The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  Georgia and I shake our heads as she says, “No, I’m sorry, Detective.”

  Deflated, his shoulders hunch forward slightly. He’s having a hard time with this case. I wonder if he’s feeling pressure from his superiors. “Is there anything else you’d like to add at this time, Ms. St. Claire?”

  “I—I don’t think so. This is all such a shock…”

  “We’ll be in touch.” When she nods shakily, he says, “I’d like you to call if you think of anything. You still have my number?”

  “Of course.”

  But I doubt Georgia would ever ring him.

  When he’s out of earshot, she leans his umbrella against the cruiser and we make a mad dash for the reprieve of the car. Once inside its safety and warmth, she flings wet hair about her face and turns to me.

  “We have a problem,” she says, strength returning to her voice. “The timing is too perfect. We kill this Danny Johnson guy, and then my Robert turns up here. It’s not a coincidence. No, I have an awful feeling in my gut that there’s someone else involved, and that someone, when he heard his partner wasn’t coming back, dumped Robert in the bay.”

  “It’s also possible that the timing’s coincidental. Maybe Danny Johnson dumped Robert in the bay that night and when his body wasn’t washing up on shore anywhere, he thought he’d get as much money out of you as possible by pretending he was still alive.”

  “I don’t know,” she says hesitantly. “Something just doesn’t feel right about this.”

  “You’ve lost your fiancé. I can’t imagine anything feels right at all.” I brush my hand down her arm to soothe the worry I can see brewing in her eyes. “It’s over now, Georgia.”

  She worries her lower lip between her teeth. “I want to believe that, but I don’t know. If that guy was working with someone, they still might come after me.”

  I don’t want to say the words and acknowledge the truth, but…“Do you want to go back out there and tell the detectives your theory? They might be able to offer you protection.”

  She scoffs. “Did you see the way Linard looked at me? He’s not going to protect me. If anything, he’d try to use me as bait to catch the person who’s still out there. I can’t go to Erin…not anymore. She’s liable to blab all of this to her network friends. I don’t know who I can trust. They say people come into your life when you need them most, Brooke. I’m so glad you moved to the neighborhood.”

  “Me too,” I say, and take her back to Presidio Terrace Prison.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ERIN

  SATURDAY EVENING

  Mason, I care about you, deeply…you have to leave her.

  Georgia’s words scream through my head so loud and repetitive, like a gong being blasted against my skull over and over again. I want to scratch the skin off my face. Rip off my fingernails. Scream until my voice box explodes.

  After Georgia ditched out with Brooke a few hours ago—going God knows where—I demanded Mason take me home. Rather than stay with me, like a good, loyal husband would, he didn’t even get out of the car. Said he was going into the office to work on a few things.

  Work.

  My ass.

  Slamming the car door on the way out, I’m about to charge inside and bury my head in a vat of vodka when something else Mason said echoes through my head.

  I’ll come by sometime next week and trim that unseemly tree in your front yard…

  What the hell had he been talking about? I know it was a cover, but still. What made him think of one of her stupid trees? As his car exits the neighborhood, I stalk across the street, squeezing between two unmarked white vans. Florist and caterer, I’m guessing. I pass a woman in a white apron and two men carrying in the cake, and nod to them as if I’m supposed to be there.

  “Hi. Hello. Good to see you. Beautiful day. Terrible about the groom.”

  I wait until I’m alone in the yard, then, standing beside the front windows, I find the tallest, widest tree. It’s scraggly, but I always thought that was simply the type of tree she’d planted.

  She wants it cut? My husband wants to do it for her? How about I help them both out and trim it myself?

  Storming back across the street, I punch the code on the panel for our garage, and when the door opens with a squeal, I charge inside to search for the pruning shears. I’m not about to trim the tree with scissors—I haven’t lost my mind that badly.

  I care about you deeply.

  The hell she does.

  Georgia’s starting to feel invincible, isn’t she? Untouchable, like she can do whatever she wants. As if no one can touch her. Not even the detectives. I should’ve let Bill bring in all the cameras he wanted. Interview every person attending the reception, slant the story any way he could to boost ratings. Still doesn’t mean I’d do him any favors, but it’d drop Georgia down a peg or two.

  Someone has to put her in her place.

  I’m always happy to be that person, to even out the playing field. First step? Hacking away at the ugly tree in her front yard.

  Shears in my hand, fire burning in my gut, I’m stomping down my driveway when I get the feeling someone is watching me. It’s so extreme, it stops me cold. I scan Brooke’s house, then I look to Georgia’s, and a few of the others on the street. Workers buzz around in and out of the house, but they don’t seem to care about my presence. No curtains ruffle. No one seems to be interested in what I’m doing.

  Down the street, a police cruiser comes into view, rounding the corner before rolling to a stop in front of my house. Feeling transparent, as if they somehow know I’m about to murder her tree, I hold the shears behind me, and traipse backward, waving, until I drop them on the floor in the garage.

  “Ms. King,” an officer says, exiting the car.

  There are two, dressed in black suits, hair slicked back with enough gel to make them look like Ken dolls. They’re stepping over the curb, forcing smiles, prematurely extending their hands.

