by Gina LaManna
“Yes, he was wearing it when our relationship began.”
“You didn’t think to ask him about it?”
“I did ask him about it, and he told me he was separating from his wife.”
The detective jotted down a note on a tiny piece of paper. “Did he explain the cause of the separation?”
“He only said that it was a long time in coming. There was a mention of how he was still on good terms with Eliza. That it was a mutual and amicable separation—no kids, no messy dividing of assets. They were going to split things down the middle and carry on with their lives.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that Roman Tate had no real assets to split?”
Penny blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I thought you said that you and Mrs. Tate were friends.”
“We are, but I’m not privy to her personal finances. What do you mean Roman had no assets to split? The Tates are loaded.”
The detective ignored Penny. “When did you begin seeing Mr. Tate?”
“I met him when I signed up for his acting classes after moving to Los Angeles. I suppose that would have been sometime in June of last year. I don’t remember the exact date, but I’m sure there’s a confirmation email somewhere that would state when I began paying tuition.”
“I’ll need to see any correspondence that corroborates your testimony.”
Penny gave a vague, tired wave of her hand. “Fine.”
“When did your relationship go from professional to something more personal?”
She was forced to think on the question. Not because she couldn’t remember but because she couldn’t be sure of the correct answer. When had it switched over?
It might have been the day Roman had called Penny up onstage, his dark eyes fixed on hers, that musical voice lulling her into a moment of heady lust before the rest of her classmates. She could still feel the ghost of his breath on her shoulder, the whisper of his touch on her back. Skin against skin, as if he were right here in this room. But that was impossible, because Roman Tate was dead.
Penny bit her lip, studied the cop across the table.
“I’m thinking,” she said at his raised eyebrows.
Maybe it wasn’t the day onstage when things had changed. Maybe it was the moment she’d accepted his offer for feedback on her stolen script. She’d gone to him knowing it was a ruse, knowing she wouldn’t walk away unscathed, and she’d been right.
Penny felt the familiar growl of anger rising in her gut as she remembered—all of it, every sordid detail. She rested a hand on her belly and felt movement there and, beneath it, a pit of despair.
Roman Tate had ruined her life.
“I didn’t know the question was so complicated.” The cop cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a date, ballpark if that’s the best you can do.”
“Of course it’s complicated,” Penny snapped.
But when had their relationship truly ramped up to new highs? Penny was beginning to think it hadn’t been that day in his office after all. It had probably been the first time they’d seen each other outside the studio, a date disguised as a business dinner. They’d ordered wine, lingered. He’d picked up the check, walked her to her car. Penny closed her eyes, recalling the way his thumb had traced down her cheek in a playful, seductive goodbye.
Her skin burned. Then her eyes flashed open, her cheeks on fire.
“Are you feeling all right?” the cop asked. “Can I get you more water?”
“I’m fine,” Penny said. “Give me a minute. I’m not sure on the exact date.”
That wasn’t entirely true, however. Penny did know the exact date. At least she knew the date of the obvious start of their personal relationship. The first time they’d had sex.
Sick with memories, Penny leaned against the desk, pushing thoughts of damp sheets and pleasured cries out of her mind. “The summer of last year. July or August. Is that good enough?”
The officer jotted another phrase onto his notepad. “When did you discover that Mr. Tate wasn’t actually separated from his wife? And had no plans of doing so?”
Penny’s lips thinned. “We went over this the first time you questioned me.”
“At that time, we hadn’t found enough evidence to arrest anyone in conjunction with Mr. Tate’s death,” the detective said with a coy twitch of his lips. “That has since changed.”
“So you say,” Penny said with a snort. “But then you tell me your best guess is Eliza. She didn’t do it.”
“Did Eliza love Roman?”
“Yes,” Penny said. “At least at some point.”
“Are you aware that we suspect Eliza and Roman’s marriage was a fraud from the start?”
“What?”
“Eliza Tate’s visa was due to expire three weeks after she married him. Did Roman ever mention the fact that he’d married Eliza only to grant her citizenship?”
Penny looked at her hands. “Not really.”
“Did he tell you what suddenly changed in his relationship, then?” The cop clicked his pen on and off, on and off. “Why he was suddenly going to divorce his wife after all these years?”
Penny stared at him. Watched the click click click until finally he got the picture and stopped.
“He said he was getting older and realizing that life was too short to remain unhappy.”
“Eliza made him unhappy?”
“He said he stayed with Eliza because it was easy. They were comfortable together. But he wanted to find the one true love of his life.”
“And I suppose you thought he was talking about you?” The cop clicked the pen once, but at the look on Penny’s face, he halted abruptly. “You being the love of his life, I mean?”
“I’m not an idiot.” Penny glanced at the table, feeling the color crawl up her neck. “I know this sounds stupid to you, but it’s more complicated than you can ever know.”
“Did you love Roman?”
“Look, I thought I did, but I was wrong. Now, is there anything else?” Penny winced as a wayward baby heel poked her in the ribs. She carefully dug a finger into her belly, easing him into a gentler position.
