As plausible as that sounded, I didn’t really believe him. How did he get to the restaurant the other night if he couldn’t drive?
“Don’t come near me, or we’ll have a problem,” I said.
He was in the middle of an angry reply when I dropped the call. He dialed right back. I hit Decline.
Derek was probably lying. I hoped he was lying, because if it wasn’t him in the Suburban, then a stranger had followed me. And that would be a first. I had no enemies. I wasn’t important. I didn’t have enough cash to make it worth blackmailing me or shaking me down. Although. I was involved with a man who did. A married man. With a powerful, unstable wife.
Could that be some goon in the Suburban, hired by Nina Levitt?
A woman with white hair pulled up in a Volvo and got out to pump gas. Her golden retriever poked his head out the back window, tongue lolling. Oh, to be her, with a sweet dog, a normal life. To be anyone but me right now.
Enough. The Suburban hadn’t found me yet. Better get the hell out of here before it came back.
At home, I double-locked the door, pulled the blinds, and turned down the lights. I had to talk to Connor—to tell him about being followed and ask if he had any news about the blackmailer. But he’d said not to call. Crap. I didn’t know what to do. I started pacing. I was feeling sick. And strange, like my breasts hurt. Actually, they hurt a lot, come to think of it. With every step, the pressure of the bra made them ache. Maybe my period was coming.
Wait a minute, when did I last have it?
Crap. I was late.
I sank down onto the sofa and tried to remember the precautions we’d taken. I wasn’t on the pill. I had sex so rarely that it didn’t seem worth putting those hormones in my body on the off chance. Connor’d had condoms. We’d used them. But we’d had sex a lot, and maybe—
Shit.
Okay, calm down. Stress could make you late, right? Lord knows, between Derek coming after me, the Suburban following me, and the crazy emotions caused by my affair with Connor, I was under enormous pressure. That could explain it.
Or else I was pregnant.
Nausea overwhelmed me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. That could only mean one thing. I needed to take a pregnancy test to be sure. It was after midnight, and the only open pharmacy was a fifteen-minute drive over dark, empty roads. I hadn’t seen the Suburban since my stunt-driving maneuver on the highway an hour earlier. But it could still be out there. I hesitated, rinsing my mouth. When the cardboardy taste of the water in the Dixie cup made me gag, I knew this was urgent, and grabbed my keys. All the way to the pharmacy, I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, relieved when the hulking black SUV failed to materialize.
Back in my bathroom, I ripped open a foil packet, sat down on the toilet, and peed on the stick. One line in the window meant you weren’t pregnant.
Two lines.
I did the second test in the box, hoping against hope. Two lines again.
Fuck.
I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling, dry-eyed. For the first time in my life, I was pregnant. That should bring me joy. Instead, I was terrified. I knew my options just like every woman did. But from the second I saw the two lines, I knew I wanted this baby.
His baby. I wanted to have a baby with Connor.
What if he’d lied? What if he had no intention of leaving his wife—and her millions?
Then I’d have to raise this child alone.
I knew what it was like to live through an unstable childhood, with absent parents. I wanted the baby, but not with upheaval, and insecurity, and lack of resources. I wanted this baby to have two parents, and a good home. I wanted it with Connor by my side.
He’d told me not to call.
Screw that.
I dialed his phone. It went straight to voicemail. I left a message saying I needed to speak to him right away, that it was extremely urgent. Then I waited. An hour passed with no word from him. Where did he say he was, again? I Googled the time zones of the Mediterranean. It was two here now, which meant it was eight there. Eight A.M. He could goddamn well answer. Another hour passed. Nothing. I made some herbal tea to settle my stomach, but the flowery smell of it just made me throw up again. There was nothing left in my stomach, and no word from Connor. I texted him—Please please please call, emergency.
