All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  “And then what?” asks Officer Petroff, clearly the more suspicious of the two officers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you go anywhere?”

  “Just to bed.”

  “Do you mind my asking what kind of car you drive, Mr. Winniker?” The question comes out of nowhere.

  “A Subaru.”

  “Color?”

  “Black. Why?”

  “A neighbor reported seeing a black sedan speeding off at about that time.”

  “Well, there’s no shortage of black sedans,” he says, then stops. He’s volunteered as much information as he’s going to. He shrugs and shakes his head, as if to say, “If there was a black car speeding off at two in the morning last Saturday, it wasn’t mine.”

  Although it probably was, he realizes. Speeding off to dispose of Nadia’s body.

  He almost laughs. How ironic it would be, after everything he’s done, to be arrested and hauled off to jail for something he didn’t do, to be tripped up by a random neighborhood shooting while transporting his latest “date” to a dumpster in Newton!

  “Do you own a gun, Mr. Winniker?” Another question out of left field.

  “God, no,” he says. “Guns scare the crap out of me. Pardon the language,” he says to Officer Martell. And it’s true. He hates guns. Although not because they scare him. More because they’re so impersonal. If you’re going to take someone’s life, you should be prepared to get your hands dirty. You owe your victims that much, at least. A knife, a rope, a strong pair of hands. So many options from which to choose. Only cowards choose a gun.

  He pictures his hands around Officer Martell’s lovely throat. He wonders if they’re going to ask to search his apartment, then relaxes with the knowledge that they lack sufficient grounds. He’s watched enough crime shows to know that a few vague suspicions aren’t going to be enough to get them a search warrant. He proffers a sympathetic smile, a smile that says, I wish I could be more help.

  “Well, thank you.” Officer Petroff hands him his card. “If you should remember anything else, don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

  “Will do.”

  He watches as they climb into their patrol car and drive off.

  “Scary stuff,” Jenna Lebowski says after they’ve gone.

  He extricates the phone from his side pocket and notes that Paige has yet to text him back. You don’t know the half of it, he thinks.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Paige sat, wrapped in a towel, at the edge of her bed, her clothes spread out around her like an ornate Japanese fan: the black-and-white, silk-and-chiffon, sleeveless cocktail dress with its discreetly plunging, ruffled neckline, the lacy peach-colored bra and panties for underneath, the delicate white cashmere shawl for overtop. A pair of black, thin-strapped, open-toed high-heeled pumps sat on the floor by her feet. A black-and-white alligator clutch rested on the side table. Everything waiting for her to stop sitting and get moving.

  Except she couldn’t.

  She’d been trying for the better part of twenty minutes—ever since she got out of the shower—to get dressed, to do her hair, to put on her party face for her uncle’s eightieth birthday bash. And yet here she sat, as if paralyzed from the neck down, unable to rouse her various body parts into action.

  A failure.

  This wasn’t how her life was supposed to have turned out.

  She was thirty-three years old. She was smart. She was attractive. She’d always imagined she’d have a loving husband, two bright, well-adjusted children, and a successful career by now. Instead she was single, unemployed, childless, and living with her mother, a woman who was obviously experiencing some late-life crisis of her own. How had that happened?

  Not that she was without prospects, she reminded herself, trying to coax her limbs into action. Her recent job interview had gone well and a follow-up meeting was scheduled for next week. Her relationship with Sam was progressing nicely, if cautiously, both afraid to push too far, too fast.

  And, to her great surprise, Mr. Right Now was back in the picture. When he hadn’t contacted her again after she’d canceled their previous date, she’d assumed she wouldn’t be hearing from him again.

  And now, suddenly, here he was.

  Hey, Wildflower. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. Really hoping we can try again.

  You’re a little late, she berated him silently, knowing he would have been the more suitable choice for tonight’s party, the kind of gorgeous that would have made Heather’s jaw drop and Noah definitely sit up and take notice.

  Noah, she thought, watching his face materialize in the mirror across from her bed. Damn him anyway.

  She should have been over him by now. Not only had he been unfaithful, he’d been unfaithful with her cousin! The two were living together. He’d replaced her as easily as a roll of toilet paper! So why was she wasting even a moment of her time pining over the miserable son of a bitch?

  She was a modern woman. She didn’t put up with this kind of shit. She wasn’t about to forgive and forget, or wait patiently for him to come to his senses and come crawling back to her. She wasn’t Chloe. She could never forgive a betrayal of such magnitude.

  She hated him.

  So why did the thought of him with her cousin still bring tears to her eyes? Why did the prospect of being in the same room with him again send her heart racing and make her go weak in the knees?

  How was it possible to love someone you hated?

  And how could she go to this stupid party and watch her father’s surviving twin laugh and dance and, damn it, breathe, while her former lover cavorted with her own virtual twin? She knew Heather would be draped all over Noah, hanging on to his every syllable, making a great show of her conquest. “I can’t go,” she muttered. “I can’t.”