  I shake them both when the men approach and hope they don’t sense that my insides are trembling. Should’ve gone inside and taken my pills when I first got home. “What can I help you with, Officers?”

  “I don’t know if you remember,” the taller one says, “but I’m Detective Linard, lead on the investigation into the Robert Donnelly missing person case. I came by a few days ago.”

  “Yes, of course I remember.”

  “This is Officer Pangburn, who’s assisting on the case.” The officer smiles as Linard motions toward my front door. “Mind if we talk to you for a moment inside?”

  My spine goes rigid. “Sure.”

  When we’re situated on the couches in the family room, the detectives sit silently, their analytical gazes taking in everything. Just like the last time they were here. Can they see how hard I worked to make my marriage thrive? Can they sense where he slammed my head against the wall? Do they realize this home is solid on the outside and crumbling on the inside?

  “Is your husband here?” Linard asks, finally meeting my gaze.

  “No,” I say, “but he should be home shortly. For now, I suppose, you’ll have to settle for talking to me.”

  I should offer them water or coffee or tea, but I suddenly don’t feel like being the doting housewife. Flushed with nervous energy, I use a small decorative pillow to fan myself. It reads #blessed in squatty black letters.

  “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Mrs. King. You are exactly who we wanted to talk to,” Linard says. “But first, are you all right?”

  “Of course. What’s this about?”

  How much do they know? Have they ID’d Danny Johnson? Have they dug into text messages? He swore he deleted them, and I did as well, but you can’t trust a crook. Hell, I can’t even trust my husband.

  The detective removes an iPad from his messenger bag and begins flicking the scree
n. “I’m not sure if you’ve talked with Georgia St. Claire in the last few hours, but her husband was pulled out of the bay.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. I had no idea.”

  Did I act it well enough? Did it seem like I genuinely cared?

  “The last time we saw you, we inquired where your husband was on the night Robert Donnelly disappeared,” Linard goes on. “Your husband said he was here working before calling it a night.”

  “That’s right.” I continue fanning, harder now.

  At least those were the words he spoke out of his lying mouth.

  I can feel Officer Pangburn’s gaze boring into the side of my face with scorching intensity. I can’t bear to look him dead in the eye. They must know Mason lied—and that I lied to cover for him. They’re going to think he had something to do with Robert’s death, but they have no idea how deep the rabbit hole goes. If they really started digging, I would go to jail. If they get creative, they could concoct a story where Mason’s at fault and I’m an accomplice. Either way, I lose everything. Lightning rods of heat shoot up my spine.

  Linard presses. “You’ve turned rather red, Mrs. King.”

  “Thermostat needs to be turned down.” I grit my back teeth. “Can we get to the point, Detective? There’s some landscaping work that demands my attention.”

  Pangburn checks his watch. “It’s nearly six o’clock.”

  I smile and nod, scared of what I’ll say if I try to explain.

  “Mrs. King, on Tuesday night, while you were on Robert Donnelly’s yacht, your husband visited a hip-hop club off Perry Street in the South Beach area.”

  “Hip-hop?” I shake my head to make sense of what he just said. “Mason?”

  “According to their video surveillance, your husband arrived at the club around eleven in the evening. He came alone, however he left the club with a woman—a tall brunette—when the club closed hours later.”

  He waits for me to respond. I’m fuming inside, digging my nails into the pillow, where he can’t see. It’s not only Georgia. There’s someone else…a brunette who likes hip-hop, apparently.

  “Do you have any idea who that woman might’ve been?” Linard probes.

  “No, but I’m going to kill her,” I say under my breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  I shake my head and force a smile. “I don’t know who my husband might’ve been with that night. He told me he was home.”

  Now he’s made me sound ridiculous.

  “And the first time we met, you informed us that you tracked his location to the house. You lied to us, one way or another. Did you not track his location at all, or did it show he was away from home?”

  I drop the pillow into my lap. “I did track his phone and it did show his location was here. He must’ve left his phone behind—that’s the only explanation, but—was she—were they…”

  I can’t finish.

  “They left holding hands,” he says gently, reading my mind as vomit rises in the back of my throat. “I’m sorry to have brought your husband’s infidelity to light, but we had suspected he might’ve had something to do with kidnapping Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I sneer. “He had nothing to do with what happened to Robert. My husband might be unfaithful, but he’s no killer. What would make you suspect him in the first place?”

  “You, if I’m being honest.”

  Damn it.

  He spins his iPad around for me to see. “Can you explain this? It’s an Instagram post you made earlier in the week…”

  His words trail off as I stare at my ridiculous joke made at Grounds & Greens with Brooke and Georgia. Bonus points if the captain goes down with the ship, Georgia had said. I should’ve put my damn phone away.

  “It was a joke. A poorly timed one, but still. We had no way of knowing he’d be kidnapped.”

  “Somebody might have known.” Officer Pangburn lets the accusation hang.

  But all I can think about is Mason wrapping his arm around some brunette. Holding her hand. Nuzzling against her neck. I can see her throwing her head back, chestnut brown hair fanning over her shoulders as she giggles sweetly. Even though I don’t know what she looks like exactly, I can see her smile, the light in her eyes, and I hate both of them so much I could explode.