Morning came, and I was late for work. I stared at the computer screen at the insurance company, billing codes blurring before my eyes as I struggled to concentrate. Dizzy with hunger, yet constantly nauseous, I managed to choke down a few saltine crackers. At the restaurant, working the dinner shift, the intense food smells made me gag. I was running to the bathroom so often that Liz eventually came looking for me. She found me standing at the sink, pale and wan, wiping my lips with a paper towel. After looking under the doors of the stalls to make sure we were alone, she demanded to know what was going on.
“Are you sick?” she said, sniffing the air.
“I might be coming down with a stomach bug.”
Liz knew better. She’d borne four children, after all. She frowned at me skeptically. I couldn’t meet her eyes. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone—except this baby’s father, who refused to return my calls.
“Go home,” she said.
I didn’t protest.
The road from Lakeside, where the restaurant was located, to my apartment in Baldwin had been widened in the years since I’d traveled it by bike. Still just two lanes with strips of grass and then woods on either side, it was now spacious and smooth, with a forty-mile-an-hour speed limit instead of twenty-five. It was around six, still full light outside on this pretty summer evening. I was driving on autopilot, caught up in my problems and ignoring the rearview mirror, when the Suburban suddenly emerged from my blind spot, hurtling at me like a demon. I braked to let the SUV pass faster. Instead of passing me, it slowed and veered toward me. He was going to run me off the road. I floored the Toyota, managing to slip out of the way a split second before the SUV sideswiped me.
Now he was behind me. In what felt like slow-motion, I pressed the pedal to the floor, my eyes on the mirror. My poor old Toyota was not up to the task of outrunning the Suburban. Stunned, I stayed on the gas as he rammed me from behind. Metal was grinding, sparks flying. I leaned on the horn, screaming uselessly at him.
“Stop! Stop it! Asshole!”
Cars came at us from the opposite direction, and the Suburban fell back. But the minute they’d passed, he was on me again. I heard the low roar as the SUV came up beside me, its dark bulk looming until it filled the driver’s-side window. I strained to see my aggressor’s face, but the tints were too dark. Who would do this? Holding the wheel steady, I refused to cede the road. But my Toyota was no match for that behemoth. The SUV sideswiped me once, with a screech of metal. Then it hit me again, and the second impact sent me hurtling onto the grassy shoulder. Bouncing forward, bones rattling, I fought to keep control of the car, finally managing to skid to a stop just short of the tree line. The airbag didn’t deploy, thank God. Hyperventilating, I stumbled out onto the grass, my legs like rubber. The driver’s-side door was crumpled and scratched.
A woman in a minivan had pulled off the road behind me. I could see kids in her car. She came toward me now, waving.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Did you see that? Did you see what he did to me?”
“He ran you off the road. Do you need me call an ambulance?”
She had a phone in her hand.
“No. I’m not hurt.”
“The cops, then?”
I leaned over, hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath, and nodded.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“It was a black SUV, right?” she asked.
“Yeah, a Suburban.”
“With New York plates?”
“New York plates? Really? I didn’t see.”
“Orange and blue. That’s New York, right?” she said.
“Yes.”
New York plates. It
couldn’t be Derek, then. Deep down, I’d known that. Derek wanted me back. Not dead. Who else could it be? The obvious answer was someone who worked for Nina Levitt. Was Connor’s wife trying to kill me? I couldn’t believe that. Correction—I didn’t like believing it. I hated that I’d done something bad enough to cause another person to want to kill me. But I had. I’d slept with her husband.
The police showed up and took a report. The woman in the minivan hadn’t gotten a plate number, and the Suburban was long gone. The officer asked if I thought it had been a random act of road rage. Did anybody have a grudge against me? I almost told. I almost said, Actually, the unstable woman who is married to the father of my unborn child has the means and the motive to hire someone to kill me. It had to be her. But I didn’t say that. Even thinking it, it sounded far-fetched. Instead, I mentioned Derek’s name, while telling the officer I didn’t believe it was him, because of the New York plates.
