The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  “Mason would kill you,” she finishes for me. “I know. I’m going to request a meeting. See if we can come to some kind of agreement.”

  My pulse quickens. “Georgia, no. That’s not a solution. Just let me stew on it for a bit. I’ll think of something.”

  “There’s no other way, Erin. He’s not going to stop, and you know it. I’ll be smart. I’ll make sure it’s a public place—somewhere there’s lots of people and ways I can escape if something goes wrong. But I have to do something. I won’t forgive myself if something happens to Robert.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone. We’ve never met him in person before. Once you see his face, you’ll be able to identify him to the police. What makes you think he won’t come after you next?”

  She seems to chew over what I’ve said. “Because I’m the one with the money. I’ll let you know my plans, Erin. Promise.”

  We part ways and I cross the street in a hurry, thinking about Georgia meeting this dangerous man. Anything could happen. She can’t go alone. But I’m paralyzed with fear at the mere thought of going with her.

  “They’re in the living room,” Mason says when I reach our entry. Gripping my elbow, he guides me inside, though there’s no urgency in him. His tone and hands are steady. He leans down and whispers hurriedly in my ear. “We can’t afford to get roped into all this.”

  “What’s going on?” I whisper back. “What do they want?”

  He closes the door behind me. “She killed him.”

  “What? Who?”

  “You had to have seen it coming.”

  I peer into the living room at the two detectives’ backs. They’ve settled into the couches in positions where they have a perfect view of our patio and pool. They’re talking with each other.

  “They think Georgia killed Robert?” I squeak. “How do they know? I mean, what makes them think that? Did they find his body?”

  “No, no, that’s not what they’re saying yet—it’s early—but you know that’s what happened. She doesn’t exactly have a stellar record.”

  I lower my voice further. “But they weren’t even married yet.”

  “Clearly she’s getting ahead of herself.”

  I remember how we’d joked about “bonus points” if Robert were killed with the sinking of his yacht. My phone burns in my pocket. As soon as I’m away from Mason, I’m deleting the pictures of breakfast from my Instagram account.

  Mason grips me around the shoulders with sudden urgency. “Listen, we don’t have much time. We have to get back in there, but I came home right after I left you on the yacht. I didn’t go into work. You came home in the morning, and I was still asleep.”

  I look into his dark eyes, first one, then the other. “I actually tried to ping your location, but the service was turned off. When I texted you right before I went to sleep, you said you were still at the office.”

  He casts a glance at the detectives. “No, Erin, I didn’t go to work. You wanted to make sure I’d made it home all right, so you checked my location on your phone, the way you always do, and it showed I was home the rest of the night. Got it?”

  “Yes, but…” Confusion wars within me. “Where were you, really?”

  “We don’t have time to talk about it now, but you need to say this for me. You can do that, can’t you? Erin, sweetheart?” He cups my cheek in his hand the way he used to do eight years ago, when we first started dating. I can’t remember the last time he did that. “You ready to talk to the police? Or do you need to take some time to get yourself together? I can tell them you’re freshening up or something.”

  I shake my head, though I can’t seem to move the rest of my body. “I—I can. I’m ready.”

  “Good.” His jaw is clenched tight and he’s lost all light in his eyes. “That’s my girl. Come on. Let’s get in there and show ’em what a power couple looks like.”

  We walk into the living room hand in hand. When Mason’s in front of the detectives, he’s a new man, full of professionalism and cordial smiles, his shoulders relaxed, his tone even.

  “This is my wife, Erin,” I hear him say. “But you said you met before, at Georgia’s house. Honey,” Mason presses, “could you get these men something to drink? Water? Tea?”

  Water would be great, I think. I’m parched.

  But he hadn’t asked if I wanted something to drink at all.

  The detectives decline in a flurry of mumbles and take a seat on the couch in front of the windows. Mason’s at my side a moment later, leading me to sit beside him on the couch behind us. I nearly stumble into the coffee table.

  “My wife,” Mason says on a laugh, wrapping his arm around me. His voice has an edge to it, but I doubt the officers will catch it. “Such a klutz. Her legs are continually bruised from running into all our furniture. But let’s get down to what you two gentlemen are doing here. We’re worried sick, aren’t we, sweetheart? We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

  “Yes,” I say. It’s all I can think of through the murk that’s taken up residence in my mind. “Terrible.”

  I feel Mason’s glare heat the side of my face, but I can’t look at him. Not now. The detectives would surely pick up on the uncertainty and doubt and frustration I feel about him at this moment. As if through a tunnel, I hear the officers talk about the yacht and questioning Raul, the helmsman of the boat. They mention Georgia a handful of times, but I can’t piece anything together until Mason squeezes my hand.

  “Honey, Detective Linard asked you a question.”

  “Hmm?” I shake my head slightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it.”

  “How well do you know Ms. St. Claire’s fiancé?” he asks, an iPad sitting illuminated on his lap.

  If I tell the truth, will it give them reason to believe I had something to do with his disappearance?

  “We would hang out often,” Mason answers for me. “Perhaps weekly we’d gather for dinner at one of our homes.”

