BROOKE
ONE MONTH BEFORE THE ACCIDENT
“The area is an architectural dream, with Italian Renaissance, Elizabethan, and Mediterranean influences,” the real estate agent says. “There are only forty homes in Presidio Terrace, all located around one street that makes the shape of a lasso.”
Or a noose, I think, though I don’t dare speak.
“There is a twenty-four-hour guard at the front gate, and anyone using the pedestrian entrance must show proper identification.” The agent leads us through the formal dining room, featuring a table that could easily seat thirty. “Not even Google Earth can get in here. The community association negotiated for this area to remain unseen from all maps. There is a security system on the home as well, of course. It features cameras for every door, sensors on every window, and a panic button in each bedroom. It was created by the Secret Service.”
“Really?” Jack says, finally acknowledging the agent’s presence. It’s as if she’d been beneath him all this time and not worth speaking to. “Interesting.”
She nods excitedly. “The level of security here is quite extraordinary.”
Jack lets his arm fall heavily around my shoulder, and I’m not sure why but it feels fatherly. As if I’m a child he’s trying to shield from something heinous. At fifty years old, Jack is only fifteen years older than I am, though he’s aged incredibly well. I gaze up at him, admiring how smooth and tight his skin is, even though he doesn’t have a nightly facial routine. He’s clean-shaven, with one of those hardened jaw lines that must’ve manifested after years of clenching his back teeth. He takes care of his body, too. I’ve dated twenty-year-olds who don’t have the muscles he’s got. But his hair and eyes give his true age away. We’ve only been together a year—and married for ten of those months—so of course I wouldn’t know what he looks like with a full head of dark hair, but to me, his silver hair only enhances his sex appeal. And his eyes—they’re crisp blue and full of light and vitality, but when he smiles, which he doesn’t do often, tiny lines splinter from the corners. I won’t think about the size of his—ahem—wallet, but that’s impressive, too.
“Top-level security is what we’re looking for. Isn’t it?” He squeezes me against him, indicating that I’m not supposed to answer the last question. Stand silent and smile. I do as I’ve been previously instructed. “My job takes me away so much, I need to make sure my wife is protected. As a newly elected U.S. senator, I anticipate I’ll be spending most of my time in Virginia.”
“Don’t senators have to live where they’re elected?” the agent fires.
“My permanent residence will remain in Virginia. This home is for my wife.”
“Lucky lady.” The agent smiles at me. I return the gesture without showing my teeth. “This way,” she sings, “to the kitchen.”
My stilettos click-clack over the tile and echo through the cavernous kitchen. I won’t be cooking, so I’m not interested in this room of the house. The counters are quartz and the appliances are all stainless steel. It’s pretty, in a simple way. The sink’s faucet is hooked like a swan’s neck, and the box-thing above the stove is beautifully detailed. Actually, the entire thing resembles the kitchen in Jack’s Virginia Beach home.
I’ve wondered half a dozen times this weekend why we can’t simply live there. His home is gorgeous, and it would make more sense. I like being close to him. But he says he’s selling it. Reminds him too much of his ex-wife. They’ve recently divorced after twenty years of marriage. And he doesn’t have to live in Virginia to be a senator there. He only had to while he was being elected. Now that it’s done, he can live anywhere he wants. Last week I mentioned something about taking a trip to California. Here we are, one private jet ride later, seriously looking at homes.
“All of this will have to be redone. Obviously,” Jack adds, skimming his hand along the counters. “The colors aren’t to our taste.”
Aren’t they?
“That’s the great thing about this place,” the agent says. “There’s enough room in your budget for you to make all the changes you want. This way. Follow me.”
Jack has already hired a full-time staff for whichever California home we choose and has them on standby. Although he hasn’t spoken the words, I know this is the home we’ll buy. It’s the security and privacy he’s after, and nothing rivals this place.
Peeking out the kitchen window over the sink, I steal my first glimpse of the backyard. It’s landscaped beautifully, with a pool, a spa, a cabana on either end, and trees lining the edges for privacy. I can definitely imagine summers spent back there. Alone.
“The community board is active, as you would imagine in a place like this,” the agent says, letting her hand drift over the banister as she leads us upstairs. “So there are rules that must be followed if you intend to purchase the home.”
“What rules?” He stops dead. “You didn’t mention that before.”
There’s the husband I know, hesitant to follow any kind of orders.
“Nothing too strange. This way to the master. You must see the view.”
I stop a few stairs above him and extend my hand. He clenches his jaw and follows reluctantly, taking my hand as he passes.
“These rules are going to be a deal breaker,” he says with a groan, and leads me down a hallway wide enough to fit a car through.
