The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  Nodding slowly, I pull away and scrub my hands over my eyes. I’m still in my clothes from yesterday. I’m in desperate need of a shower.

  “I—I must have. Why are you still here? Shouldn’t you be at work already?”

  “It’s Friday. I thought I’d take the morning slow.” He picks up the mug he must’ve set on the desk before he woke me and takes a long drink. “Georgia’s here.”

  “What?” I straighten. “Now?”

  “Mmm.” He buries his acknowledgment in a gulp. “Wanted to know if you’d go with her somewhere. I’ll tell her you’ll be down in two minutes.”

  Just like that, he’s out of my hair. I dart into the closet, change into dark-washed jeans and a black shirt, and then clean my face, brush my teeth, and tie up my hair into a loose ponytail with tendrils falling down the sides. As I’m charging downstairs, Georgia’s and Jack’s laughter echoes through the house. He laughs from deep down in his throat, the way he does when something really tickles him. I haven’t heard him laugh like that in a long time. A month, maybe. I wonder if the stress of the move and our work is taking a toll not only on me, but on Jack and our marriage.

  When I reach the living room, Georgia and Jack are lost in hilarious conversation. They don’t even notice I’ve entered the room. For reasons I can’t explain, I look over the hearth to the painting that hides many faces in its colors and textures.

  “I haven’t laughed like this in years,” Georgia says sweetly, brushing his shoulder before cupping her own face. “Brooke didn’t mention how funny you were.”

  “There was a reason for that,” I mumble under my breath.

  “My cheeks hurt.” Her laugh fades into innocent little giggles. “I needed this today, Jack. Thank you for making me remember what it’s like to live in the moment.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “I’m taking off, Brooke. See you tonight for dinner?”

  “Of course.” I watch Georgia watch my husband walk out the door, and something deep down in my gut pinches. “Jack said you wanted to take me somewhere?”

  “Something like that,” she says urgently, taking my hand and sitting me down on the couch beside her. “I want you to come with me to Pier 39 for the day.”

  I feel my face scrunch because I can’t picture Georgia there amongst all the tourists with their cameras and big families and expensive cheap food. “All right, but isn’t that place a tourist trap? You sure you’re up for it?”

  She nods slowly. “That’s exactly what it is, and exactly what I need. I’ve been so stressed, and to be honest, I’m going out of my mind. I need a distraction. Something that’ll take me away from this place for a bit. It’ll be loud and packed with people. I have to meet someone there for something, but that won’t take long, and then afterward we’ll get clam chowder in a bread bowl for lunch and watch the seals sunbathe on the edge of the pier. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” I say. “Should we invite Erin?”

  She moves toward the door. “I already did, but she has a therapy session with Mason that apparently can’t be rescheduled. Shall we?”

  She’s making this trip sound simple and innocent, but with everything going on—Robert’s disappearance, the death threats, the ransom note, and the phone number on that scrap of paper—I can tell she’s hiding something major.

  And I’m going to find out what it is.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ERIN

  “I don’t know why you dragged me here,” Mason whispers, the deep baritone of his voice echoing off the open ceiling in Theresa’s office. “Therapy is a waste of time.”

  If Mason were a toddler, he’d be stamping his feet, destroying the backseat of the car, and clawing for purchase at everything within arm’s reach. Instead, he’s a grown-ass man with a scowl and a piss-poor attitude. His arms have been folded all the way here, he’s barely said two words to me, and even now, as I sit next to him on the modern couch, flipping a Cosmopolitan magazine, I can feel annoyance radiating from his body.

  “No it’s not,” I say, checking to make sure Theresa hasn’t sneaked in behind us. “We can all use it.”

  Especially people with anger issues. But I keep that nugget to myself.

  “You’re really drinking the Kool-Aid,” he says. “Can’t believe it.”

  “I loved Kool-Aid as a child. Didn’t you?”

