Three Single Wives: The devilishly twisty, breathlessly addictive must-read thriller

by Gina LaManna

  Penny blanched. “You mean Roman?”

  “Yes, Penny, I mean Roman.” Eliza pulled another round of tequila toward her but didn’t lift it to her lips. “Don’t act surprised that he’s having an affair. I know there’s a very good chance Roman is the father of your child.”

  Anne gasped. “Eliza! Don’t be ridiculous. Penny is our friend. Don’t take this out on her.”

  Penny played with her water glass, running her finger absently across the rivulets of condensation dripping down the outside.

  “I’m not an idiot,” Eliza said. “Don’t worry, Penny. I don’t blame you. Did Roman tell you he was separated from me, just waiting on the divorce papers?” At Penny’s blank stare, Eliza continued. “He’s used that line before. On your favorite author, as a matter of fact. Just think—if Marguerite Hill gets pregnant, your children would be related. You’re in fine company.”

  Penny choked on something invisible until Anne thwacked her on the back.

  Anne looked flabbergasted. “But what about the classmate you told us about? Mr. Young and Stupid?”

  “That wasn’t a total lie,” Penny confessed, hanging her head. Her cheeks pinkened beneath the bar’s dim lighting. “I’m so sorry. After all you’ve both done for me, I feel awful. I owe you an explanation.”

  “Uh…” Anne blinked. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  “It’s true about the classmate. I was dating him, but I broke up with him when I thought…” She cleared her throat. “When I thought things were getting serious with someone else.”

  “You fell in love,” Eliza said, “with my husband.”

  “I can’t possibly explain how very sorry I am.” Penny sounded miserable. “I was so stupid.”

  “You weren’t the first to be blinded by Roman, and you obviously aren’t the last. I thought he loved me, so if you’re stupid, so am I.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  Eliza gave a cough as she swallowed the second shot of tequila. “I do feel bad for you, Penny. I don’t think Roman is evil, but he sure is stupid.”

  “I don’t know,” Anne said, paling. “Maybe there’s more to Roman than any of us thought.”

  Eliza and Penny both waited for Anne to explain.

  “I mean, he cheated on you multiple times,” Anne continued, looking flustered. “That’s not an accident at that point.”

  “Maybe,” Eliza agreed. “By the way, Penny, I’ll make sure Roman pays his portion of child support. Just because he’s an idiot doesn’t mean your baby should suffer.”

  “I don’t want anything. I couldn’t possibly accept more of your help.” Penny turned her attention to Anne. “You have to understand, the only reason I accepted your hand-me-downs was because this child deserves it, and I will do anything for him. Anything.”

  Anne took a gulp of her beer. When she set it down, her lips moved, but no sound came out. Her eyes glinted in a way that said she understood, even if a bit reluctantly. She tried again, looking to Eliza. “What does this mean for you?”

  “What option do I have?” Eliza asked. “We’ve spiraled out of control.”

  “If you suspected Roman and I had been together all along, why didn’t you divorce him sooner?” Penny asked quietly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Eliza glanced down to where she’d inadvertently shredded her damp napkin into hundreds of tiny pieces. “Because I loved him. And I owed him. I owed him everything. If he hadn’t married me, I wouldn’t be here today.”

  Penny blinked her eyes rapidly. “Oh.”

  The door to the bar opened after Eliza’s admission and acted as a hard stop to the women’s conversation. The entire bar froze as Eliza turned her head and spotted Marguerite Hill standing in the doorway.

  Uncle Joe called out a hearty greeting that wasn’t reciprocated. Marguerite only had eyes for Eliza. Her gaze was wild and sharp, and her white shirt was buttoned all sorts of wrong beneath a black blazer. Her hair was an utter mess. Marguerite Hill had never looked more of a disaster.

  When Eliza blinked, the tension broke. The room resumed its normal background chatter, glassware clanked behind the bar, and cars honked and squealed on the streets beyond Garbanzo’s walls. Eliza reached for another shot of tequila and tossed it back.

