Nadia’s eyes fall on an item on the floor that seems out of place: a small wheeled travel bag, the sort of thing people use for a carry-on when flying. She can’t imagine the overly fastidious Phoebe would just leave this lying out. “Looks like you had some travel plans,” she murmurs, giving the bag a quick lift to check its weight. Heavy. Definitely packed for a trip. Nadia will riffle through this thing soon, but for now the only task she must concern herself with is performing a resurrection.
“What’s taking so long in there?” Wyatt asks.
“Are you kidding? It’s like a Macy’s in here.” Or like one of the posh boutiques she’s driven past in downtown Lake Forest, though she’s never gone inside any of them.
She sifts through the dresses, most of them her size, though she finds a few that are a size bigger, likely to accommodate Phoebe’s recent weight gain. Most of the larger ones are more on the plain, casual side, like she bought them just to have anything at all to put on rather than to make herself look pretty. If this closet were a geological sample, Nadia would conclude by these frumpy frocks that this is about the point in Phoebe’s life where she started giving up.
Unfortunately, regardless of the sizes, nearly everything in here is some shade of pink or purple. Nadia wears a lot of black, which is both her preferred aesthetic as well as a necessity of car living and limited laundry access. She can live with purple, but as someone who grew up on a pig farm, she really hates pink. But she’ll have to get used to it, at least for now.
She finally selects an eggplant-colored maxi dress with a white sash around the waist. It looks like a normal knit fabric, but the silky feel of it is unlike anything she would find at the discount stores where she normally shops.
Next, she scans the enormous library of shoes and notices with relief that she and Phoebe are both a size seven. The range of brands and styles is completely foreign to her. She recognizes a couple of them from popular culture or the occasional fashion mag she’s flipped through in the break room at work. Most of them look like they’ve never touched actual pavement. Most of them also look like they’d make her feet weep in agony five minutes after putting them on.
As she settles on a pair of simple white sandals, she feels a rare elation. This Indiana farm girl has ascended to the summit. All she needs to do is clean away a little more blood and dirt.
She steps out of the closet to find Wyatt sitting with his face in his hands. “I found something to wear. Can I use the bathroom now?”
He looks around at her, his dark eyes exhausted and brimming with emotion. “Sure. Just try to be fast. I don’t much like being in here.”
She considers mentioning his empty spot in the closet, but he likely already knows she noticed. “It’s okay. I’ve always been quick.”
The master bath is a fortress of white tile, glass, and gleaming water fixtures. Only after hastily washing and dressing does she let herself look at Phoebe’s expensive dressing table. As expected, it contains an array of cosmetics and perfumes that would rival the aesthetician counter at any high-end department store. Though Nadia does have some experience with beauty products, she never became passionate about them. With limited money, one must choose between looking beautiful and eating. On the days when she couldn’t make it into a YMCA to shower, she cleaned her face with moist towelettes and dabbed on a little concealer and mascara with the help of her rearview mirror. Quick and simple. Phoebe’s collection of potions, however, suggests someone who thought about her appearance almost obsessively, or at least used to once upon a time.
She isn’t going to spend too much time doing herself up, as she’s only trying to prove a point, but first she removes the tiny rhinestone stud from her nose. A nose ring doesn’t fit the look she’s going for. Next, she washes her face with a black soap that contains activated charcoal “to purify the pores.” It looks like a horror show but feels like money. Once she’s properly scrubbed and moisturized, she applies foundation from a bottle covered in French words. The shade is a tad darker to match a more golden complexion, but it’s good enough for the time being.
She brushes on some shimmery shadow the color of champagne and adds a touch of dark purple eye pencil around the lids, mascara, highlighter on the cheeks and forehead, and a swipe of translucent pink lip gloss. When she’s finished, she brushes her hair and smooths it with a serum to give it that rich-girl glow.
As a final touch, she gives herself a few spritzes of perfume and then stands back to view the whole package in the mirror.
Phoebe Noble Miller stares back at her.
Nadia lets out a breath as she takes in her reflection. If this doesn’t convince Wyatt to go along with her plan, she’ll just have to tie him up and keep him in the basement until he changes his mind, because as far as she’s concerned, she is Phoebe, at least enough to fool people on the first pass. What more do you need in a world where people are spending more time looking at their phones than each other?
She emerges from the bathroom. When Wyatt glances up at her, he jumps to his feet. “Jesus!”
That guy took three days to come back to life. Nadia is pretty sure she has him beat. “What do you think?”
He seems frozen in place, eyes wide with wonder. When he speaks, he sounds like a man coming out of a trance. “It’s remarkable. I don’t know how I didn’t notice the resemblance before, but . . . God.”
“Well, before I was in a hat.” And covered in his wife’s blood, but no need to remind him of that. “But good to know I clean up okay.”
