The Wife Upstairs

by Rachel Hawkins

  As with Mama, Bea doesn’t have to do that much work, really.

  When Blanche has slumped into unconsciousness, it’s a simple matter of taking the hammer she’d bought, the heavy one, the one that looks exactly like the kind of unsubtle murder weapon a guy like Tripp would buy, and she brings it down.

  Once. Twice. Three times. A sickening crunch giving way to a meaty, wet sound, and then she’s rolling Blanche off the deck of the boat. It’s dark, and her hair is the last thing Bea sees, sinking under the lake.

  She stands there and waits to feel something.

  Regret, horror. Anything, really. But again, once it’s done, she’s mostly just relieved and a little tired.

  Swimming back to the house is something of a chore, her arms cutting through the warm water, her brain conjuring images of alligators, water moccasins. Below her, she knows there’s a flooded forest, and it’s hard not to imagine the dead branches reaching up for her like skeletal hands, to see her body drifting down with Blanche’s to lay in that underwater wood.

  Something brushes against her foot at one point, and she gives a choked scream that sounds too loud in the quiet night, lake water filling her mouth, tasting like minerals and something vaguely rotten, and she spits, keeps swimming.

  The story is so simple. Girls’ weekend. Tripp showing up unexpectedly. They went out on the boat, they drank too much. Bea fell asleep or passed out, to the sound of Tripp and Blanche arguing. When she woke up, Blanche was gone, and Tripp was passed out. Bea panicked, dove in the water trying to save her best friend, and when she couldn’t find her, swam back to the house.

  Tripp had been so drunk he won’t have any idea what happened, won’t even remember he wasn’t on the boat, and everyone knew he and Blanche were having problems. Maybe he’ll luck out and they’ll assume Blanche fell or jumped in of her own accord, never finding her body there at the bottom of the lake. Maybe they will find it, see that hole in her skull, and think he murdered her.

  Either one works for Bea.

  And it all would have been just that easy had Eddie not come along and fucked it all up.

  He’s in the house when Bea walks up the dock, his eyes going wide as he sees her. She doesn’t even think about how she must look, soaking wet, shivering even though it’s hot. All she can think is, Why is he here?

  And that’s it—the moment she loses it all.

  She should’ve been paying more attention to just how weird it was that he was there, to that panicked look on his face. Eddie never had handled being surprised well, and like a lot of men, he always thought he was smarter than he actually was.

  Bea had always believed that a man who overestimates his intelligence is a man who can be easily manipulated. Turns out, he’s also a man who can be really dangerous.

  Later, she wanted to tell him just how badly he’d fucked it all up, that she would’ve taken care of it, that she had taken care of it, just like she always did, but of course Eddie rushed in without thinking, just like always.

  I stood there in the living room of the house Eddie built and I created, and I thought about that again, about what Jane had said.

  He loved you.

  That was it. That was the piece that made it all make sense. Why he didn’t call the police that night, why he didn’t just leave me to die upstairs. If all he wanted was the money, I had given him the perfect excuse to get rid of me and take it all. We hadn’t signed any kind of prenup because I’d wanted to prove to the world—mostly to Blanche—that I trusted Eddie more than anything.

  He could’ve taken what I’d given him.

  But he hadn’t.

  And okay, yes, he’d met Jane, yes, he’d planned to marry her—but he still came up to my room, still talked to me, still made love to me.

  All that time trying to figure out what the secret was, the key to unlock all of this, and it was that simple.

  He loved me.

  Jane was in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen now, her phone in her hand. “Bea, I know you’ve been through something horrible, and you’re probably in shock, but we have got to call the police. We can’t wait any longer. This is crazy.”

  She looked back down at the phone, went to punch numbers in, and suddenly I was there, her wrist clutched in my hand, her bones so fragile underneath my fingers.

  “Don’t,” I said, and in that moment, I saw the flash in her eyes that told me she understood what was really going on here.

  I liked Jane, respected her even, but she was not going to fuck this up for me.

  For us.

  A thin, piercing alarm suddenly went off, startling both of us, and I dropped Jane’s wrist, looking up at the ceiling.

  “What—” she started, but I already knew.

  It was a fire alarm.

  Without thinking, I ran for the stairs.

  You idiot, you fucking idiot, I thought as I ran, because this was another thing that was like Eddie. The panic room didn’t open in case of fire because it was supposed to be a place you could go if there was a fire. Either Eddie didn’t know that, or he was betting that I would come and let him out.

  And I was pretty sure it was the latter.

  Jane was right behind me, yelling my name.

  Upstairs, the smell of smoke was strong, gray wisps already snaking out beneath the door of the closet, and when I grabbed the doorknob, it was hot. So hot it burned, my skin stinging.

  I yanked the door open to a blast of heat and smoke and pain, and somewhere behind me, Jane started to scream.

  PART XIII

  JANE

  37

  I haven’t been in a hospital since I was fifteen, when I broke my elbow trying to impress a guy on a skateboard. I’d hated the experience then and it’s not my favorite now.

  I’m supposed to go home tomorrow, but where home is, I have no idea. The house in Thornfield Estates is gone, burned to the ground, and the new life I had tried to build is gone with it.