  By the time she swallowed, Marguerite was already on her way over.

  “I’m sorry,” Marguerite gasped, coming to a stop beside the table. “I was only trying to help you get away from him.”

  Eliza managed to keep her tone steady. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to get away from him?”

  “Roman strayed,” Marguerite said. “First Penny, then me. Probably others. I thought if I could just show you… I never intended to sleep with him. I just wanted to flirt a little. You’d get the picture.”

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” Eliza persisted. “You’re the guru. But you made a mistake with my husband. You fell in love with Roman, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “He didn’t love you back,” Eliza stated. “You tried to play him, and he played you. Well, it worked. I am done. You can have him.”

  “No, it was all lies…” Marguerite shook her head, frantic. “I can’t—He can’t get away with this.”

  “With what?” Eliza asked. “What do you propose we do?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Marguerite’s expression hardened. “Men are rotten. They all are. My father, Roman, the whole lot of them.”

  “I understand you have a deep distrust of men, but I wonder if it’s time—”

  “What?” Marguerite interjected. “To move on? Get over it? How do you move on when your own father raped you? I was eleven years old, Eliza. Eleven fucking years old.”

  The table went deadly quiet. There were no right answers. Even in a room full of wrong, all the women could agree on that.

  “But nobody wants to know those details,” Marguerite said. “They don’t want to hear the truth. That would suck for a PR campaign. Really muddy up my Instagram feed.”

  “Marguerite—”

  “We need to teach Roman a lesson,” Marguerite said. “He can’t get away with this.”

  Eliza was too stumped to offer a response. The author was coming unhinged; Eliza had never seen her so crazed. The evening’s events had triggered her into imploding, slowly, surely…

  Turning her attention back to the women sitting across from her, Eliza spoke in a low, throaty tone, surprising herself with her agreement. “She’s right, you know. He shouldn’t get away with this.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  The Morning After

  February 15, 2019

  Eliza Tate didn’t believe in hangovers.

  What she was experiencing was not a hangover but a whiff of karma back to haunt her after a night of overindulgence. Whoever would have thought book club could get so out of control?

  Eliza’s smile widened with gratitude as a server approached her, balancing an oversize latte. It was served in a trendy little mug that was nearly the size of her head. He placed the saucer and beverage on the table before her, dropped off a platter of raw sugar cubes and organic creamer, and then hesitated politely by her side.

  “Are you ready to order, ma’am?”

  “I’m still waiting on two others,” she said. “They should be here any second.”

  The server nodded and backed away. Eliza waited until he’d gone, then greedily pulled the frothy mixture toward her, studying the intricate heart detailed by the barista on the surface, the white foam freckled with flecks of black lava salt. Only in Santa Monica had coffee become a form of art. And the sort of thing one needed financing to purchase.

  Eliza ignored the price tag and instead closed her eyes and savored the thick, milky flavor, the rich espresso and hints of bitter dark chocolate. Her headache temporarily eased at the first hit of caffeine.

  Along with the easing headache came a surge of another emotion. Guilt, maybe? Shame? Confusion? The s
econd half of the night had turned into a blurry, sludgy memory. Unfortunately, those memories weren’t so far gone that she couldn’t recall the topic of conversation.

  Guilt, she thought.

  The feeling in her belly was definitely guilt.

  Eliza forced the sensation away, cramming a million tiny pieces of guilt into the recesses of her mind as she surveyed the café around her in search of her two friends. Book club buddies. Partners in crime? she wondered dubiously.

  But Penny and Anne were late, late, late. They should have arrived ten minutes ago. Under normal circumstances, Eliza wouldn’t have minded their tardiness. She’d have zipped through emails on her phone, arranged calls with clients, read the latest manuscript to cross her desk—but not this morning. This morning, she didn’t have the energy for any of it. She wanted her damn friends to show up and reassure her that last night had been nothing short of a bad, bad dream.

