The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  “Erin, we aren’t sleeping together,” she pleads. “You have to believe me.”

  Mason spins me around angrily. “What do you mean, ‘put a hit’ on me?”

  Across the fire pit, Brooke gasps and moves to where Theresa is standing in shock. The earth spins beneath my feet, and spots dance in front of my eyes. I’m parched, and I have half a mind to steal the champagne flute right out of Theresa’s hand.

  “Oh, it’s exactly what I said, Mason,” I slur. “We hired someone to kill you, only he screwed up and took Robert instead. Ten million dollars. What a deal.”

  “She doesn’t mean it,” Georgia says to the group. “She’s not in her right mind. Look at her. She can barely stand upright. The meds must be mixing with the alcohol.”

  “She’s been drinking while taking the medication I gave her?” I hear Theresa screech as if her voice is booming through a tunnel. “She’s going to need a doctor.”

  “I’ll go for help,” Brooke says, and disappears.

  “What the hell, Erin.” Mason’s shaking me, his face in front of mine. His eyes and mouth are huge. Too big for his face. “I fuck someone else and you try to kill me? You’re insane! I’m going to the police.”

  “You admit it!” I spin in a circle, arms over my head, victorious. Dizzy, I stumble against the brick fire pit and plop into the closest seat. Suddenly my head’s too heavy to hold up, and Theresa’s arms are around my shoulders. Her shoulder is soft, so I lean my cheek against it and rub it back and forth. “I told you!” I shout into the night. “Liar!”

  “Shhh…” Theresa says, touching my forehead. “It’s going to be all right. Help is on the way.”

  “Mason, you can’t go to the police,” Georgia pleads. “You don’t understand. She’s been drinking and taking those meds and she’s saying things she doesn’t mean. If the police question her, she might say…other things—things that could incriminate any one of us. And they wouldn’t be the truth, necessarily. Who knows what she could say in her state.”

  “This is bullshit.” Mason’s voice lowers as he storms away.

  “I’m not letting you leave this house until you calm down and talk to me,” Georgia says, yanking on Mason’s arm. He jerks away with a curse.

  Something jingles. Sounds like keys coming out of a pocket. That tinkling, jostling sound. Now scuffling. Someone’s fighting. My vision swims, then becomes clear. Georgia and Mason are tangled together. She’s trying to stop him from leaving, blocking his path. He’s screaming in her face, scowling and spitting.

  “Mason’s yelling at Georgia the way he does at me,” I mumble to Theresa. “Very mad.”

  “Yes, he’s angry,” Theresa, says, smoothing her hands down my hair. “But it’s going to be all right in the end. You’ll see. Are you feeling light-headed?”

  “Yup.” All night. Now Georgia’s screaming. She doesn’t want him to leave. My vision goes topsy-turvy as Mason breaks away from Georgia and walks off. I clamp my eyes closed to stave off the nausea. “Where’s Mason going?”

  In the distance, a door slams, and then another. A thunderous roar echoes through the neighborhood, followed by more screams and a screeching sound. Tires, I think. I can’t be sure.

  “Erin,” Theresa says; I almost forgot she was beside me. “You’re breathing really heavy, and your heart’s racing, and I don’t know if you’re going to remember this later, but I have to say it: I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

  “No, not your fault.” I can barely formulate words. Sounds are tumbling from my numb lips. “You didn’t sleep with my husband.”

  “But I did.” She goes quiet as my mind processes what she just said. “It wasn’t Georgia. I was the one sleeping with Mason. We’ve been together for a year. He’s been trying to find a way to tell you all this time. I bought Georgia’s car—I was with him earlier today, when you saw us. I don’t know what Georgia was trying to tell him this morning, but they have nothing going on. I’m the one you should be mad at.”

  My breathing goes shallow, and a cloudy red haze swallows my vision. “You?”

  Theresa. The one I confided in, leaned on. The one who was supposed to be helping us with our marriage. She was probably sabotaging it all along.