  It probably says something about me that this is the part I’m fixated on, not the part where the man I was engaged to had locked his wife in a panic room for months. Weirdly, in a way, that part of the story was almost a relief. Everything that hadn’t quite added up, everything that had triggered my fight-or-flight instincts made sense now. Everything was clear.

  And I know that for the rest of my life, I’ll see the look on Bea’s face as she charged up the stairs to save Eddie. No matter what I felt for him, it was never that. It never could’ve been that.

  Just like Eddie never could have loved me like he clearly loved Bea.

  When Bea had opened the panic room door, there’d been a whooshing sound, crackling, a blaze of heat that had sent me stumbling back, and instinct kicked in.

  I ran.

  Down the stairs, out the door, onto the lawn, falling into the grass, choking and gasping.

  In the end, I’d done the thing I’d been doing all my life—I saved myself.

  Which meant I’d left Bea and Eddie to die.

  Sighing, I unwrap the Popsicle my nurse had sneaked me. Banana.

  I’m lucky. Everyone says so. No burns, just smoke inhalation, which makes my throat and chest still ache, but given that the house is literally ashes, I got out pretty lightly, all things considered.

  Except for the part where I’m homeless and adrift now.

  I’m about to settle even deeper into self-pity when there’s a soft rapping at my door, and I turn to see Detective Laurent there.

  “Knock-knock,” she says, and my heart leaps up into my throat, making me bite down on the Popsicle, the cold burning my teeth.

  “Hi,” I say, awkward, and she gestures toward the plastic chair near my bed.

  “Can we have a quick chat?”

  It’s not like I can tell her no, and I’m guessing she knows that since she doesn’t wait for me to answer before she sits down.

  Crossing her legs, she smiles at me, like we’re friends and this is just a fun bedside visit, and I try to make m
yself smile back until I remember that I’m supposed to be traumatized and upset.

  The last few days have completely thrown me off my game.

  I look down, fiddle with the wrapper of the Popsicle, and wait for her to say something.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks, and I shrug, tucking my hair behind my ears.

  “Better. Still raspy,” I say, gesturing to my throat. “It all still seems so unreal, I guess.”

  Detective Laurent nods, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she gives me a sympathetic look, but there’s something about the way she’s watching me that I don’t like. Something that makes me feel naked and exposed.

  “I suppose you know by now that your fiancé didn’t make it out of the fire.”

  I press my lips together, closing my eyes briefly, but inside, my wind is whirring. Is this where she tells me they found two bodies in the ashes? What do I say? Do I tell her the truth about Bea and Eddie, about all of it?

  “I do,” I manage to croak out, fear sounding like sadness, which is good.

  “And I imagine you also know that our working theory is that he burned the house down on purpose. That he wanted to kill himself and you as well.”

  No.

  No, I did not know that, and my shock and confusion as I look at the detective isn’t feigned. “On purpose?” I say, and she nods, sighing as she leans back in her chair.

  “Jane, there is a very good chance Edward Rochester was involved in the murder of Blanche Ingraham and the disappearance of his wife.”

  “Oh my god,” I say softly, pressing a hand to my mouth.

  Detective Laurent shifts in her chair as outside, I hear the squeak of a wheelchair, the beep of various machines. “In looking into Tripp Ingraham’s involvement, we found signs that Eddie had also been there that night. His car on the security camera at the Thornfield Estates entrance, one of your neighbors remembering that he also left home late the night his wife and Blanche had gone to the lake. Nothing concrete, and we were still in the process of gathering evidence, but now…”

  She trails off, and I see her hand go to the badge at her waist for a second.

  “What about Tripp?” I ask. “What happens now?”

  It’s weird and more than a little off-putting to feel any sympathy for Tripp Ingraham, and I’ll eventually get over it, but now that I know the whole story, it’s hard not to see him as a victim, too. Another person caught up in the shitstorm that was Eddie and Bea.

  “He’s been cleared of any suspicion,” Detective Laurent says. “Truthfully, we never had as much on him as we let him think. We were hoping he’d crack, or bring down Eddie in the process.”

  Then she sighs. “Anyway, the fire was clearly set on purpose, which makes us think Eddie knew we were getting close.”

  Leaning over, she takes my hand. “I’m so sorry. I know this all must be a shock.”

  It is, but not in the way she thinks. They think Eddie killed himself because he killed Blanche and Bea. Which means they didn’t find Bea’s body in the fire.

  Which means she’s still out there.

  “We may have some more questions later on,” the detective says, patting my hand and standing up, “but I just wanted to let you know where things stood right now.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and she smiles again.

  “Take care of yourself, Jane.”

  As she heads for the door, I can’t help but ask one more question.

  “Did you … is Eddie’s body…”

  I make the words hesitant, like it’s too horrible to even contemplate, and the detective’s face creases.

  “The fire burned with extraordinary heat,” she says, gently. “There was nothing left. I believe they found…” She pauses, clears her throat. “I believe there were some teeth.”

  I see that stupid fucking pineapple in my hand, the way it crunched against Eddie’s jaw.

  The shards of white on the carpet.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, averting my eyes, letting her think I’m overwhelmed by the horror of it all.