Once I was safe at home, I tried Connor’s number. I had so much to tell him—things he needed to know. I was expecting his child. I was being followed. Someone had tried to kill me—possibly the same person who’d taken the photo of us, who, in all likelihood, worked for his wife. Yet, each time I called, the phone rang only once before rolling over to voicemail. I tried texting instead, but the texts showed as undelivered.
It was almost like he’d blocked me. But that couldn’t be true. More likely, Nina was interfering with our calls. I wouldn’t put it past her to tamper with his phone so that my number was blocked, and he didn’t even know. There was only one way to get around that.
I had to drive down to New York and speak to him in person.
12
NINA
July 4
Nina closed her diary and stared at the photo the private investigator had given her. The one of Connor with her. She ought to be hardened to it. She knew the drill. Edward always had someone on the side, and it had never made sense. Nina was beautiful, witty, cultured, on every best-dressed list. What did these women have that she didn’t? The answer was nothing, nothing at all. He just wanted something shiny and new. With Edward, she’d ignore it. Redecorate a house. Buy a painting. Pretend to be a Parisian who didn’t care about fidelity. This was different. It cut, it burned. She’d wanted this love to be real.
She was angry with herself for getting so invested. She’d been warned about Connor, specifically. And though the source was untrustworthy—Hank, who had an obvious conflict of interest—she’d taken precautions, going so far as to hire a private detective to follow up on Hank’s research. When the PI hadn’t come back with anything conclusive, she’d gone ahead and married Connor, but with fingers crossed behind her back and an airtight prenup. What good was a prenup, though? The only thing it protected was your money.
A distant rumble of thunder made her look out the window of the tower room. To the east, the horizon was dark with clouds, and Connor was heading out for a swim. She raised the binoculars that she kept on her writing desk and watched as he stripped off his shirt, tossing it onto the lounge chair that the staff had set up for him. She appreciated his body as he waded into the surf and his elegant form as he struck out into the waves. Under different circumstances, she might’ve called from the window, or sent the housekeeper down to beg him to please not swim right now, the water was too rough. But she was angry. Let him drown out there. He wouldn’t, of course. He was an accomplished swimmer. And like all narcissists, he led a charmed life. Born to be a man of leisure, a momentary bump when his family lost its money, saved by marrying into the Levitt fortune.
That was no accident. She’d been set up. The plan was a classic. Meet a rich, lonely widow. Romance her. Marry her. Then murder her and inherit her money. The only thing she didn’t understand was, what was taking so long? Why hadn’t he made his move yet? It should be easy enough. You fake a suicide, or an accident. By waiting, he’d given her time to uncover the truth. They had. She now knew everything about them—the two of them. Connor’s girlfriend wasn’t who she claimed to be. They’d known each other for years and been lovers in the past. They saw each other in secret, as recently as six weeks ago at Hank’s ski place up north.
Nina didn’t trust Hank, either. Not then, not now. She didn’t trust Hank’s ex-wife, Lauren. The fact was, if she was smart, she wouldn’t trust anybody, including people who’d worked for her for years. It was impossible to know how far this conspiracy went, or where it ended. But she knew where it started—at her July Fourth party, two years ago tonight.
July 4—two years earlier
Nina stood with Hank Spears at the far end of the terrace. The party was in full swing—band playing under the stars, famous faces circulating in the crowd. The Fourth of July gala at Windswept was the event of the season in the Hamptons. They came by the hundreds to people-watch, to eat lavish food and drink vintage champagne. Most of all, they came for the house.
Windswept was a thirty-room brick-and-limestone Gatsby-era palace, set magnificently alone on a promontory that jutted into the sea. The grounds included ten acres of manicured lawns and gardens, an Olympic-size swimming pool, a pool house with bathrooms, and a glorious stretch of beach to roam in the moonlight. A security team had been brought in for the night, headed by Steve Kovacs, a private security consultant who’d worked for the Levitts regularly since Edward’s time. Steve’s team worked the perimeter, patrolling for crashers. Every year, people tried it. Paparazzi, nosy tourists, local hooligans on the prowl for free booze. Trespassers were turned over to the police.