  “Please, darling,” she heard her mother say. “For me. I don’t think I can do this alone.”

  “You’ll have Michael,” she’d reminded her. Her brother and sister-in-law had arrived that afternoon and were staying at the Ritz, where the party was being held.

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Fine,” Paige acquiesced, although it wasn’t. But she’d been too preoccupied trying not to blanch at her mother’s shocking new hairdo to argue further.

  The last couple of weeks had seen a series of unsettling events where Joan Hamilton was concerned: the ocular migraine and severe indigestion, both of which had resulted in visits to the ER; the uncharacteristic shopping sprees; the hiring of a personal trainer; the sudden desire to start dating; the shaving of half her head. Was her mother in the midst of a nervous breakdown? Or was it possible there was something even more sinister at play? A brain tumor, perhaps?

  Please, no, Paige thought.

  There was muffled ringing from somewhere beside her.

  Paige twisted her head from side to side, trying to determine the source of the sound. Her cellphone, she realized, her hand rummaging through her clothing, ultimately locating the phone beneath the thin cashmere shawl and bringing it to her ear without checking the caller ID.

  She let it ring three more times without answering, hoping it was Sam, calling to cancel. Which would free her up to contact Mr. Right Now, invite him to the party instead. Although it was unlikely he’d be free on such short notice, or that he’d agree to go even if he was. What man in his right mind willingly subjects himself to the kind of scrutiny he was sure to receive at tonight’s affair?

  And what was the matter with her, considering dumping a man as nice—as real—as Sam for a man she hadn’t even met, a postage-size illusion on a dating app?

  Was she just using Sam? Was that the sort of person she’d become?

  Was she more like Heather than she liked to think?

  “Shit.” Paige answered the phone before she could ask herself any more t
roubling questions. “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  “Chloe,” Paige acknowledged, not sure if she was disappointed or relieved by the sound of her friend’s voice. “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Chloe said, although she didn’t sound fine. “Does there have to be a problem for me to call?”

  “No, of course not. Just that you sound kind of…”

  “Kind of what?”

  “Kind of like there’s a problem.”

  “You got that from ‘hi’?”

  Paige smiled. Chloe was right. She was transferring her own anxiety onto her friend. “Guess I’m just nervous about this stupid party. I can’t seem to get my ass in gear.”

  “Oh, shit. The party’s tonight? I forgot all about it.”

  Now Paige knew there was something wrong. “Has something happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened,” Chloe insisted. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Paige glanced toward the clock beside her bed. Sam would be arriving any minute. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” Chloe repeated. “Now get that gorgeous ass in gear, get out there, and knock ’em dead.”

  Paige nodded as she disconnected the line and pushed herself to her feet. She debated responding to Mr. Right Now’s text, then decided he’d still be there in the morning and she didn’t have time for more distractions, however tempting they might be.

  Ten minutes later, she was fully dressed and made up, her hair pulled into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. “Not bad,” she said, dropping her lipstick and cellphone inside her clutch, then immediately retrieving her phone and rereading the message from Mr. Right Now. “What the hell,” she decided. What was she so conflicted about? She and Sam had only been on a few dates. They were hardly exclusive. They weren’t even lovers. She was free to date whomever she pleased. There was no way you could call it cheating.

  Hey, there, yourself, she typed. Wasn’t sure I’d hear from you again. Sorry again about last week.

  As long as it doesn’t happen twice, came the quick response.

  The phone in the kitchen rang—the concierge informing her of Sam’s arrival.

  Damn it, she thought. Could Sam’s timing be any worse? I have to go now, she wrote. Can we continue this later?

  She waited, but there was no reply.

  Oh, well, she thought, dropping her phone back into her clutch and leaving the apartment. She was halfway to the elevator when she heard the familiar ping.

  She quickly checked the message from Mr. Right Now.

  It was short and sweet: I’ll be here.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Chloe had no sooner disconnected her call with Paige than her landline rang. “Hello?” she said, exchanging one phone for the other.

  Silence.

  “Hello? Paige? Is that you?”

  Still nothing.

  “Hello? Is someone there? Anybody?”

  Chloe stared into the receiver, waiting for whoever was on the other end to respond, then hung up when it became clear that no one would. Probably a wrong number, she decided. Or her mother, drunk dialing.

  People rarely called her landline anymore, aside from the usual assortment of scam artists looking for suckers and charities looking for donations. She should probably consider getting rid of it altogether. It was an unnecessary expense, and money would undoubtedly be an issue now. She poured herself a glass of iced tea, then sat down at the kitchen table, tea in one hand, cellphone in the other, fighting the urge to call Matt.

  But she was still too upset and angry, and it was important that she have a cool head when she confronted him.

  Of course, Paige had sensed something was wrong immediately. She’d have to watch that. She didn’t want to become the kind of friend who called only when there was a problem. Especially when that problem was always the same problem, when that problem had a name: Matt.