  “Bitch,” I breathe. It’s all I can muster.

  She removes her arm from my shoulders and slinks out from beneath me, leaving me in a crumpled heap. “I’m sorry, Erin. I’m going out there to try to find Mason. Brooke’s getting you help. Just stay here. It’s going to be okay.”

  Like Georgia, Theresa disappears into the night. As I focus on my breathing, the ringing in my ears slows to an annoying hum. If I force myself to concentrate, things become clear. I can feel strength surge through my muscles. Whether it’s adrenaline or fear, I grip the edge of the seat and stagger to standing. I stumble into the house and through the living room, clutching people’s shoulders to assist me as I pass. They make strange sounds, as if I’m some sort of burden, but I don’t care.

  As I move, hugging the giant white pillars on the front porch, the world in front of me spins. People’s faces blend together, warping from laughter to anger and back again. Across the street, a car peels out from our driveway, but it’s dark and I can’t see well. Lights and shapes tumble as if they’re shifting in a kaleidoscope. My head hurts so damn bad. Something in the middle of the street takes form. Mason’s car. Peering through the dark, I make out two figures inside. It roars down the lane, swerving, narrowly missing parked cars.

  “Mason!” Theresa’s voice. She’s at the curb. Running along the sidewalk, arms waving over her head. “Mason, wait!”

  The car screeches to a stop. Lurches into reverse. There’s a struggle in the car. Georgia screams again. They’re stopped in the middle of the road. I follow Theresa, running, stumbling along the sidewalk.

  “Mason!” she screams. “Mason! I’m going with you!”

  The car’s engine revs, and then goes quiet. I’m close to Theresa, sucking in air and pushing it out, nearly hyperventilating. My skin feels like it’s on fire. I’m scampering from one parked car to another, nearly falling off the sidewalk, pushing onward, closing the gap.

  Theresa’s up ahead. Between two cars. Waving. Illuminated by a glow—no, by headlights. Mason’s car. She calls his name again. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard in my brain.

  The car growls, tires screeching. It swerves. The glare of headlights is blinding, searing into my brain.

  “Mason!” Theresa screams. “Wait!”

  With one solid push, with every ounce of energy left in my body, I shove her in front of the speeding car. And then, floundering, I collapse onto the concrete.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  GEORGIA

  ONE WEEK AFTER THE ACCIDENT

  St. Mary’s Medical Center

  Karen, my nurse, cracks the door open and peeks inside. “You have two visitors. Brooke Davies and Erin King are here to see you.”

  “It’s about time they visit.” Sitting upright, I pull the sheet up to cover my lap. “Let them in.”

  Not a single friend has been in to see me since the accident. Not one. As they enter the room together, I’m about to scold them for their insensitivity, but Brooke holds up a basket filled with fruit, crackers, cheese, olives, and dark chocolate, and Erin waves a gorgeous rose bouquet at me, and tears sting my eyes.

  “Familiar faces…” My voice cracks. “I’ve missed you.”

  Erin leans in for a hug while Brooke waits at the foot of my bed.

  “I’m so sorry…for what I thought about you and Mason,” Erin says, taking my hand. “I shouldn’t have said those horrible things about you. And I should never have blindsided you for that interview. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “It’s all right. All’s forgiven.” I smile warily, knowing what words need to be said. “I’m sorry for your
loss, Erin. I shouldn’t have let Mason leave the reception. I shouldn’t have gotten in the car with him at all. Everything escalated so fast. I didn’t want him to bring the police to the house and have them start asking you questions. In your state, I didn’t want you to say something about Eli and Andrew…”

  “I have to ask…” Brooke says quietly. “Why’d you do it? Why hire Danny when you could’ve just divorced them and started over? You married well each time. It’s not like you needed more money.”

  Erin cocks her hip. “One can never have enough.”

  “It was more than the money,” I say and open up like a floodgate.