  Eliza studied the ambiance around her, basking in the rare seventy-degree February day in Los Angeles. Ladies balanced on pale-blue retro bicycles, pedaling down Main Street. The community garden across the way bustled with activity, the exterior fences tipped with pops of yellow sunflower leaves and fat, juicy tomatoes dripping from vines. Overgrown boys carried surfboards across their shoulders, and women with scraggly dreadlocks strolled the sidewalks in ragged-looking swimsuits and cover-ups, completing their outfits with five-hundred-dollar sandals.

  The sun warmed her cheeks. The not-quite hangover lulled Eliza into a false sense of calmness as she sat back in the white wicker seat, a small umbrella shielding the worst of the rays from the outdoor patio. Her eyes closed again, and she drifted into black waters, her fingers tapping listlessly against her coffee mug.

  “Eliza Tate?”

  A man’s low, rumbling voice pierced the thin curtain of Eliza’s sleep. Her eyelids flashed open behind her sunglasses. She was grateful for the mask, even more so when she realized the man standing before her was a uniformed police officer.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Eliza said briskly. “How can I help you?”

  “Is there someplace quieter we could talk?”

  Eliza’s gaze wandered over his shoulder, and she caught sight of Penny making her way up the steps to the café. The young woman’s eyes flicked over the patrons, brightening when she saw Eliza. Penny gave a quick wave, then froze as her eyes slid seamlessly over to the cop.

  Eliza studied Penny curiously. The young woman’s face had gone as white as Eliza’s frothed milk, and her posture was stiff, sharply pointed, like the blade of a knife. Her hand gave a nervous twitch, and as Eliza watched, Penny’s car keys clattered to the cement walkway. The sound shook Eliza back to reality.

  “No, here is fine,” Eliza said, trying to hurry the officer along. She gestured toward Penny. “I’m busy at the moment, meeting some friends for brunch. Is it a parking ticket?”

  “I’m sorry, but I really think—”

  “For God’s sake, spit it out. I don’t have all day.”

  The cop’s face twitched with an unidentified emotion. So many unidentified emotions, Eliza thought sullenly. If people just wore their hearts on their sleeves, it would solve a lot of issues.

  “I’m very sorry to have to inform you, Mrs. Tate, that we found your husband’s body this morning.”

  Eliza felt shards of glass in her throat. Scratchy, bloody pieces.

  “My husband’s body?” she repeated. “His body?”

  “Your husband passed away late last night. I’m so sorry.”

  Eliza pressed her hands to her forehead. It wasn’t enough. She reached for the complimentary glass of ice water, pressed it against her cheek. Beads of sweat bloomed on the back of her neck, slid down her skin, and soaked into her blouse. She asked weakly, “Was it a car accident?”

  “We suspect foul play,” the officer said. “I’m sorry again to have to break the news to you. I hope you’ll understand that we need to ask you a few questions. Mrs. Tate, where were you last night?”

  “I stayed at a hotel,” Eliza said. “My husband and I…”

  The cop waited.

  “I was out late with the girls,” Eliza revised. “I got a room at the Pelican Hotel. You can check.”

  “I will. Now, if you wouldn’t mind—”

  “How did he die? I assume you’re dancing around the fact that my husband was murdered.”

  The officer shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I’d rather discuss the details down at the station, ma’am.”

  “My husband is dead. I deserve to know how he died.”

  “I’m not arguing with you, but I do think a matter this sensitive is best discussed in private.”

  Eliza waited him out. While the news of her husband’s death was somewhat alarming, she couldn’t say she was entirely surprised, especially after her day yesterday. She just wasn’t sure who’d had the guts to do it.

  The officer glanced around, surveying the bustling brunch scene. He wiped his brow and glanced toward Penny’s rapid approach. Still, Eliza waited. She drew her lips into the thin line she knew to be intimidating and made eye contact with the officer from behind the shield of her reflective lenses. Silence could do wonders to intimidate a man.

  “He died from multiple stab wounds,” the officer finally said. “At his house.”

  “Our house.”

  “What?”

