“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“I’m calling the police. He might’ve gone overboard. I have to do something. We’re getting married in three days, and I need—hello, this is Georgia St. Claire and I’m calling to report a missing person. My fiancé…”
As she paces, I stand beside Brooke, who smells like lavender, vanilla, and sunshine. She must’ve gotten the expensive goodies. I wonder why Georgia didn’t put that deliciousness in my stateroom? “Will you stay, Brooke? Take care of her? I have to run. My meeting, remember?”
“You’re not…” She glances back at Georgia, who’s rambling on to dispatch about our location, and what transpired last night. “…worried about Robert?”
“No way.” I hitch my purse over my shoulder. “He probably skipped out as soon as we docked to go have breakfast. You’ll see—he’ll show up. Will you tell Georgia I’ll call her later?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Heading out, I turn back to Georgia and wave. She tries to ask me something—probably where I’m headed in the middle of her crisis—but I can’t stay. I have a meeting to talk about how amazing I am, and how much they want me back.
When I reach the end of the dock, I spot the Uber waiting for me and slip inside. I text Georgia on the way to the station, letting her know I’ll call her when I’m finished. She’ll understand. Besides, Brooke is there, so she won’t be alone.
The station comes into view on the right a short drive later. I probably could’ve walked here, had I not been wearing wedges, had I gotten up an hour earlier, and you know, actually enjoyed exercising. Nonetheless, the building itself is five stories tall, stuck between two brick industrial studios, and painted dull gray with red awnings. I pay the fare on the app and exit the car, taking a moment to stand on the sidewalk and gaze up at the building as if I’m seeing it for the first time.
“I’ve missed you,” I say, as a car honks down the street. “Home sweet home.”
Inside, the lobby’s quiet, as usual. I throw a wave and a smile to the receptionist—never actually gotten her name—and head into the elevator, doing a little jig to “What’s Love Got to Do with It” as it plays through the speakers. When the doors whisk open, I weave through the cubicles toward Bill Hardwick’s office. I look for Monique, or the camera guys, but don’t see them just yet. They’re probably waiting for me in my dressing room. They’re going to be so surprised to see me.
Striding into Bill’s office as if I own the place, I close the glass door behind me and spread my arms out wide. “Tell me how much you miss me.”
Bill looks at me over the top of his black-rimmed glasses. He’s got to be in his sixties, the skin on his face sagging, jowls hanging loosely on either side of his mouth. He’s been at this company so long, he’s starting to look like the building. Gray hair. Gray suit. Red tie. “Thank you for coming in. Take a seat.”
He motions to a square leather chair in front of his oblong desk, and I sit delicately on the edge, clasping my hands in my lap so they don’t fidget. This was not the welcome I’d been expecting. While Bill and I haven’t been what I would consider friends, we’re closer than his current demeanor is letting on. We banter back and forth. We give each other hell. He’s sarcastic with a dry sense of humor, and I’ve always enjoyed working for him. The serious line of his mouth is not giving me good vibes.
He takes a long sip of his steaming coffee and then leans far back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. His dress shirt stretches over his belly, nearly popping the buttons. “Want to explain what the hell happened on Monday?”
“Of course.” I’d fully planned on having to explain myself, and I have my story ready to go. “I was having a terrible day, and—”
“Piss on your day, Erin.” He jerks forward so hard his chair gives a sharp snap. “We all have bad days. I’m always having a bad day. Yet I get my ass to work, I don’t complain, and I get the job done. You don’t see me flippin’ the bird and walkin’ out of here, do you?”
“No, but you don’t have to sit and listen to Ted run his goddamn mouth.”
“Christ, this is not about Ted!” He smacks his fat hands on his desk. “This is about you, Erin. You’re a professional—at least I thought you were. You disappointed me. I expected more from you.”
An awful tingling sensation crawls up my spine.
I’m not here because they want me back.
“I’m sorry I let you down,” I say, changing my approach.
“You walked out, Erin. On air.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Goddamn right it won’t.”
I’m fired. My insides sour. “Bill, I’m so incredibly sorry for letting you, the station, and my coworkers down. My bad day, or Ted’s attitude, was no excuse for my terrible behavior.”
He shakes his head. “You were my favorite, you know that?”
There’s still a crack in his defenses. He likes me, he always has. “Do you want me to beg, Bill? Is that it? You want to see me on my knees?”
A light flares in his dark eyes. But wait—take it back, take it back, take it back. That’s not what I meant, and now he might want—now he thinks that I’m offering—oh God. I spoke too fast, let my mouth steamroll over my thoughts. And now the sexual innuendo’s out there and he’s staring at me, trying to decipher my intent, and my palms are hot and my head is swimming. What do I say? I’m married, he knows that, he’s met Mason at our Christmas parties. Bill’s married too, to Shirley. She’s sweet, great family, two kids, longtime marriage. He can’t think that I’d get down on my knees and…God, please, no.
“It’s an interesting proposition,” he says, unmoving, as if he’s suddenly turned to stone. “I’ve always wondered if you were too good to beg.”