  I tell her about the abuse I suffered while being married to Eli and Andrew. How, once we were married, I became something they could control and possess. The countless nights I spent awake, wondering if the violence was going to reach the point where they’d “accidentally” kill me. The way I learned that bruises with a blue or purple hue were best covered with yellow concealer, then set with a spritz spray so the makeup didn’t fade. The reason I changed my wardrobe to the many shades of the rainbow, so people would gossip about my eccentric sense of style, rather than the state of my marriages.

  When I asked Erin to make the call to a hitman on my behalf. How I made sure the alarms were off so Danny could come into the house undetected. How I buried my head under two pillows when Eli heard a noise in the house and went to seek out its source. The way I trembled and prayed that Danny wouldn’t kill me next. How many times I prayed, begging for forgiveness. When I asked Erin to make the call again. How much easier it was the second time around, with Andrew. How I truly loved Robert. He was the only one I’d ever really loved, the kindest man I’d met in my whole life. How I grieved for him with my body and soul.

  “I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” I say, unable to stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. “But I’m glad I don’t have to hide anymore. At least not from my best friends.”

  Brooke takes Erin’s other hand and looks to me with a smile. “Who am I to judge? We all have skeletons in our closets. But deep down we’re good people. Right, Georgia?”

  I smile sweetly, remembering our earlier conversation. “Right.”

  “Are they still going to discharge you this morning?” Erin asks.

  “That’s the plan.” I eye the clock above the television that’s been showing reruns of Friends. It’s the episode where Joey wears all of Chandler’s clothes at once and does lunges in the kitchen. It gets me every time. “The nurse that just left said the detective is on his way over. Apparently he has some news for me. Have you heard anything?”

  “About Robert’s death or Mason’s accident?” Erin asks.

  “Either.”

  There’s been so much loss…too much. After this, I’m burying my head in the sand for a long while.

  “I—I haven’t heard anything,” Brooke answers. “Investigations are still ongoing, last I heard. Mason’s and Theresa’s funerals are next week.”

  I drop my head back onto the pillow. “I’m sorry, Erin. How are you holding up?”

  She shrugs her shoulders up to her ears. “Fine. Mellow. Think the meds are finally working properly. They’ve effectively numbed my conscience.”

  Brooke chuckles.

  “I’m kidding,” Erin says. “It’s been hard, but I’m doing all right. Seeing a new therapist for grief counseling.”

  The door opens and Detective Linard strides in, cutting our conversation short. “How are you feeling, Ms. St. Claire?” he asks cheerily as the second detective walks in behind him. “Leaving today?”

  “This morning, hopefully. Erin and Brooke are going to drive me home.” I try to read the detectives’ expressions and come up empty. “The doctors have given me the all-clear. They’re processing the discharge paperwork.”

  Erin and Brooke step back against the window as the detectives move closer to the bed and perch on the edges of the chairs situated there.

  “I wanted to stop by this morning because we have a few updates to brief you on.” Linard rolls his fingers against the edge of my bed. “Your fiancé’s death has officially been ruled a homicide. We received an ID on the man who attacked you in the garage. His name was Danny Johnson. A thorough search of his Florida home resulted in all kinds of information on your fiancé. He’d been planning to kidnap him for approximately a month.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible.” My heart aches. “Just awful.”

  “Had he survived the attack, he would’ve been charged with the murder of your fiancé.” He measures my expression before going on. “Now about the accident…”

  “My head aches from the thought of it.” I touch two fingers to my forehead for effect. “I hit the windshield right here. I still have bruising.”

  “Mason King was driving the car that hit Theresa Wilson. She was killed on impact. Your friend Erin was first on scene to give the witness statement.” He looks to her, and she hangs her head. “After that, you claim there was a struggle over the wheel, and that you’d demanded he stop the car.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And then you say he lost control of the car and hit a tree.”