  “Only the cherry.” He glances at me, and something smolders down in his eyes. The hint of a smile curves his full mouth. “Seriously, Erin, I could think of a million things I’d rather be doing right now than sitting here waiting for our therapist.”

  His hand finds my knee, and for a moment I’m tempted to succumb to his plan, but when the door clicks behind us, I’m reminded why we’re here. Mason is lying about where he was the evening Robert went missing. And I have a feeling he’s cheating on me. Clearly Theresa suspects infidelity too. We’re broken, and we need to fix “us.”

  As Theresa’s floral scent wafts into the room, Mason removes his hand from my knee, replacing it in his lap.

  “Sorry for making you wait,” she says, sliding into the chair across from us. “I’m so glad you both came in this morning.”

  She’s wearing a pale blue pencil skirt dotted with tiny bouquets of red roses and a matching red cardigan over a blue tank. Her stilettos are nude, making her legs seem impossibly long. Her dark hair is twirled up and piled on top of her head, and today she’s stuck a pencil through the loose mop. I glance down absentmindedly and pick a piece of lint off my leggings. For the first time since taking a hiatus from the station, I miss dressing like a businesswoman.

  “Where would you like to start?” she asks, her tender gaze flipping between us.

  “How about the way Mason lied to me, and the police for that matter, about his whereabouts,” I say, feigning indifference as I sit up straighter. “That seems like as good a place as any.”

  “Whoa.” He laughs nervously. “Nothing like not easing into things. Can’t we start with something smaller? Like how I’m such a workaholic or need to cut back on my drinking?”

  “We only have an hour.” She shrugs unsympathetically. “What makes you uncomfortable with discussing your whereabouts?”

  His legs begin to twitch. “I’m not uncomfortable. I just thought we would ease into this conversation.”

  “The detectives came to see us about Georgia’s husband’s disappearance,” I blurt. Mason’s hand moves to my knee. He squeezes, a cue he’d like me to look at him, but I ignore the request. “They asked point-blank where Mason was after he left the yacht that night, and he lied to their faces. And he lied to me too. Asked me to corroborate his story. I don’t know for sure, but I think that’s a crime.”

  Theresa turns to Mason, a quizzical hitch of her eyebrows making her appear ten years younger. “How did you answer their question, Mason?”

  Sighing, he removes his hand from my knee and shoves both hands beneath his thighs. “I said the truth. I was at home in bed. I called the office on my way home, had them email over some paperwork, worked until ten, and watched SportsCenter until I fell asleep.”

  “And that’s truly what happened?” she asks.

  “No,” I blurt, before he can lie. “He wasn’t home. He wanted me to tell them that he was home. That’s different. He told me he was at work. I’d simply like to know where he was, that’s all.”

  “It sounds as if it’s the deception that has your wife upset,” Theresa explains. “Can you understand that?”

  “Of course I can. I’m not a moron.” Turning toward me completely, Mason drags one leg over the other and glares. “But you think I had something to do with Robert’s disappearance. The doubt is written all over your face. You don’t trust me, and that’s what I have a problem with.”

  How could he possibly think he can spin this around
in his favor? Has he lost his mind? I’m not the one lying. I can’t look at him without feeling like my heart is going to beat out of my chest, so I stare straight ahead, at Theresa, our mediator, my saving grace. “If saying I don’t believe you were at home or at work means I don’t trust you, then fine. I don’t trust you. Forgive me for wanting to know where my husband was the night my friend’s fiancé went missing.”

  “I’d really rather not tell you.”

  Tears sting my eyes. “Fine. That’s fine.”

  He’s cheating. I know he is.

  He throws his head back and groans obnoxiously. “There goes the surprise. I was in the city buying something for you. All right? Can we drop it now?”

  “For me?”

  “I was…” He shakes his head rapidly. “Jesus, I can’t do a fucking thing without you questioning my motives, not even something that is going to benefit our marriage. You really do enjoy sucking the pleasure out of everything…except me, of course. Because if you did that, we wouldn’t need fucking therapy.”