  “It was our house.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  Eliza sank back in her chair, sickened. Weak. More sweat beaded. Her head throbbed. A knife clattered against a plate, a dog barked, a baby hiccupped and gurgled. The noises of the world were magnified in Eliza’s ears. They echoed like sounds shouted into a deserted tunnel, banged around inside her skull, then faded into nothingness.

  The cacophony of sound from the bustling café dimmed to nothing. The air suddenly felt too stale to breathe, and the sun burned too hot on Eliza’s hand. Her fingertips felt scorched as she rested them against her mug.

  “Ma’am?” he asked. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Eliza?” Penny’s hand clutched at Eliza’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  Eliza winced. The girl’s nails were digging into her, piercing at her skin. It was too tight, too forced.

  The cop turned to Penny. “If I could have a moment alone with Mrs. Tate, I would appreciate it.”

  “She can stay,” Eliza snipped. “We don’t have secrets between us. Not anymore.”

  The officer gave a longer look at Penny, then turned back to Eliza. “Mrs. Tate, it would be beneficial for all involved if you could join me at the station to answer a few questions.”

  Penny’s fingers dug excruciatingly deeper into Eliza’s muscle. “Oh my God,” she murmured. “Is it Roman?”

  Eliza’s gaze flicked up at the young woman before turning a deadened stare at the cop. “I’d like my lawyer.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Morning After

  February 15, 2019

  Anne Wilkes tried hard to mask her hangover, but she was unsuccessful.

  “Mom, please.” Anne looked over to where her mother had begun to reorganize her cupboards at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. “That banging is driving me insane.”

  “It’s unbecoming for a lady to drink so much.” Anne’s mother, Beatrice Harper, sniffed. “It lacks class. And it’s not safe. For you or the kids.”

  “Mom. Please.”

  “I just wish you’d get help, Anne.”

  “I don’t have a problem. I can stop drinking if I want, okay? I’m not going to fucking leave the kids.”

  “Again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Leave them again,” Beatrice said evenly. “You’re very lucky the doctors wrote you a note the last time so you didn’t get in bigger trouble.”

  “I had postpartum depression. It’s an actual illness—not an excuse.”

  “Sure,” Beatrice said. “Even so, a civilized book club doesn’t last until three in the morning. And by th
e way, where was your husband last night?”

  “Mark?” Anne swallowed. “He didn’t come home?”

  “You didn’t know?” Beatrice said. “How could you not know?”

  Because, Anne wanted to say, Mark has a lot of secrets.

  “I didn’t hear Mark come home,” Beatrice said. “And I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

  The reason Anne hadn’t noticed was because she’d fallen asleep the second her head had hit the pillow. Anne’s bedtime was 10:00 p.m. on a good night. An evening of drinking at a bar with her friends was enough to knock her out cold for a week. Anne had come home, seen the basement light on, and assumed Mark was working late out of his home office.

  Not feeling particularly inclined to start a conversation with him that would likely last all night, she’d gone upstairs and fallen asleep. When he wasn’t in bed when she woke up the next morning, she figured he’d gotten an early start in the office. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

  Anne leaned against the doorway to her own kitchen and felt like an outsider. As always, her mother had transformed Anne’s average house into something fit for a magazine spread. The dishes were put away, the counters wiped spotlessly clean. The twins were chattering away happily in their Pack ’n Play in the living room while her older children had miraculously found ways to occupy themselves. With startling clarity, Anne realized that her mother was even capable of organizing the children.

  “I’ll be back by noon,” Anne said. “Can I bring you something from the café?”

  Her mother didn’t bother to look up. “I’m making breakfast for your children. Homemade, as it should be.”

  Anne stopped in the living room, smacked four kisses across the heads of each of her babies. They didn’t bother to look up. She was running late, but she paused in the doorway and glanced back, scanning one last look over a living room with happily playing children.

  With a very unladylike arsenal of curse words coupled with a lead foot, Anne managed to make it to Santa Monica only fifteen minutes after she’d agreed to meet her friends. She pulled into a parking spot half a block away and strode toward the outdoor café that would put a major dent in her very slender wallet.