“It’s hard to believe it’s even possible. If I didn’t know Phoebe was an only child, I’d believe you were sisters.”
Nadia drops her gaze to her sandals. “I’m glad I’m convincing.”
He continues to study her face, like he’s slowly warming to the potential of this idea, and she feels a little ashamed at her building excitement over a future that includes private showers and a real bed, a diet beyond food in grease-spotted bags handed out through drive-thru windows, money for every possible desire and necessity. She will be able to make Nadia disappear completely, shedding her troublesome old skin for one far more luxurious and easy to wear. Sure, it won’t be without problems, especially in the immediate future, but down the road, once all the kinks have been worked out, she can’t imagine a better outcome.
Wyatt seems to notice he’s staring, and he clears his throat. “So this is your plan. We . . .” He pauses, appearing to struggle with his next words. “We . . . bury Phoebe and then you impersonate her?”
“What better way to avoid a murder investigation or even a missing person report than to have no murder or missing person?”
He shakes his head. “I still think it won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s preposterous. Your hair shades don’t match.”
He’s not exactly wrong there. Nadia’s natural color is dark brown, but in an attempt to have a new look to go with her new life, she’d tried lightening it to an ashy blond using a drug store kit not long after she got to town. It turned out a little brassier than she wanted, and the roots were showing, but the point is moot. “That’s an easy fix, and you know it.”
“That may be, but you can’t just fill a person’s shoes and expect people not to notice the differences. Even if you look a lot like Phoebe, you’re not a carbon copy.”
Nadia predicted most of this conversation while she was getting dressed. She knew Wyatt would initially balk at the idea, as would most sane people. But she intends to wear him down. It won’t take much work. He’s already latched on to the idea at least a little bit, judging by his gaze.
“I think people will buy it just fine,” Nadia says.
“How?”
“Can you really see yourself challenging someone’s identity to their face, even if you sensed something was a little different about them?”
He frowns. “No,
I guess not.”
“We see celebrities every day getting face-lifts, Botox, and implants that change their looks, but we don’t actually stop thinking they are those people.”
He sighs. “True, but I still think this is completely nuts.”
“It is nuts, which is why it will work. Because no one would ever expect an actual impostor. That isn’t to say people who know Phoebe won’t sense something different about her. But rich women get work done practically every week, right? They’ll just chalk it up to that. Also, her having been a shut-in works to our advantage. No business outside the home, no real family or friends. If we keep up appearances, no one will be the wiser.”
“Except the new neighbors, as you mentioned earlier. That will be a sticking point.”
Nadia thinks they’ll be problematic for a few different reasons, namely that one of them could be Phoebe’s killer, and the sudden appearance of a decoy will cause one hell of a stir. She’s counting on it, though. As much as this is about not rocking the boat by alerting the world to Phoebe’s death, she wants to know who did this.
“I’m not worried about that right now,” she says. “Let’s just focus on getting everything in place first.”
He rubs his face and then looks back at her with a frown. “When you said ‘keep up appearances,’ you mean we have to live here together? Like we’re married?”
Her expression is pure deadpan. “I’ve been in Phoebe’s closet. It’s obvious you’re living in separate areas of the house, Wyatt. Do you really think it’s going to be that much more of a stretch for us to share a roof?”
He mumbles something that sounds like “I guess not.”
“Besides, I think you’re forgetting a much bigger opportunity in all this.”
“What’s that?”
“Once I learn how to be Phoebe, or when you and I get to a place where we do trust each other, we can divorce”—she makes air quotes around the word—“and go our separate ways.”
“That’s a good point,” he says, still a touch dubious.
He frowns and begins pacing back and forth on the landing, arms folded across him, eyes focused on the brilliant white carpet. He’s thought of something else. She’s trying to remain patient with him, as it’s important to work out any possible complications ahead of time, but it’s so hard, because she suddenly feels desperate to make this work. “What is it now?” she asks.
“Why are you so willing to throw your own life away over this?”
This is one question she was hoping to avoid. “Has it occurred to you that I’m trading up? I can’t think of many people who wouldn’t give up their drab, dead-end life to become a billionaire.”
One of his eyebrows goes up. “Any baggage you have right now is going to be a liability for us both.”
“You have nothing to worry about.” She says it with such confidence, she believes it herself. They really should have nothing to worry about, if they do everything right.
He doesn’t look like he’s any closer to believing her, but he shakes his head and continues pacing. Then he says, “Her killer is going to know you’re an impostor. Assuming the killer isn’t you.”
“Or you,” she snaps back.
“Correct. If it isn’t one of us, then there is still a murderer out there. They could even be watching the house right now, waiting for this place to become a crime scene.”