  At some point, between Pangburn and Linard asking about Georgia and Brooke and my marriage with Mason, I zone out. When I drift back to reality a few minutes later, I realize Mason is free and clear from any guilt or fear. I’m the one struggling, upset, anxious, and he gets to run around the city, banging anyone he wants.

  He doesn’t get to run to his office every time things get tough.

  That ends now.

  The detectives are finished with me. They’ve gotten what they wanted. They dropped a bomb into my marriage and now they’re going to watch it explode. After the officers drive away, I snatch my purse off the kitchen counter and head into the garage. As the garage door rolls up, I open Find My Phone, and search for Mason’s cell.

  I’m going to find the lying son of a bitch and demand answers.

  It’s time he faces the consequences for his actions head-on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ERIN

  Mason’s cell is unavailable. Figures. When I need to find him, something’s wrong with the service. Last known location was work, two hours ago. My fingers rap against the steering wheel. I’ve tracked his cell countless times, and it’s never unavailable. Wait…now that I think of it, I tried to locate him the night Robert disappeared.

  The night he had his arm around some brunette floozy in the city.

  His phone had been unavailable that night too. When I asked him about it, he hadn’t even been able to give a reason why he’d turned it off on the app.

  He and his side chick must’ve laughed behind my back.

  Stomach souring, I slam the car into reverse and peel out of the garage, narrowly missing one of the unmarked vans parked in front of Georgia’s. I shove the car into gear and squeal the tires as I speed down Presidio. I pass Carol standing in front of her stupid red front door—she painted it that way to irritate me, I know it. I rev the engine, turning the corner. She lifts her hand in a wave. I flip her off, and she gapes.

  I ignore Malik’s ridiculous salute on my way out the gate—he probably hasn’t even served our country—and fight traffic through the area known as Presidio Heights. By the time I get to Mason’s office building thirty minutes later, I’m fuming. Too many taxis striding the line between my lane and theirs. Too many trolleys with tourists hanging on to the rails like they’re starring in some kind of television show. Too many pedestrians and fire engines and—God, I can’t breathe.

  Times like these, I think this city is going to kill me.

  Reaching into the depths of my purse, I pull out my anxiety pills and pop two back, dry. They clog in my throat, and I choke, coughing and hacking as I circle the block. When a parking spot comes open across the street, I veer into it, nearly clipping the car behind. Once parked, I search Favorites on my cell. Mason’s contact photo shows him smiling smugly, holding up a glass of scotch on the rocks.

  Rat bastard.

  Someone hollers at a dirty man crouched in an alcove across the street. He’s sprawled on a spread of newspapers, his nasty backpack slouched next to him. He’s a few feet from the entrance to Mason’s building. The homeless are ruining this city. Absolutely disgusting.

  The call goes straight to voicemail. I ping Mason’s location again. Now there are two dots at this location: his and mine.

  Breathing hard, I sprawl across the console and passenger seat, and stare up at the windows. Floor one, two…three. From my angle, I can make out Mason’s desk, filing cabinet, Ficus in the corner. He’s in his chair, leaning toward his desk. He swivels a bit, and then rolls back, hitting the window.

/>   I gasp.

  Someone is on his lap.

  A muffled whimper escapes my lips as I squint, peering harder through the dark. It’s definitely Mason. His dark hair is buzzed short. Can’t mistake that hard jawline. A woman claws her fingers over the back of his head as she moves to deepen their connection. Her legs—long and lean, pale and smooth—are straddling his lap.

  As if I’m watching a car accident play out in slow motion, I can’t look away.

  I’m going to be sick.

  His hands cup the round of her hips. Her dark hair covers her face, obscuring her features, but she’s gorgeous—she’d have to be to capture Mason’s attention. And if her figure is any indication, she’s young. And tight.

  “Don’t you know you’re in the fucking window?” I bang my hands against the driver’s window. “Mason!”

  As if he could hear me, the bum rises off the sidewalk and weaves through traffic until he’s standing at my passenger window.

  “I’m hungry.” He slurs. “Got ‘nyfing to eat?”

  “Go away, you’re blocking my view!” I bang against the window with the palm of my hand. “I don’t have anything!”

  He bends so he’s staring me square in the face. His two front teeth are missing, and there’s not a single hint of light in his eyes. He might as well be dead. A walking zombie.

  Poking his dirty finger against the window, he points to the passenger seat, to my purse. “Change?”

  A wave of rage and adrenaline and fear attacks me all at once. I beat my hands against the window. “Leave me the hell alone! I’m having a mental breakdown!”

  He mumbles a curse, bangs on the top of my car, and stumbles back through traffic to his hole. Mason and whoever was with him are gone.

  A shriek of terror rips from my lungs. He’s cheating, right now. I grip the steering wheel tight and mash my head against the rich Italian leather. He was with her that night. I lied for him. My heart thunders out of my chest with the heaviness of what his lie means for my marriage, for the investigation. I scrub the tears from my eyes and my hands come back with traces of mascara.