“Can I get you anything else, Ms. Sands?” he asked. “If you’re in need of a break, we can always pause for a moment.”
“I’d rather finish up and go home.”
“Then I’ll make this brief.” The detective bowed his head and pulled his notes closer. “I’d like to go over your timeline once more. You met Mr. Tate last summer in June. Sometime in July or August, you began to see him romantically.”
Penny stared back as he looked up at her questioningly.
“When did you…” He cleared his throat. “When was your child conceived?”
“Sometime in July.”
“Around the time you began seeing Mr. Tate.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Does Mrs. Tate know you’re pregnant?”
“It’s pretty hard to miss, don’t you think?” Penny shifted her bulk. “I’ve been friends with Eliza since Marguerite Hill’s launch party at the Pelican Hotel.”
“Tell me more about the party.”
“How is that relevant to the investigation?”
“Were you there on the invitation of Eliza Tate?”
“No,” Penny said. “Roman invited me.”
“When did you more formally befriend Eliza?”
“A few months later, I guess. She asked me to be part of her book club.”
“Let me get this straight: you agreed to be in a book club with your lover’s wife?”
“I hadn’t realized it was an affair. I already told you that. Roman said he was on good terms with his wife…or soon-to-be ex-wife.”
“When did you find out that Mr. Tate had no intention of separating from his wife?”
“I still don’t know that. Maybe he did intend to separate from Eliza. How should I know what really went on in Roman’s head? I only know what he told me, and he sure as hell didn’t tell me the truth.”
“Do you—”
“Shit.” Penny glanced down, resting a hand on her swollen belly. “I think that was a contraction.”
The detective’s head shot up so hard, Penny heard his neck crack. He stared at her, alarmed. “Should I call someone?”
Penny crunched forward, gripping the table until her knuckles turned a ghastly white. “I think I’m going into labor.”
“Let me drive you to the hospital.”
“I can drive myself, thanks.”
“Ms. Sands…” The detective stood, made his way around the table, and helped Penny from her chair. “I have one last question for you. Is Mr. Tate the father of your child?”
Penny pulled her arm from the detective’s grasp. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean,” Penny said, her voice pinched and tight, “I had sex with more than one man during my fertile window. I don’t know that I can spell it out any more clearly.”
“I’ll need the name—”
Penny cut him off with a groan. “It doesn’t matter who the father is. This baby is mine—end of story. Now, Detective, I really need to get to the hospital.”
“I’ll call you an ambulance. It’s too dangerous for you to drive yourself.”
The second the cop left her side, Penny helped herself right out of the room. She didn’t look behind her as she exited the building and made her way to her car before the detective could return.
As Penny drove, she turned on the radio and hummed along. Whether the baby belonged to Ryan or Roman was irrelevant. Both were out of her life for good. Roman a little more permanently than Ryan.
Instead of heading to the hospital, Penny cruised home, parked the beat-up car that had been serving her well for the last few months at an expired meter in front of her apartment. She let herself inside, dropped her purse on the couch, and went to the cupboards. There, she found a stack of saltines and a jar of Nutella. She grabbed a butter knife and returned, taking a seat next to her purse.
Kicking her feet onto the lopsided coffee table, she balanced the jar of Nutella on her stomach. She thought back to her interview with the detective in an attempt to straighten everything out in her head. Roman wasn’t the only person who could lie. Penny lied too.
She’d lied about her contractions, for starters. She wasn’t in labor—not even close. She wasn’t due for another month. The baby had been conceived in August, not July. She’d just wanted an excuse to end the interview early.
As she flicked the television on to an old season of Survivor, she casually chomped through a line of saltines, watching as a group of pretty people duked it out in bathing suits for the chance at a million dollars. I could use a million dollars, Penny thought lazily. And she could lie, cheat, and steal her way to the top if that was what it took.
After all, Penny had gotten very good at lying these last few months. She’d lied to her friends. She’d lied to Roman. She’d lied to her mother and to herself and to the detective at the station. There were so many lies surrounding Roman’s murder, it was a wonder the detectives had been able to pin any sort of evidence on Eliza.
Which was the biggest problem of all. Penny suspected Eliza hadn’t killed her husband.
So why had she been arrested for a crime she hadn’t committed?
THIRTY-SEVEN
Two Months After
April 2019
Anne slipped a pair of sunglasses over her eyes and leaned against the exterior of her van, watching the youth softball game from the parking lot. As the two teams crossed paths at the switch of an inning, she let her gaze wander to the other end of the lot where Mark’s car was parked. Anne had gotten quite good at avoiding her almost ex-husband in public.
Mark hadn’t yet signed the papers, despite them being in his hands for several weeks. Anne’s phone was loaded with messages from him. In them, he begged her to talk, to listen, to give him another chance. Anne hadn’t been ready to talk. She still wasn’t. What could she say?
She hadn’t told her husband about the private investigator or Roman’s blackmail. Mark thought the divorce was because of the affair. It wasn’t, but there was no point in telling him that when the result was the same. Especially because Anne wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answers to the outstanding questions swimming around her head—questions like where he’d been on the night of Roman’s death.