  I hear her leave and, after a moment, pick up my Popsicle again. It’s partially melted, a sticky puddle of yellow on my tray, and I push one finger through it.

  My ring still sparkles on my left hand. At least I have that, and selling it will get me started on a new life at least. A smaller one than I’d planned for, but something.

  Provided Bea lets me.

  She’s out there still, and she knows I know the truth. So, what’s her next move?

  “Sweetie?”

  I glance up and see Emily standing in the doorway, frowning at me.

  She looks over her shoulder for a second and then says, in a low voice, “I was just coming by to check on you, but there’s a boy here who says he’s your brother? And he’s taking you home tomorrow? I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  Fuck me, John.

  “I don’t,” I say, and Emily’s frown deepens as she steps more fully in, then smiles.

  “Adele is already moved in, you might as well come, too.”

  Adele. I’d forgotten about the dog in all that had happened, and for whatever reason, that’s the thing that finally makes tears spring to my eyes.

  “She’s okay?” I ask, and Emily nods. “Completely fine. Terrorizing Major and Colonel.” Walking farther into the room, Emily takes my hand. “Come on, girl. Come home with me.”

  So I do.

  38

  The first few days at Emily’s are nice. I get a pretty guest room and Emily orders takeout for me, brings me more ice cream for my throat, and this concoction she makes out of pineapple juice and sparkling water is actually pretty delicious. And it’s nicer than I’d thought it would be, having Adele. She sleeps on the foot of my bed every night, her presence a warm, comforting weight.

  So it’s fine in the beginning.

  Really, the shit doesn’t start until the fifth day I’ve been there, when I’m up and walking around, basically recovered from the fire.

  It’s small at first.

  Can I run into the village and pick up some croissants for her book club? Oh, and on my way back, can I run into Whole Foods? She has a list!

  And now here I am, three weeks after I left the hospital, walking Major the shih tzu through the neighborhood.

  As we walk, I wonder if I imagined the past six months. Maybe this was all just some kind of extended hallucination, and I never even met Eddie Rochester, never lived in the house set back from the road where, briefly, most of my dreams came true.

  But our morning walk reminds me that no, it happened. There’s only an empty lot where the house Eddie and Bea built used to stand. Ashes and crime scene tape, that’s all that’s left, but I take Major there anyway, waiting for … what? A sign? Bea to magically appear wearing a veiled hat and sunglasses, telling me it was all worth something?

  That’s not happening.

  I’m just a girl who got caught up in other people’s bullshit. Who got to taste a different life only to have it taken away, because that’s how it always goes.

  Still, it makes me sad to stand there, seeing the spot where the house used to be, remembering how I’d felt, cooking in that kitchen, sleeping in that bedroom, soaking in that bathtub.

  Except that every time I think of that, I have to remember that Bea was always there, sharing the space with me. Waiting.

  I’ve just turned to go back to Emily’s house, Major happily trotting along, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s not a number I recognize, but since it’s a 205 number, which means Birmingham, I answer.

  “Is this Jane Bell?” a man asks.

  He sounds like what I’d imagine a basset hound would sound like if it could talk, his voice deep and drawling, and I tug at Major’s leash as I say, “Yes?”

  “I’m Richard Lloyd. Edward Rochester’s lawyer.”

  I remember that name, remember Eddie handing Richard’s business card to John, and my grip tightens on my phone.

  “Okay,” I say, and
he sighs.

  “Could you come down to my office this week? The sooner the better, really.”

  I want to tell him no. What good can come of meeting with lawyers?

  But then I look back at the ruin of what was Eddie’s house and remember that daydream I’d had, Bea striding out of the ashes to hand me something, some reward for everything I’d been through.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “I can be there tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The office is exactly what I thought it would be. Expensive, masculine leather furniture, pictures of dogs with dead ducks in their mouths, magazines about hunting, fishing, and golf littering the coffee table in front of me.

  And when a slightly florid-faced man in an ugly suit walks into the lobby and says, “Miss Bell?” he’s exactly what I was expecting, too.

  There was none of Tripp’s air of dereliction around him, but they were clearly from the same genus, Southernus drunkus.

  I imagine he walks over to the pub I saw on the corner for lunch every day, orders the same thing, has at least two beers before coming back to sexually harass the pretty college student currently answering phones.

  But I make myself give him that tremulous smile Eddie had liked as I stand up, taking his proffered hand and shaking it. “Please,” I say, “call me Jane.”

  “Jane,” he repeats. “Don’t meet many Janes these days.”

  I just keep the same insipid smile on my face and let him lead me to his private office.

  More leather here, more pictures of hunting, only now they are photographs of this man, smiling broadly in a bright orange vest, holding up the head of a deer, its eyes glassy, its tongue lolling out.

  Not for the first time, I think to myself that I am going to be relieved to get out of this place. The coddled bubble of Thornfield Estates has been nice, but everything else around here is pretty fucked.

  “Now,” he says as he settles behind his massive desk. “I have to admit, I was a little surprised when Eddie wanted to change his will so soon after getting engaged to you. Honestly, I actually tried to talk him out of it. No offense.”