  Chloe glanced at her watch, deciding to give the kids an extra few minutes of “tech time” before going upstairs and getting them ready for bed. They needed more time to calm down, and so did she. She didn’t have the stamina for another scene like the one they’d had earlier.

  Josh and Sasha had spent the day with their father and had come home full of—what was the expression Paige’s father used to use?—pee and vinegar? Yes, that was it. Pee and vinegar. Funny expression, she thought, although somehow exactly right.

  They’d burst through the front door at just after six, eyes wild with a combination of too much sugar and not enough rest, cheeks stained with dried chocolate and cotton candy. “What’s all this?” she’d asked, wetting her fingers and trying to wipe away the sticky pastel residue from her son’s chin.

  “Daddy took us to a street fair in Somerville,” Josh explained, wriggling out of reach and waving to his father, who was watching them from behind the wheel of his car.

  “It was so fun,” Sasha said, throwing both hands up, as if she was releasing fistfuls of confetti into the air.

  “Why can’t Daddy come in?” Josh asked as Chloe was closing the front door.

  “Daddy has stuff to do,” Chloe told him.

  “Why can’t he do it here? Why won’t you let him come home?” Part questions, part accusations.

  “It’s complicated, sweetie.” Chloe had hoped this would be enough to satisfy her son. She wasn’t ready to have this conversation. She was still hoping that she and Matt would be able to sit down together and decide the best way to explain the situation to the children.

  “What’s ‘complicated’?” asked Sasha.

  “Daddy says you won’t let him come home, that you’re mad at him and you’re getting a divorce,” Josh said.

  “What’s a divorce?” Sasha asked.

  “It means Daddy can’t live here anymore,” Josh told his sister, whose eyes were already filling with tears.

  “I don’t want a divorce,” Sasha cried. “I want Daddy!”

  “Okay, we’re getting way ahead of ourselves,” Chloe had said, trying to keep her anger at Matt from exploding in her children’s faces. How dare he put her in this position! What was the matter with him? Yes, he’d been furious when informed she was filing for legal separation. But he’d calmed down when assured he’d have generous access to the kids. The last few days had passed without incident. There’d been no further outbursts, no more heavy-handed attempts to convince her of the error of her ways, no more threats about custody. He’d even managed to be civil, almost cordial, when he picked the children up this morning. Chloe was beginning to feel hopeful that, while a reconciliation remained highly doubtful, they might be able to successfully co-parent.

  She took another sip of her tea, shaking her head at her capacity for self-delusion. Did she still honestly think there was any chance for her and Matt to get back together? What was it going to take to convince her that the man she’d married was an unrepentant womanizer, that her marriage was over, that he would never—could never—be the man she wanted him to be?

  “I hate you!” Josh had shouted at her as he ran up the stairs, Matt’s voice weaving through his to bounce off the walls and echo throughout the small house. “Daddy’s right!” he yelled from the upstairs hallway. “You’re a bitch!”

  “What did you say?” Chloe yelled back, thinking that she must have misheard.

  “He said you’re a bitch,” Sasha repeated, trying to be helpful.

  Chloe burst into a combination of laughter and tears.

  “What’s a bitch?” Sasha asked.

  Help me. “It’s not a very nice word, sweetie.”

  “Like ‘shit’ and ‘fuck,’ ” her four-year-old said knowingly.

  “Yes,” Chloe agreed, too stunned to say a
nything else.

  “You said a bad word!” Sasha shouted up the stairs at her brother, then burst into tears of her own.

  “Oh, please don’t cry, baby.” Chloe wrapped her daughter in a tight embrace. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Was it? she wondered now. How could everything be okay when her husband was calling her a bitch in front of her children?

  The phone on the kitchen counter rang again.

  Chloe pushed herself away from the table and answered it. “Hello? Hello?” she repeated when there was no response. “Shit,” she said, hanging up, listening as it rang again seconds later. “Okay, listen,” she said into the receiver. “You obviously have the wrong number…”

  “Is this Chloe?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Should I?” Chloe raced through her memory to place the voice.

  “Come on, Chloe. Don’t play dumb. I hate women who play dumb.”

  A sliver of fear wormed its way beneath her skin. “Who is this?”

  “You know what I like to do to women who play dumb?” the voice continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I like to fuck them in the ass until they bleed and beg for mercy…”

  Chloe slammed the receiver down with such force, it jumped back into the air, like a serpent poised to strike, then fell toward the floor, dangling from the end of its coiled black cord. “Shit.” What the hell was that about?

  She retrieved the receiver and quickly pressed *69, knowing even before she heard the recorded voice that the caller had blocked his number.

  “Shit,” she said again. “What the hell is going on?” Then, “Okay, calm down.” It was just an obscene call. A pathetic, old-fashioned obscene call. People got them all the time. They were entirely random. There was no reason to be concerned. She could have been anyone.

  Except the caller knew her name.