  “Easy, Mason,” Theresa coos. “We want to keep our words encouraging, and our minds open. If you were truly doing something positive for your marriage, perhaps you can give a few details, and still keep the surprise?”

  I hold his gaze and see a flicker of something there. I don’t know if it’s truth or lie or laughter, but it’s a spark I’ve seen before.

  For our fifth wedding anniversary, we made reservations at JW’s, my favorite Italian restaurant in the city. The place was painted deep red, wall to wall, with tiny lights hanging down from the ceiling as if it were raining specks of illuminated glitter. Coolest effect ever. After dinner, Mason took my hand and led me to the powder room, where he pinned me up against the door and made love to me. When we left the cramped room together, hand in hand, cheeks flushed pink, it was clear from the waitress’s disapproving glare that she knew what’d happened. Mason’s eyes lit up the way they are lit up now when he said, “Dessert was better than the dinner.”

  I wonder what he’s hiding now…

  He leans over, planting his elbows on his knees, and rubs his hands together briskly. “I was at Tiffany’s.”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to do something nice for you. I thought I’d buy that necklace you’ve had your eyes on.”

  “Mason, the Tiffany’s on Post Street closes at six, and the one on Market closes at five. You left the yacht later than that.”

  He pounds his fists against his knees. “See that? No trust.”

  Theresa blinks slowly, calmly. “Would you mind clarifying so she’s not confused? Did you go to Tiffany’s in the East Bay, perhaps?”

  “No,” he bites out. “A guy said his girlfriend was a supervisor at the store on Post. She offered to make an exception and open up the store for a private showing so I could surprise you.”

  Now I’m the suspicious asshole. “You could’ve told me.”

  “And spoil this wonderful surprise?” He sneers.

  “You really got me that necklace?” Grazing my hand over his knee, I give it a reassuring squeeze. “When were you planning on giving it to me?”

  “I don’t know.” He meets my gaze once again. This time, the light is gone. “I suppose I was waiting for a special night.”

  Then I might’ve been waiting forever.

  “Sounds like you’re really making headway,” Theresa says. “Our time is nearly up. I think that’s a good place to leave off for today.”

  Mason lifts his hand. “Can we address something else before we go? Something that’s going to save our marriage more than these sessions? Can we get Erin on some anxiety pills? Heavy-duty ones. She needs to pop those things like M&Ms.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  BROOKE

  This morning, as the sun rose, I’d thought it was going to be a beautiful day. Instead, it’s only gotten colder. Thick plumes of moisture have moved in fast, blanketing the city in clouds of gray. The wind has picked up, and tourists have started bracing for the cold. A twenty-something woman walks by, holding her screaming toddler’s hand as his hat flies off his head, and street artists scramble to clip their paper canvases to cardboard. Once we’re down the pier and between the businesses, the wind appears to die and we’re offered a reprieve from the weather.

  Georgia hasn’t said much since we arrived. The area is bustling with people, as we knew it would be. Perhaps she’s not comfortable making conversation with this many people around who could overhear and somehow misconstrue her words.

  “How are you holding up?” I ask as we walk past a sign offering whale tours. I wonder if Georgia is thinking about what else might be floating out in the bay. “Have you heard anything from the detectives?”

  Fiddling with the strap of her Louis Vuitton bag, Georgia stares at every single person who passes us, her expression grim. “Detective Linard called yesterday evening, but he was only checking in. Nothing new yet.”

  “Did you tell him about the note?”

  She looks at me as if gauging whether to let me in on whatever secrets are swimming in her head. “I can’t. For Robert’s sake, I have to try to figure this out on my own.”

  “The letter seemed really cryptic,” I say, treading carefully. “Do you know what the person meant by ‘hold up your end of the deal’?”