Anne had other things to keep her busy now—her four children, for instance. Or finding a job that could pay for her new lifestyle as a single mom. Or the fact that her best friend, Eliza Tate, had just been arrested for murder.
Thankfully, Anne’s mother had agreed to help in the interim. Beatrice Harper was currently at home watching the three youngest kids while Anne forced herself to sit through Gretchen’s game—not one hundred feet from her husband.
The things she did to support her kids, Anne thought dryly. She’d rather stick a pen in her eye than talk to Mark, yet here she was, hidden behind sunglasses and a hat, as if a flimsy disguise could prevent her husband from recognizing her.
Still, the sunglasses came with an added bonus. Instead of watching the dugout where her daughter was getting ready to bat, Anne’s eyes flicked over to Mark. He stood against the fence, clapping and whistling. Gretchen turned a toothy grin toward her father, then gave a gigantic wave in his direction. She didn’t bat an eye at her mother.
Anne’s heart clutched. She’d imagined these days for years. Bright, hopeful years where she’d looked forward to having a family of her own. She’d longed to watch lovingly as her husband leaned over the fence at a softball game to cheer on his daughter. Pecked her forehead when she scored a home run. Stuck a Band-Aid on her knee when she fell.
Now here she was, complete with the kids and the husband, but it was all wrong.
Anne managed to dodge Mark’s gaze as the game finished. As soon as the teams wrapped up their mandatory handshakes, Gretchen sprinted over.
“Mom, please, please, please can Erica take me out to get ice cream? Both her mom and dad are going, and Violet is, too. Pretty please? They said they can drop me off afterward.”
Anne looked up to find Erica’s parents. However, instead of locking eyes with Erica’s mother, she got swept into a stare-down with Mark. Anne held his gaze for a long moment, her confidence fortified only by the fact that he couldn’t see her eyes behind the shades.
She felt Mark’s gaze following her as she broke eye contact with him. Anne dragged herself across the field to make plans with Erica’s family and was rewarded with yips from three young girls when it was all said and done. Gretchen barely remembered to wave goodbye to her mother before racing off with her friends.
After bidding Erica’s family goodbye, Anne spun around on impulse. She no longer sensed Mark’s gaze on her. For some reason, that bothered her more than if he’d been watching.
Guilt wormed its way through her stomach. Was it possible she’d been too harsh on him and had finally pushed him away? For how hard she’d fought to keep their family together, in the end, she’d given up. She felt uneasy thinking of herself as a quitter, but what other choice did she have when all the evidence was stacked against Mark?
Still, she found herself moving toward her husband’s car, briskly at first, then at a jog as she saw him sliding into the driver’s seat. She was breathless by the time she reached his window, and she didn’t know exactly why.
She raised a hand, knocked.
Mark rolled the window down, a reluctant question in his eyes. “Anne?”
Anne pushed her sunglasses onto her head as if that would reveal her true identity. “I’m ready to talk,” she said finally. “Can we go somewhere private?”
_______________________________
Mark led the way to a small rental home he’d booked when Anne had asked him to leave. She’d been out front several times to drop off or pick up the kids, but she’d never stepped foot inside.
Her husband led the
way, moving silently. Anne felt as if they were strangers navigating a somewhat awkward but not entirely horrible first date.
She kicked off her shoes in the entryway and studied the small space. It was neat, sparse. Mark had kept it clean. The only signs of someone living in the space were a single dish, a single glass, a single spoon, a single bowl on a drying rack. The very singleness of it all broke Anne’s heart.
Mark grabbed two bottles of water and led the way to the back patio. Two chairs were perched around a card table. He plopped the waters down, then waited until Anne took a seat before easing into the one opposite her.
They sat in silence, sipping their waters, for a long minute.
“Do you have something stronger?” Anne muttered.
Mark sucked on his lower lip. “Are you sure…”
He trailed off. Looked into Anne’s eyes.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I promise.”
Mark disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying two beers. With a wry smile, he popped the tops off both, then leaned his bottle toward Anne’s. They clinked, the chirpy sound chiming across the sunny afternoon like a bell choir at a funeral.
“To what am I cheering?” Mark asked. “Besides you speaking to me?”
Anne couldn’t hide a small smile. That was the problem with talking to Mark. It was too easy to like him, to love him. They were so familiar with each other that even something as simple as sitting on the deck with a couple of beers took Anne back to better days. Days she wanted to reclaim. Oh, how she longed for them.
“He’s dead,” Anne said finally. “And I want to know the truth.”
“Excuse me?”
“Roman Tate is dead,” Anne repeated. “And I want the truth.”
“What does Roman Tate have to do with anything?”
“Come on, Mark. We’re over. We both know it. The affair—”
Mark’s eyebrow shot up. “What affair?”
“The affair!” Anne waved a hand. “The reason we’re getting divorced. One of the reasons, I should say.”
“I’m not having an affair. I never have. Anne, I—”
“Do you think I’m stupid? Where do you go on Tuesday nights?”