I’m sweating. My thighs are sticking to the seat. I don’t know how to respond, so I sit silent, staring, waiting for the verdict.
“You know I can’t slide you back into your normal time slot, don’t you? We’ve replaced you with Hillary Gleaves. New girl on the scene. Came to us from our sister network. She’s real…perky.”
I nod slowly, willing the moisture to return to my mouth so I can stop swallowing cotton. If they’ve replaced me already, that means I’m finished.
“So you realize that if I find you a spot elsewhere, that’s very generous of me, because I don’t have to accept your apology. I don’t have to do a goddamn thing for you if I don’t want to.” He rolls his fingers along the smooth curves of his coffee mug. “I’d be doing you a favor. I could just as easily kick you out of here and tell you never to come back.”
“I understand.” Isn’t there air-conditioning in this place? Has it stopped working since I left? Good God, it’s downright sticky in here. “I’d be happy to work in any time slot, with anyone. Even Ted. I’d promise to be on my best behavior.”
He stares at something on his computer screen as if it’s captured his attention. Or perhaps whatever he’s about to say next is making it hard to look me in the eye. “If I do this for you—if I put my neck out this way—I’d expect you to return the favor at some point. You’d have to do something for me.”
Yup, it was the second part. He’s uncomfortable, and can’t look at me. But it’s not stopping him from asking for what he wants, the pig. I throw up a little in my mouth, quickly swallow down the bile, and cover my revulsion with a cough.
“Wha—what would I have to do?” I ask.
He smiles tightly. “We can decide that later. No need to rush into an agreement now. But the offer I have right now might not sit well with you.”
You mean like this whole conversation?
“Are you still friends with Georgia St. Claire?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. I’m afraid to say more. If I start rambling, I’ll sound like a tool. “I am.”
“Good.” He takes another
long drink. “I want you to cover the story. Her past husbands’ deaths, her new fiancé, the wedding, all of it. No one’s been able to get an interview from her, but something tells me you can.”
My heart pounds in my ears. “You want me to betray my friend.”
“Not at all. I want you to do your job. You’re a journalist. If you uncover a few skeletons in her closet, then all the better. Given your access to her, it should be easy to rattle a few bones around. People have covered her story before, so it’s not like you’d be the first one to give her the moniker the Black Widow. But we’ll be the first to get an interview, and that’ll make up for your bad behavior…especially if her fiancé dies. We can only hope.”
“That’s not very nice. She caught a good one this time.”
“And the last ones weren’t?”
Eli and Andrew were plucked from the same cloth. They both loved Georgia, but much too intensely. Love quickly flipped to obsession, and neither wanted her to remain the vibrant firecracker she’d been when they were dating. The only difference between them was the amount of time it took to make the first blow. According to Eli, he wasn’t an abuser because open-handed slaps didn’t count. The bruises on her cheeks spoke otherwise. He hit her the night of their wedding, when she said she was too tired to pleasure him. Andrew didn’t start pushing her around until they’d been married a month. He’d claimed it was her fault, that she pushed his buttons until he exploded. He said she was manipulative and should’ve known better. I think she should’ve known better than to marry him. She doesn’t talk about those marriages much. I wouldn’t either. Not many good memories there.
I blow out a shaky breath and swipe my hands on the shorts I took from her an hour ago. “She’s not going to like this.”
“Maybe not,” he says, “but under the circumstances, this is the only position I can offer. I’m sure she’ll be busy with wedding planning this week, and I want you by her side as much as possible. Do whatever you have to, but get that interview. When you have the date and time, let me know and we’ll send Monique and a camera crew. If we can get cameras to the wedding, that’s even better. We’ll run the special after this weekend. You always said you wanted to take your career to the next level, Erin. This is your chance. I guess the only question you have to ask yourself now is, how bad do you want it?”
I excuse myself from his office and head back out onto the street. That didn’t go at all how I’d expected, but I also might have just received everything I wanted. Without a set schedule to work, I’ll have more time to spend with Mason. I don’t have to work with Ted anymore. I’ll have my own segment, my own special. I won’t have to come into work this week. All my focus will be on Georgia and her over-the-top wedding, a mere three days away.
But at some point Bill’s going to want his favor repaid. And I have no idea how I’m going to respond when that happens.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BROOKE
I haven’t left Georgia’s side since Erin walked off the yacht. She hasn’t wanted to be alone, and I don’t blame her. Raul and Erin are on the same page. They think it’s typical of Robert to take off without warning. Only there are a few things awry that can’t be explained away.
One is that, wherever Robert went, he left his wallet and keys on the bedside table in the yacht’s master suite. If he, in fact, decided to head to a pub, or anywhere really, wouldn’t he need money or an ID? Georgia is continuously checking the tracker app on her phone, and claims Robert’s phone battery is dead. She insists his last known location was on the ship, as it sailed beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Or perhaps that’s the last time it updated. Either way, he needs his phone, and he left his charger behind as well.
The other strange thing that can’t be accounted for is Robert’s Porsche 911 Carrera convertible, still in the parking lot. I suppose it’s not strange that it’s there, in the literal sense, because he left his keys behind. But if he “left,” as Erin suggests, why wouldn’t he have taken his car?