  “Whoever sent it is clearly crazy. I have no idea what he was talking about. I just want my fiancé back. This was supposed to be the happiest time of our lives.” She checks over her shoulder, and seems to focus on something behind us. “I miss tiny, insignificant things about him, you know? Like the way he would kiss my forehead, or place my hand on his knee while we watched movies. I’m not trying to say we were perfect all the time, because there were definitely days when I’d wished he’d stay out on his yacht more often…but I never wished for this.”

  The sadness in her eyes seems genuine, but that’s not possible. Two husbands dead. A future third mysteriously disappeared. No one could believe she’s simply unlucky in love, not at this point.

  “I can understand what you’re saying. Jack makes me feel safe, which is important to me. I know he’d never hurt me. But I like the fact that he works so much because when I’m home alone, I can finally be myself. I can let my guard down. I don’t have to worry about being perfect.”

  “The pressure’s always there, isn’t it,” she says. A statement, not a question. She checks behind her again, and sucks in a deep breath. She increases her pace. “Listen, I’m already hungry. Why don’t we head into Eagle Cafe for an early lunch? It’s always been one of my favorite restaurants in the city.”

  “Sounds great.”

  We head up to level two, where we’re spoiled with amazing views of the bay, the pier next door, and the seals who’ve gathered to sunbathe in the pale light of the sun. The place is relatively empty, so we’re seated at a table beside the windows.

  “Perfect,” Georgia says, though she doesn’t sit when I do. Instead, she clutches the rail of the chair and rolls her fingers over the back nervously. “I just realized I left my wallet in the car. Would you order me the steamed clams and the fresh salmon? Oh, and an iced tea. Give me five or ten minutes?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, pretending to be offended. “Your lunch is on me today.”

  She scans the faces of the other people in the restaurant, her darkened gaze finally coming to rest on someone or something outside. “Thank you, but I wouldn’t feel right about that. I’ll be right back.”

  When the waitress makes her way over, I order what Georgia requested, including a calamari appetizer and a Cobb salad for myself. I’m looking out the window at the seals lounging lazily, barking at one another like old married couples, when I spot Georgia striding over the pedestrian walkway into the parking garage. It’s not hard to spot her in a crowd. She walks with confidence, her head high, steps sure
, and she’s decked out in red and pink, like a shining beacon on this dreary day.

  I watch her disappear into the shadows of the garage and thank the waitress when she delivers our drinks. Sipping the iced tea, I happen to catch a glimpse of Georgia as she steps out of the elevators onto the fourth floor, where she’d parked. Rather than continuing toward her car, she checks over her shoulder, twice, and then walks gingerly beside the concrete railing toward a large post.

  She stops with a jolt. At first, I can’t see what’s stopped her, can’t tell what she’s looking at. But then I see him. Dressed in black pants, and a matching hoodie. He has his hands in his pockets.

  She’s meeting someone.

  The ransom.

  “Shit.” My gut clenches. “It’s going down now?”

  I don’t know whether to stay where I am and record the incident in case something goes south or run to meet her so she has backup. But what would I do in that situation anyway? Probably make things worse. Heart pounding, I fish my phone from my purse and start recording.

  They talk for one minute and ten seconds, according to my phone, before the energy changes. Georgia’s pointing at him now, nearly jabbing him in the chest. She’s heated, though even when I zoom in, I can’t read her lips. The man takes a step back, hands still in his pockets. She digs through her purse and comes out with a tiny piece of paper. The man doesn’t take it. He looks at it and spits.

  She takes a step back. He pulls out a gun, pointing it directly at her chest.

  I jump from my seat and flag down the waitress, blurting something about forgetting my purse in my car, although it’s slung over my arm. Charging across the pedestrian walkway, I pray for the man to show restraint, for Georgia to come out of this alive.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, I’m at the top of the fourth flight, exhausted, panting, when I hear Georgia’s voice. She’s panicked, but not screaming. She’s holding it together. He hasn’t fired. I won’t do her any good if I can’t breathe. I need a second to compose myself. To make a plan that’ll get us both out of this mess.