  I pinch my eyes tight. “I can still hear the sound of glass and metal crunching as we hit. What a traumatic experience.”

  “Mr. King had alcohol in his system at the time of the accident.” He watches me, before turning his analytical gaze to Erin. “Had he survived the accident, we would’ve charged him with vehicular manslaughter for Ms. Wilson’s death. You might’ve been able to sue him for your medical bills. You may still be able to get those compensated since his wife is the registered owner of the vehicle.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, feigning exhaustion. “That won’t be necessary. I have insurance, and I’m going to be fine. I’m not severely injured.”

  “Then I think we’re done here.” He closes the cover of his iPad with a snap. “I hope you heal well, Ms. St. Claire. I’m sorry for your loss. And yours, Ms. King.”

  As soon as he leaves the room, Erin and Brooke approach the bed.

  “Do you still think Danny was working with someone?” Erin asks me.

  “I’m not sure, but something isn’t right about the timing of that whole thing.”

  Erin nods, agreeing. “You should be careful after you’re discharged. Maybe the detectives can sweep the house to make sure it’s safe before you go home.”

  “I just want this to be over.” I drop my head back against the pillow, drama-drained. “So badly.”

  “Then let’s call the number that woman at Starbucks gave me,” Erin says simply.

  “What number?” Brooke asks.

  “I don’t know if I told you, but I was the one who found Danny Johnson. When Georgia reached the end of her rope and couldn’t handle the abuse anymore, I joined a few online forums for abusive women on her behalf. Didn’t take long for me to strike up a friendship with one of the women whose husband had died mysteriously months earlier. We met up at Starbucks, exchanged war stories, and she gave me a slip of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. It was the answer to our prayers—well most of them anyway. We could call the number again. See if someone answers. We’d know once and for all if Danny had a partner.”

  I lift my head and meet Erin’s gaze. “That paper is locked away in the chest in my office.”

  “Not anymore.” Erin lifts the scrap of paper from her purse. “I found it on the floor beneath your desk, the day the police came over to take the missing person report.”

  Brooke shakes her head warily. “I don’t think the hospital is the best place to do this.”

  “We’re safe here,” Erin presses. “It’s your call, Georgia, but if you want this over with, once and for all, this is the way to do it.”

  “I don’t know,” Brooke says. “Maybe, if Danny was working with someone, that person
won’t contact you at all. There’s a chance, with all the police crawling around, he’ll tuck his tail and disappear.”

  Something twinges in my gut. If Danny was working with someone, that person will want his money eventually. Danny demanded thirty million. His partner, if he had one, would know I hired him to kill my husbands. He could blackmail me for the millions I owed Danny…or more. Will I be able to put the possibility that he had a partner behind me and move on with my life? Or will I always wonder if there’d been someone working with Danny behind the scenes? I don’t want to be scanning shadows and worrying about whether or not I remembered to set my house alarm.

  I should call the number on that piece of paper, to see if someone picks up the line on the other end, to finally end it.

  “Give me the number,” I say.

  As Brooke paces nervously back and forth at the foot of the bed, Erin hands over the scrap of paper. Hands shaking, I dial the number into my phone, and wait.

  Something buzzes in the corner of the room.

  The phone rings on the other side of the line.

  More buzzing. It’s coming from a chair in the corner.

  Brooke moves to the chair where her purse rests, unzips slowly, and lifts a generic-looking phone to her ear. “Hello, Georgia.”

  EPILOGUE

  BROOKE

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Wonderful news, I type to my editor. I’ll keep an eye out for the contract.

  “Honey!” I call out, hitting send on the email. “Jack!”

  “I’m here.” Jack strides into the room and places his hands on my shoulders reassuringly. “Book news?”

  “The publisher wants the next three in the series. Isn’t that great!”

  Stooping, he kisses my cheek. “Amazing. I knew they’d love the idea. You still haven’t let me read the proposal you sent. Are you going to make me wait until the book’s release?”