured herself with the familiar phrase and took a deep breath. She’d been repeating it over and over to herself in the time since Roman’s murder.
“We can make this quick,” the shorter cop said, flicking his gaze to Eliza. “Mrs. Tate, you’re under arrest for the murder of your husband, Roman Tate.”
Eliza couldn’t process what they were saying. “But that’s impossible.”
“Mrs. Tate, you have the right—”
Eliza held up her finger as her phone rang. It sounded shrill, eerily so in the bare cement walls that formed her office. She answered, speaking evenly, barely processing Anne’s sobbing voice on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry, Anne,” Eliza said briskly once Anne had mumbled on and on about her very-alive husband. Anne’s problems were just not that important right now. “This will have to wait. The police have arrived to arrest me for my husband’s murder.”
Eliza hung up on Anne, then looked to the officers. “There must be a mistake. Your people have questioned me a hundred times. I told you I didn’t do it. I am innocent. And unless you have evidence—”
“We do, Mrs. Tate.”
“That’s impossible. How can you have evidence if I didn’t do it?”
“This will be a lot easier if you cooperate with us.”
“Cooperate? You mean admit to something I didn’t do?”
“Come down to the station with us. Everything will be explained.”
“I want my lawyer.”
“I’m sure you do.”
Eliza frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The taller cop stepped forward, removed a pair of handcuffs from his waist. “All I’m saying, Mrs. Tate, is that things aren’t looking good for you.”
The other cop shook his head, a false sadness sliding over his features. “They never do when the wife’s fingerprints turn up on the murder weapon.”
Eliza felt her face go numb first. Then her arms, her hands, the tips of her fingers and toes. The world seemed to halt on its axis, suspended in space and time, while the cops surrounded her.
The panic in her chest grew in its intensity as she was hauled from her office. How was this possible? She hadn’t killed anyone. As Eliza climbed into the back of a cop car, her brain whirred at a million miles an hour. There had to be an explanation. How had the cops found the murder weapon? Where? And most importantly, how had her prints gotten onto it?
THIRTY-SIX
One Month After
March 2019
Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable?” asked a detective dressed in slacks and a sky-blue button-down shirt. “Something to drink, maybe? Coffee?”
“Just so long as the bathroom is close by, I should be fine.” Penny dropped herself into a chair, groaning with the effort of it. “I hope we can make this quick.”
“We’ll do our best.” The detective sat opposite Penny at the interview table. “Ms. Sands, we’ve invited you here to discuss the murder of Roman Tate.”
“Eliza wouldn’t have killed her husband. I don’t know why you’ve arrested her.”
“Isn’t that a little ironic? A defense coming from her husband’s mistress?”
Penny winced, then shook her head. She rested a hand on her stomach as she met the detective’s gaze. “You don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right, I don’t. That’s why you’re here. When did your affair with Mr. Tate begin?”
Penny’s breath hitched. “I didn’t realize it was an affair. He said he was separating from his wife.”
“At the time of his death, Mr. Tate was still wearing his wedding ring.”
“Yes.”
“Was he wearing it when you started seeing him?”
Penny thought back to the day when everything had changed. The day in Roman’s office when he’d promised her great things. Wild success. Then he’d turned her very dreams into the trap that broke her.