“You’re worried they’ll become a problem for us?”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s more than likely. If their plan doesn’t come to fruition, and if they see a new Phoebe walking around, they won’t know what the hell is going on. It will make us both loose ends in their book. They may not be able to rest until they take care of us too.”
“Or they might be relieved we covered it up for them and move on,” Nadia suggests.
“We can’t afford that kind of optimism. This person could be unhinged. Seeing someone else impersonating the woman they expect to be dead could make them crack even further.”
“Then what better way to smoke them out and deal with them?”
He rubs his face like someone trying to scrub away a bad dream. “And how do you propose we deal with them?”
She hesitates to answer. The phrase “deal with” in this context has an ominous quality she doesn’t much care for, especially in light of her recently “dealing with” a nuisance of a former work colleague. “I think it’s safe to say that if we go down this road, we need to be prepared to get our hands dirty. It’s either that, or we get used to the feeling of handcuffs.”
He nods slowly, like it takes most of his energy to do it. “I still can’t believe this is actually happening.”
Nadia shares the sentiment. Everything still has an unreal quality about it, and that feeling is only going to intensify for a while. And that’s assuming Nadia’s own problems don’t follow her here. “We have a lot to figure out still, but right now, I think this is the best option we have. Are you in?”
She holds out her hand for the most important shake they’ll ever make. Please be on board, Wyatt. Both our lives depend on it. After a few seconds that feel like an eternity, he finally takes her hand. “I am. God help us both. Now what?”
CHAPTER 15
BEFORE THEY GET started, Nadia takes out her phone and asks Wyatt to do the same. “What’s this about?” he asks.
She opens her camera app. “I want you to stand next to Phoebe.”
The color drains from his face. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. And then you’ll take a picture of me on your phone.”
“Let me get this straight. You want us to pose with my murdered wife’s body? Jesus, what kind of sick game is this?”
Nadia sighs. Patience, girl. “If you can think of a better way to ensure that one of us won’t run off on the other at the first given opportunity, I’m all ears.”
“But we’d be implicating ourselves in a murder, which innocent people don’t do.”
“Like I said, I’m open to suggestions. Until we trust each other, we need something.”
He stares at her with his mouth open, but no words come out. Finally, he shakes and lowers his head, a sure sign of resignation. “I don’t like this at all. Not only is it just . . . grotesque, but nothing is safe in the digital age.”
“We’ll figure out how to encrypt the files or whatever. Unless you have a better idea, Wyatt, we need to get this done. Time is really getting away from us here.”
He finally surrenders, and holds up his phone. “I’m not putting all of her in the picture. We only need to see her . . . her face, right?”
She thinks about it and nods. It’s a fair enough compromise and enough to serve the purpose, given Phoebe’s head injury. “That will be fine.”
They both snap pictures. Wyatt puts his phone back in his pocket with a shudder. “I feel sick even having this on my phone.”
“Perhaps one day we’ll mutually decide it’s time to delete them.”
“Let’s hope,” he mutters.
Nadia volunteers to wrap the body, but Wyatt insists on helping. “She’s my wife. We’ll do it together.”
She appreciates his egalitarian outlook, but his skin has grown remarkably sallow, probably because the smell of death in here is even stronger now than it was earlier. Hopefully he won’t puke or faint. Nadia is barely holding it together, and she can’t spare the energy to babysit him or clean up even more mess. She decides to give him a distraction.
“Do you have a tarp or some plastic sheeting we can use?” she asks.
“I’m sure I have something downstairs. Be right back.” While he rustles around beneath the house, Nadia begins planning the next stage of the game. Their best option is also the riskiest. They’ll need to drive a few hours south of here. It’s a long distance to go with a dead body in the trunk, with the potential for disaster increasing exponentia
lly with every mile. A wreck. A phantom flat tire or breakdown. A bored sheriff or state trooper looking for any stupid reason to pull someone over.
Nadia briefly considers other options. The lake. She’s disposed of a lot of things in that ubiquitous body of water over the years, but it’s too public, and there is too much of a chance Phoebe will either wash ashore or be discovered by some boater. They could dig a big hole in the backyard right now and never have to take another risk after tonight, but that would only sour the space for them both, even if they only stayed here for a short time. There would also remain the possibility that long after they departed this place, someone could accidentally dig her up while doing a little remodeling. At least where Nadia is thinking of taking her, total elimination is as close to guaranteed as she dares hope.
Wyatt returns with a large roll of brown canvas covered in various colors of dried paint. An old drop cloth, by the looks of it. He also has a tangle of nylon bungee cords. “Will this stuff do?”
“That should work.”
A phone starts ringing and they both jerk. It’s the same one she heard earlier. “Is that Phoebe’s phone?”
He nods. “Just ignore it. We have enough to do.”
Despite her curiosity, she agrees the phone will have to wait for now, but she has another thought. “Do you know the passcode for her phone?”
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