Georgia gives me a lift home, using the keys he left behind, and asks me to come inside. When she’d called from the yacht, the police responded that they’d meet her at her residence to take a report. Jack will be working most of the day, and although I really need to squeeze in a few hours of writing time today, I don’t want to leave her alone.
Especially since the police are coming.
The writing can wait, at least until they’ve gone.
As Georgia escorts me into the grand entry, I take everything in. Intricate detail in the oversized tile. Crystal chandelier overhead. Winding staircase. An airy living room that bleeds into the dining room, which flows into the kitchen.
“In here,” she says, and leads me through gigantic doors on our immediate left. “Hurry. They’ll be here any minute and I want to be ready.”
I don’t know what she means, but I follow her inside anyway. It’s an office, and if rooms had genders, this one would most definitely be male. Black leather furniture. Cherrywood desk and matching bookshelves. Models of yachts and mechanical books everywhere. A lamp on the corner of the desk and a thick book splayed open in the center. Laptop closed on the far corner. Dark, cigar-colored rug in front of an electric fireplace.
“Grab that chest for me, would you?” she says with a snap. “The small wooden one on the lower shelf by the door.”
As she strides around the desk and slides into the rolling chair, I notice that she’s comfortable in this space. Perhaps I’d been wrong in my earlier assessment—this could be her office. Out of curiosity, I eye the blood-red walls, ornate crown molding, and wonder if Andrew had shot himself in this office or whether that had been in another. Had his blood splattered across the windows looking out over the lawn behind her?
“Brooke?” She looks up at me. “The chest?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking how beautiful this space is.”
“In times like these, it’s important to remain focused.”
Times like these. A husband gone missing? Police on the way? I’m not sure what she means, but I locate the small wooden chest latched with a gold lock and set it on the edge of the desk as she brings the laptop to life.
“Do you need me to do anything else?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says sharply. “Watch the door. Tell me when you see their car pull up. I don’t want to be caught unaware.”
Standing in the doorway, feeling more like a criminal’s lookout than a friend, I watch her sift through the top drawer of the desk and come out with a tiny gold key. She unlocks the chest, pops it open, and begins digging. Then, laser-focused on the screen, she taps the keyboard furiously, referring back to a single sheet of paper pulled from the chest. It’s so small, hardly larger than a receipt. There’s calmness in her movements, smoothness in her urgency that’s absolutely captivating. Whatever she’s doing, it’s important, and I want nothing more than to ask her about it. But I know I can’t.
I’ll have to come back in here later and search through the chest myself…
A single unmarked Charger pulls up to the curb.
“Georgia,” I warn softly. “They’re here.”
“One minute.” She pounds the keyboard, a determined gleam in her eyes. “Okay. Sent.”
She pushes a few more buttons, slams the laptop lid closed, replaces the key and the chest, and is at the door before the officers have made it up the driveway. She brushes her hands down her vibrantly floral dress. “Thanks for being with me today. I appreciate your help.”
“No problem,” I say.
And then she transforms before my eyes. A moment before opening the door, she was composed—definitely concerned, but not frazzled in the slightest. It appeared as if something had gone terribly wrong, but she had a firm handle on how to fix it. But the moment before Georgia opens the door, she changes. Her shoulders roll forward, ever so slightly, causing her to appear frail,
like a victim who can’t take another beating. Her eyebrows pinch together with worry, and her voice—even that changes by rising an octave.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you, Officers, come in,” she says, her tone laced with fear. “The living room is this way.”
She leads us toward a couch that’s been perfectly staged with pillows and throw blankets, its cushions firm and clearly not for comfort. The detectives sit beside each other as Georgia and I take the chairs opposite them. Georgia introduces me as her “good friend” who was on the yacht when Robert went missing.
“I’m Detective Basil Linard,” the handsome one says. His features are sharp, his nose pointed, skin deeply tanned. He’s in a deep blue suit and tie, while the other, a younger officer with blondish hair and boyish features, is in slacks and a thin-striped polo shirt. “This is Officer Pangburn. What can we do for you, Ms. St. Claire?”
She wrings her hands together in her lap. “I told your dispatcher that I need to file a missing person report. My fiancé, Robert Donnelly, disappeared sometime last night, and we need to find him. Our wedding is Saturday.”
Linard pulls an iPad from the crook of his arm and taps the screen. “We were informed of that. I’m sure the dispatcher told you that we generally encourage waiting twenty-four hours before filing that kind of report.”
“Even when I know something’s gone wrong?”
He looks up at her, his gaze icy. “Dispatch didn’t inform us that there was any foul play involved, but if you have any information of the sort, we’d love to hear it.”
Georgia looks to me. “Brooke saw something. Tell them.”
“I—I don’t know what I saw.”
The detectives turn their gazes to me.
“I…” My throat suddenly dries. “I woke up when something started banging on the edge of the yacht near my head. I went out on deck and thought I saw a blacked-out boat in the distance.”
“You thought you saw?” Linard parrots.
The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives Page 10