  “A few more questions and we’ll be out of your hair,” Detective Linard says, looking up to meet my gaze squarely. “Georgia said only Mrs. King stayed overnight on the yacht. And you, Mr. King? Where did you go after you left the party?”

  “Here,” Mason says rather too quickly.

  Linard swipes up on his screen. “Georgia said you had to work late.”

  “That’s right, I should’ve clarified,” Mason answers. “My wife stayed without me, while I called the office and got the information I needed to work from home. It was late, I was tired, so I changed my mind. I came straight here, called my wife, worked on a few files, and went to sleep. It was an uneventful evening.”

  Mason squeezes my hand so hard I think he’s going to break it in two. But I can’t fill in the details of a night that didn’t happen, not when it’s been thrust on me this way. Lies are bitter going down.

  “Where do you work?” the detective asks Mason.

  “King Plastic Surgery in Lower Haight. We’re directly adjacent to Wave Surgery Center, which offers outpatient services. Our facility is state-of-the-art to ensure that each patient receives the highest quality of care and technology.”

  “Sounds like you’ve memorized the brochure,” the squattier officer says. “You’re the owner, then?”

  “That’s right.” Mason’s palm begins to sweat. “I work long hours. Which is what it takes to build a successful business. Things are going well, though. Better than expected. We’ve increased the services we offer and have grown two hundred percent in patient numbers this year alone.”

  “Impressive,” the detective says. “I’m assuming you have a large staff.”

  I laugh at the innuendo. When no one else joins me, I clear my throat and force myself to quiet. Large staff. If they only knew. Mason’s been researching penis extensions for years. As much as I tell him it’s fine, he’s fine, he doesn’t need to und
ergo such a dramatic surgery, he won’t let it go. Like a dog with a bone, that guy. I mentally chuckle at the images now flying through my head.

  “We do,” Mason says proudly. “Three surgeons besides me, with five assistants, and a handful of office staff.”

  “Who answered your call?”

  His finger ticks against my hand. “Excuse me?”

  “You said you called the office.” Linard looks up from his iPad. “Who’d you talk to?”

  “Forgive my asking, but why is this important?”

  He drops my hand and folds his arms over his chest. He’s hiding something. But what? There’s no way he had anything to do with Robert’s disappearance two nights ago.

  “We’re gathering as much information as we can, Mr. King, to try to bring Mr. Donnelly home to his fiancée.” Detective Linard swipes across his screen. “Back to the night in question. Do you remember who you talked to at your office?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t remember,” Mason says.

  “But your office typically closes at six, correct? And what time would you say you left the yacht?”

  “Late. I didn’t check the clock, so I don’t want to give you a specific time and be wrong. Wouldn’t want you to think you’d caught me in some kind of lie. But my office staff regularly works late. Still, I don’t know what my calling the office has to do with Robert going missing anyway.”

  Linard makes a throaty, patronizing sound. “How would you classify his emotional state when you saw him last?”

  “I wouldn’t pretend to know what another man feels before he gets married.” Mason is a ball of tension beside me, perched on the edge of the couch, his face a stony mask of irritation. “Nervous? Scared?”

  I want to ask if he felt either of those emotions when he married me, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Do you recall him saying or doing anything unusual?” Linard asks. “Anything out of character that you can remember?”

  “Nothing.”

  Something in the finality of Mason’s tone warns that this conversation is over. Linard must pick up on the cue because he shakes hands, bids us well, and leaves without saying if he’ll return. As friendly—innocent—neighbors must, Mason locks the door and sets the alarm with a curse.

  “That was intense,” I say, rubbing my hands over my arms to stave off the chill. “I’m glad they’re gone.”

  “For now. They’ll be back.”

  He heads upstairs, leaving me reeling. He doesn’t think that’s it, does he? I follow him into our room, heart in my throat. I find him in the closet, undressing. He’s already down to his socks and checkered boxers, and plowing his way through the buttons of his white dress shirt.

  “So…where were you?” I ask.

  He curses under his breath as he jerks out of his shirt and flicks it into the basket. “You sound like the detective. He was quite the prick, wasn’t he?”

  “Don’t change the subject, Mason.”

  “Fuck, Erin.” He throws his hands into the air and lets them hit against his sides. “I’m done being interrogated for the day. Let it go.”

  I watch him shrug into a black T-shirt and shorts and slam his feet into his running shoes. “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “To the gym.” Standing erect once more, he whirls on me, closing the distance between us with a single aggressive step. “Unless you want to make this into a fight. Is that where this is headed?”

  I try to exhale heavily, but a pathetic stream of air pushes out instead. “I don’t want a fight. I just want to know why you wanted me to lie for you. You weren’t at home, were you?”

  “No.”

  “And you weren’t at work…”

  “For fuck’s sake!” He jerks his thick mop of jet-black hair. When he brings his gaze back to mine, his expression is marred by fury. “You think I had something to do with what happened to Robert.”

  “No, of course not, I—”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened to that asshole! I don’t know where he fucking went, but I doubt your best friend could say the same.” He gestures aggressively with his hands, barely missing my face. “You want to know what happened to Robert, look across the fucking street! Jesus, Erin, you really have a penchant for pissing me off.”