As the agent pushes open two oversize doors simultaneously and stands back with the smile, the room washes in light. The bedroom is enormous, with a cathedral-like ceiling, a chandelier in the center, thick crown molding, and a window with a sprawling view of the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate Bridge.
“Before we go a step further, I need to hear about these rules,” Jack presses. He’s standing in the center of the room with his arms folded over his chest. He’s taken on his booming politician voice. “What are they and who makes them?”
The agent turns, her blond hair falling over her shoulder. “It’s about the front of the home, mainly. Grass can’t be more than two inches long. Garage doors cannot be left open for longer than five minutes at a time. Cars must be parked in the garage overnight—not in the street or the driveway. No music over seventy decibels. Things like that.”
Nodding, Jack seems to chew over her words. “Those aren’t too cumbersome. Who makes them?”
“The Presidio Terrace Homeowners Association. It’s run by a few of the wives in the community.” She checks her phone. “Mrs. Erin King, who lives there, across the street, is the president. Mrs. Georgia St. Claire—I’m sure you’ve heard of her from the news—lives next door, to your right, though you can’t see her home from here. She’s the secretary.”
“Why would we have heard of Georgia St. Claire?” he asks. Then he repeats the name, thoughtfully. “St. Claire. Is she married to the state governor?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” The agent lowers her voice as if telling a delicious secret. “She’s the Black Widow.” When Jack stares blankly, she prattles on. “Oh, it’s just a nickname the press around here has given her. She’s had two husbands pass away in the last few years, and some say she’s killed them. Her third husband, Robert St. Claire, is still alive, but there are bets as to how long that’ll last.”
Talk about morbid gossip.
“I don’t know that I want my wife associating with a husband-killer.” The corners of Jack’s mouth kink up in an attempt at a smile. “What if that kind of behavior rubs off?”
“Mr. Davies, I’m sure that’s not the way it works, and—”
“That was a joke,” he says flatly. “Brooke wouldn’t dare associate with someone nicknamed the Black Widow.”
But I don’t even know her. How could I say who I would or wouldn’t hang out with? Surely I could make up my own mind about her man-killing tendencies. And it’s not like Jack will be around to police me.
“There’s more of the house
to show you: the gym, the upstairs office, a handful of guest bedrooms. Allow me to show you. This way.” The agent glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and then continues the tour. “I wouldn’t let Mrs. St. Claire’s presence sway your decision to purchase the home, Mr. Davies. I can assure you there are plenty of wholesome housewives on the street for your wife to associate with.”
I was wondering how long it would take for them to leave me out of the conversation completely. It’s as if I’ve become invisible, a ghost walking the halls. I’m impressed with the agent, actually. Within my husband’s inner circle it usually only takes a few minutes, and she’s nearly finished giving the tour. Points for making an attempt.
After showing us everything the magnificent home has to offer, Jack moves the conversation to other couples on the street. He covers the husbands’ occupations and the length of time each couple has lived in the community. Listening intently, though pretending not to care, I stand in the backyard near the pool, relishing the warm California sunshine on my cheeks.
“All right, Brooke,” Jack says with a tone of finality. “Sounds like you could make some friends in the neighborhood.” He’s at my side again, though this time he doesn’t touch me. Clearly he’s interested in the home and ready to negotiate. His demeanor has completely changed, which leaves no room for emotion. It’s all business now. “You’ll be happy here. You can get involved in the board, too, if you’d like.”
Happy. I’m not sure I know what that is anymore.
I smile brightly, playing the part of a politician’s wife. He nods decisively in return.
“It’s done,” he tells the agent. “I just have a few other questions for you, about the security system. Brooke, I’ll meet you at the car.”
As he takes her by the elbow and leads her back into the house to talk business, I take in my new backyard. Flowering bushes and walkways leading to hidden places and fountains and birdbaths. It’s going to be peaceful here. I can already see my future. Following a tiny shaded path on the left side of the house, I tiptoe from one stone to another, beside towering ferns that take my breath away. The path leads me out front, near Jack’s and the realtor’s cars.
“Good morning! I’m Erin,” a woman yells from across the street. She takes a break from unloading groceries from the trunk of her Tesla to enthusiastically whip her arm back and forth over her head. I can’t remember if she’s the rumored husband-killer or if that’s the woman next door, but I like this one already. “Are you looking or buying?”
“Buying,” I holler back, and then check over my shoulder for signs of Jack. He’s nowhere to be seen. “My husband’s inside finishing up the details.”
“Oh, how exciting!” The woman strides across the street, platinum-blond hair blowing in the breeze behind her, and extends her hand. “Allow me to introduce myself properly, then. I’m Erin King, president of the Presidio Terrace Homeowners Association.”
“I’m Brooke,” I say, shaking her hand. “Brooke Davies.”
