When I finished, I read it again. I tried for a third but headed for the bathroom instead, my stomach heaving in protest. I vomited, then sank to my knees on the white floor mat and hugged the edge of the dirty toilet.
The article had included a quote from William, one in which he had called me “a deeply disturbed individual.” How could he have said that? Had he not felt our connection? Had our kiss, our sex, meant nothing? Among all the sparks and subterfuge, I thought there had been a genuine connection between us.
I had eight thousand dollars in my bank account and no job. No assets that weren’t controlled or being taken by Matt. This was supposed to have followed a simple path—a secret affair that led to William Winthorpe paying me off or falling in love with me. Two very clear outcomes, neither of which would have risked everything I had worked so hard for. Our house in the right neighborhood.Now a crime scene.My job at the right company.I’d be fired.My social standing in the right circles.Destroyed by this article.A husband who worshipped and loved me.Who had kicked me out of my own home. Mentioned divorce.
How did it all disappear in the course of a few days? Though if I really examined it ... it was in the course of a few minutes and a misfired gun.
I almost wished the gun hadn’t misfired. Matt would be dead, and I would have everything. The house. The life insurance. The money in the bank. His company. I might have been investigated, but at least I would have the money to hire attorneys, a crack team that could shine the light on this shoddy investigation and find the true killer. I warmed to the idea of being a rich widow, sympathetic looks all around. Finally, I’d be able to watch what I wanted on television. Get rid of his ugly leather furniture. Live without dirty towels on the floor or sports magazines on the coffee table or junk food filling our pantry.
If the gun hadn’t misfired, there was the possibility that the gunman could have turned it on me. But honestly, death would be better than this. I checked the dramatic statement for accuracy and was horrified to see that it was true.
Deathwouldbe better than life as a divorced and penniless social pariah.
And yet ... it could get even worse, because that envelope from our safe was still missing. Who could have it?
It had to be Cat who was behind all this. Cat, who had probably faked her poisoning. Cat, who had put lies in Matt’s head about the railing. Cat, who had probably hired someone to kill Matt—all so she could hold on to her shaky marriage.
But how had she gotten into the safe? When had she planted the photos? How long had she been planning this?
And if she was the one with my will, what did she plan to do with it?
CHAPTER 52
NEENA
Two weeks later
My new life sucked. Somehow, I was climbing the steps to an apartment, my keys jingling from my hand like a janitor. When I opened the door, I’d be looking at a room of rented furniture, the additional fifty bucks tacked on to my monthly rent as part of a never-ended Christmas special.
I didn’t belong here. Not in this cramped one-bedroom, not in this low-rent part of San Francisco, not on the losing end of divorce proceedings that seemed to hollow me out more and more with every meeting.
I didn’t even recognize Matt. For one, it was his teeth. The man who never seemed to care about his appearance now hadveneers. They sparkled from his mouth every time he opened it, and he was suddenly opening it alot, filled with opinions on everything from alimony to what car I should be driving. He knew I had an issue with American cars, yet that ended up being my option—he’d buy me a cheap sedan, or I could buy my own.
I took the sedan with its cloth seats and clunky styling, my head ducked in shame whenever I entered and exited it. My old car, the BMW that I had always taken for granted, now taunted me from a roadside spot at the used-car dealership, its windshield covered by a price tag I couldn’t afford.
Couldn’t afford.Two words I’d run from my entire life. Two words I’d buried in the dirt after I walked down the aisle with Matt. Two words I’d forgotten the second I’d gotten my degree. Two words that had come back to bite me.
I made it through the door and heaved my computer bag onto the round dining table, rubbing my shoulder with a sigh. Turning back to the door, I flipped the dead bolt and worked the security chain into the slide.
Trudging to the narrow couch, I sank into the cheap polyester, not bothering with removing my heels. I could feel my new job prospects wobbling loose. Maybe it was the desperation in my voice. Maybe it was the newspaper article, which was taking top spot when you did an internet search for my name. Or maybe it was the gossip. Word of my affair had spread, and I had a new appreciation for Ned Plymouth, a private and quiet individual who had kept his money (and his business) to himself. The secret termination agreement had been the only swell in the serene lake of our affair’s existence.
Cat and William Winthorpe, on the other hand, were a tsunami. Volunteer committees I’d worked hard on had suddenly deleted my name from their rosters and sent politeYou are no longer neededcards. My book club, which Cat wasn’t even a part of, asked that I no longer attend. My personal shopper at Neiman’s, across the country in New York City, left me a snippy voice mail that made her opinion clear. The judgment and loathing came from all directions, and whatever stone Cat found too heavy to turn over, William flipped with ease.
The worst were my past employers. I’d had to weed my résumé down to practically nothing, as the Winthorpes turned every past reference against me. Matt refused to give me a positive recommendation from Ryder Demolition, and Ned Plymouth wasn’t returning my calls, so I’d crossed his name off my résumé for fear of the unknown.
I could feel myself sinking. Drowning. In college, I’d experienced this feeling, this helpless detachment as I had watched my world crumble. Of course, back then it was caused by a sorority rumor of an STD, a minor blip that could have been easily overcome by a catty retort and simple manipulation. But I wasn’t Dr. Neena Ryder back then. I was young and insecure, with a too-big nose and too-small breasts. I wilted, withdrew from school, and fell in love with Xanax and Matt’s constant reassurances.
I couldn’t fall back in that hole. Wine was one thing. Pills were another.
I shifted until my head was on the armrest and tried not to think about the renters before me, their dirty arms resting on the same ledge. Spilled food, drops of beer, all soaking through the navy fabric. I was lucky it didn’t squish against my ear.
I let out a sigh and tried to remember why I’d thought William Winthorpe was a good idea. Pulling myself upright, I stretched forward, looping my finger through the handle of my purse and tugging it toward me. Opening the neck of it, I grabbed the bottle of wine and placed it on the table, then looked around for a cup.
The floor hurt, but I couldn’t seem to move my legs. It was the wine. Too much wine. Had I ever drunk so much? The last time I was like this, it was a decade ago. William—no, Matt—had carried me to bed. Brought a bucket to me and wiped off my face after I vomited. He’d been a good caretaker. So loving. So forgiving. That night, he’d sat beside me in bed and run soft fingers through my hair until I fell asleep.
Now, I had no one to play with my hair, or to carry me to bed, or to bring me a bucket when I threw up. The vomit was coming. I could feel it, churning the wrong way through my intestines.
I struggled to roll to one side and stared at my cell phone, the silver device close enough to my forehead to almost touch.