  As he continues on his rampage, spitting and snarling and charging through the closet to the bathroom, I follow on his heels, struggling to find something to say that will make him understand. But his words are sick and mean and as he leans over the sink, spewing hatred, all I can think about is how I would tag this image of him. He whirls on me, jabbing his finger in my face. #EveryCoupleFights or #IShouldn’tHaveSaidAnything would work, but as I’m thinking about whether I should push further, he’s on me, against me, using his body to edge me back toward the wall. His eyes don’t resemble Mason’s anymore and I’m cringing and crying and wishing he would hit me so this would all end.

  “I don’t think you had anything to do with Robert going missing,” I say feebly, as his body presses against mine. “I swear, I don’t.”

  “You don’t now, do you?” he barks, spit flying on my cheek. “Now that I’ve made it crystal-goddamn clear. Finally something sank into your thick-ass head. Why do you have to push me to this point every time, Erin? Why do you do this? You couldn’t let it go. Had to keep going, keep poking with those incessant fucking questions. Now I don’t even feel like going to the gym. You got me all riled up.”

  I wait for him to back away, to leave so I can breathe again, but he doesn’t move. He stands over me for what feels like ten slow minutes.

  “Ask the question, Erin,” he seethes, his chest rising and falling heavily against mine. “I know there’s one more in that brain of yours. I’ve been with you long enough to see it’s written all over your ugly-fucking face. Ask it now or forever hold your peace. And I mean it, bitch. If you don’t ask it now, I never want to fucking hear it.”

  I’ve pushed too far. There’s no going back from this. He’s not going to let this go.

  “If you weren’t…” I begin.

  He slaps me on the side of the head. “Speak up! I can’t hear what you said!”

  Shock and humiliation and pain surge through my body. In all the arguments we’ve had, Mason’s never hit me. I’ve been afraid he would, of course, many times. But he’s never actually done it. And he hit me on the side of the head. Not the eye or the cheek or the jaw. No, he hit me where my hair would cover any mark. It’s as if he’s thought this through before. How to get away with it. Wouldn’t that make an interesting Instagram tag? Bet he would get more than a hundred views in five minutes…

  “If you weren’t here, and you weren’t at work,” I push out, fighting back stupid, shameful tears as my head throbs with heat, “who’d you spend the night with?”

  He laughs hoarsely into the side of my face. “None of your goddamn business. That’s who. Bring this up again, to anyone, and I’ll knock you the fuck out.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  BROOKE

  FRIDAY

  I’m upstairs working, typing away, falling in love with Grace and the secondary characters who help her get into trouble. I skim over the last few pages I’ve written and fix a few typos. Not bad. My editor might even say this is my best work. Feeling proud, I remove the headphones from my ears to silence the sound of rain, close my eyes, and take a deep satisfied breath.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Someone’s downstairs.

  I’d been so much in the writing zone, I hadn’t realized the sun set in the last few hours. I’m sitting in the dark, only the blue glare of the computer screen lighting the room. Afraid to click on the office light, I tiptoe into the hall, checking both ways to search for Jack.

  Shouldn’t he be back by now?

  It must be after nine. I don’t know how it happened, but I completely skipp
ed dinner. It’s as if the writing zapped me into some kind of time warp.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Someone’s at the front door.

  It’s dark downstairs too, with only the moonlight streaming through the back windows. Hadn’t there been candles lit earlier?

  “Jack?” I call out.

  Bang!

  Just one hammer of a fist against the door. An answer to my question.

  With the house as quiet as a tomb, I tiptoe toward the front door, and grip the doorknob tightly. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. The knob turns in my hand. The door opens wide.

  Robert is standing in the entryway, covered head to toe in blood. Clots mat his gray hair into thick, disgusting locks. His face streams with a steady flow of crimson. He reaches out for me with both arms extended, pleading for help, for mercy.

  “Brooke!” he screams, clutching at my arms.

  I fight him off, backpedaling. He charges inside, wailing in pain, blood pooling to the floor at his bare feet.

  “Brooke!”

  He has me now, squeezing my arms, his blood soaking my skin.

  “Help…” I try to scream, but my voice is weak, and my throat aches. “Help me!”

  My eyes flip open. Jack is beside me, holding my arms, blocking me from hitting him. I’m sitting at my computer. No one is screaming. No one is covered in blood. Robert’s not here. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I’m out of breath. It was a dream. A terrible nightmare. No amount of rubbing my eyes will eliminate the image now burned there. But I’m safe. Jack’s here. Outside, the sun has just risen, and is barely peeking through the cloud cover overhead.

  “You fell asleep at your computer again,” he says, brushing his hands up and down my arms to soothe me. “Nightmare?”

  I can’t go into detail about what I just saw in my mind’s eye without sounding crazy…or morbid. “I—I was being attacked. It was awful.”

  “Well there’s no reason to be afraid. You’re safe. I’ll protect you.” He embraces me in a long hug that forces me to lean back against him. Rather than comforting, his arms are rigid, his chest hard beneath my head. It’s like being hugged by a tree. “Did you write through the night?”