“You must be married to Jack Davies, the senator.”
I squint. “How’d you know that?”
“Not many people can afford this neighborhood, and politicians love the privacy it offers. I heard about your husband’s win in Virginia. Be sure to give him my congratulations.”
“I will.”
“It was a mudslinging campaign overall, wasn’t it? They kept bringing up his nasty divorce and his hasty marriage to—well, to you. It was all over the news. You’d make the third family in politics on the block. Kids?”
“No, not even on the radar.” I try not to sound upset. “You?”
“God, no.” She makes a scrunched face as if she’s tasted something grotesque. “Mason hates kids. Loathes them. That’s why we moved here. No children on the street.”
“Is that because people aren’t allowed, or—”
She laughs sweetly. “Oh, that’s not part of the community’s bylaws or anything. God, can you imagine? Limits to procreation.” She laughs harder now, and I wonder if she’s on a mood-lifter. “Most people who can afford these homes are older, so their kids are already grown and out of the house. Except for me, of course. I’m midthirties. I would assume you’re pushing thirty, but I won’t dare ask. Have you met her yet?”
“Who?”
“Georgia.”
“No, you’re the first one I’ve met on the street.”
“Oh, you have to meet her.” She clasps her hands over her chest. “You’re going to die when you realize how sweet she is. Not like the media makes her out to be at all. I mean, she probably killed her husbands, let’s be honest, but I’d never tell that to her face.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t heard much about her at all.”
“I’m sure the agent told you some things.” She moves closer, invading my personal space. I resist the urge to back up. “Well, Georgia’s been married three times. The first time was for love, of course, as first marriages often are. He died very shortly after they were married. She was devastated, or at least pretended to be, then rebounded into a second marriage, much like your husband did. You don’t mind my talking candidly, do you?”
“No, not at all.” I fold my arms over my chest guardedly, though I can’t help but smile. I love her fast chatter and the ease of our discussion. I don’t feel like I could say anything wrong to Erin. She’d simply eat up any mistakes in the conversation and bury them with beautiful new words. “It’s no secret that my husband had a bit of…overlap in his relationships.”
“Overlap.” She nods, grinning ear to diamond-dangling ear. “I like that. Anyway, the second time, Georgia married for money. She was miserable from the start, so when he died she was happy, in a way, if you get what I mean. She felt free to love and marry again, so she found Robert, whom she simply adores. He’s really into his yachts, but he treats her like a queen, as I’m sure your husband treats you.”
Like a queen. Locked in a palace.
“What about your husband?” I need to turn the tables before tears gather in my eyes. “What does he do?”
“He’s a plastic surgeon. He’s responsible for these,” she says, pointing to her full lips, “and these,” she adds, tapping her cheeks, “and getting rid of all of these lines.” She traces an imaginary line from one side of her forehead to the other. “I don’t like to boast, but my husband is brilliant.”
Judging from the perfect roundness of her breasts, I’d wager he took care of those as well, though I don’t ask. I had mine done last year, and the doctor went a little fuller than I’d originally wanted, but Jack is happy, which means I am, too.
“Well, you look great,” I offer. “Good enough for the movies.”
“That’s what I do. Not movies, but television” She drags her hair over her shoulders and squares up to me. “Erin King, ABC, five o’clock news.”
“You’re a news broadcaster? That’s amazing. I could never talk in front of a camera, no way.”
She tilts her chin to catch the sunlight. “It’s taxing at first, having to be perfect all the time, hitting all the right angles and saying all the right things, but I find, with practice, it simply becomes a part of who you are.”
“I understand completely.” Behind me, the front door closes. “It was great meeting you, Erin. Since we’re going to be neighbors soon, I look forward to continuing our conversation another time.”
She’s across the street before Jack rounds the corner, and for that I let out a huge sigh of relief.
“What do you think?” he says once we’re inside the safety of his car. “Do you love it? Is there anything about that community board that strikes you as strange?”
I tilt my chin to catch the sunlight, pull my hair over my shoulder, and say, “I love it, sweetheart. I wouldn’t change a thing about the home or its neighbors.”
As he backs out of the driveway a
nd we pass the home next door, where the rumored husband-killer lives, I wonder if she’s married to a man who pretends to be strong in public, but desperately requires his wife’s opinion in private. A man who finds shame in being equal to his wife. A man who demands his wife to be flawless, yet is wildly flawed himself.
Above all else, I wonder how she got away with murder.
I’ll have to bring over a tray of cookies and ask her.
KRISTIN MILLER is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than thirty novels. After writing dark and gritty versions of “happily ever after” for more than a decade, she turned her hand to psychological suspense, a genre she has loved since childhood. She lives in Northern California with her husband and two children.
kristinmiller.net
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In Her Shadow Page 33