Nina looked her best tonight. The Levitt emeralds glowed at her neck, setting off her black dress and porcelain skin. The sky was velvet, the fireworks an hour away. It should have been romantic. But, as Hank’s arm snaked along the balustrade behind her and made contact with her bare back, she flinched.
“What’s the matter? I did what you asked,” he said, his mouth petulant.
Hank was accustomed to getting his way. He’d been Edward’s right-hand man and was now CEO of Levitt Global, a position he’d long coveted and had ascended to on Edward’s death. He and Edward were polar opposites. Edward had been a visionary—magnetic, mercurial, creative, with blazing blue eyes. Hank was a company man through and through. Trim and self-contained, graying at the temples, in a perfectly tailored suit. Shareholders found Hank a reassuring presence during this time of transition. Nina had found him a reassuring presence, too, through the long, difficult years of her marriage. At every dinner party, every conference or foreign trip or important event, at the very moment she’d feel the lowest, Hank would turn up at her side. When Edward’s affairs hit the news, he’d claim the seat beside her at dinner and distract her with talk of the art world, or whatever topic came to mind. If Edward spoke harshly to her in front of other people, Hank would deflect the conversation, help her save face. She’d assumed that he did this for Edward’s benefit—or, really, for Levitt Global’s. Nina was a refined and sophisticated corporate first lady. She held up her end on charitable boards and in the art world. The Levitt marriage played well in the press. Any woman who came after her was unlikely to fit the job description, since Edward’s tastes ran toward “models” who’d never held modeling jobs and were young enough to be his granddaughters. Not that Nina had any standing to complain. There’d been a first Mrs. Levitt at the time Nina and Edward met, who’d received a lavish settlement, happily remarried, and eventually died of cancer. Nina’s guilt made her tolerant of Edward’s transgressions. She knew what she was getting into and accepted it as just deserts.
The point was, Nina had misunderstood the nature of Hank’s attentions. She thought he was looking out for the company, when actually he’d had feelings for her all along. She’d encouraged him more than she’d intended, just by leaning on him for support in her misery. She’d never dreamed he was seriously interested in her. Why would he be? Hank was married to Lauren Berman, the head of PR, who was not only a player in the company, but sultry and gorgeous—all dark hair, pouty lips
, and curves.
After Edward died, Hank waited three months, then invited Nina to dinner. He told her that he was unhappy in his marriage and had loved her for years. She didn’t want to hurt him. Not only was he a good friend, but they worked together regularly. So, she told him it was too soon. That was a mistake. Hank responded by arranging for them to be thrown together in ever more intimate settings, with work as a pretext. Six months ago, they’d been at a conference in Aspen together. And she slipped. She was feeling so low—old and alone, sad that she’d never had children. They got drunk and ended up spending the night together. Nina had been backpedaling from it ever since. She simply didn’t have those feelings for him. After what Edward had done to her, she also felt legitimately guilty about sleeping with someone who was married, and leaned on that as her excuse. Hank took her at her word. Lauren and Hank were now in the middle of a bitter divorce battle, because Hank had left Lauren. For Nina. Without discussing it with Nina first. Which had made things extremely awkward at the office. Nina was now viewed as the other woman, a designation she loathed, and which was untrue. They had no ongoing romantic relationship. But nobody believed that—especially not Hank.
“Hank, I’m sorry. But I never asked you to leave Lauren. Never. You misunderstood me.”
“You said we couldn’t be together as long as I was married.”
She took his hands and looked into his eyes and was gutted to see the pain there.
“I said I wouldn’t get involved with a married man. I never said that I was ready for a relationship, or that I had those feelings for you.”
Anger flashed across his face. “I divorced my wife for you.”
He’d raised his voice. People were turning to look.
“You shouldn’t’ve done that without talking to me first.”
“You refused to talk about it while I was married.”
“Can we discuss this another time, when we have more privacy?” Nina said.
The Wife Who Knew Too Much Page 7