The Wife Upstairs(48)

Some of Tripp’s smugness drains away, and he puts his sandwich down, picking up his beer. “Yeah. It was … different when I thought she drowned. Now this, it’s … well, it’s a hell of a thing.”

He drains nearly half his beer, setting it back on the table with a not-so-discreet burp into his napkin. “How is Eddie?”

Tripp’s stare is pointed, and I see now that he has his own reasons for accepting this invitation, and they have nothing to do with being neighborly.

“I can’t really speak for him,” I reply, careful now, pushing my fries around my plate. “But I know he offered to cooperate with the police. Anything he can do to be helpful.”

Which is true. Eddie’s gone down to the station twice now to answer questions, questions he’d never told me the specifics of, and I wonder if that’s what Tripp is fishing for. Wondering how much Eddie is saying, what is he saying, and not for the first time, I wonder if this was more dangerous than I’d thought, arranging to meet him. And not just because someone might see us.

Drumming his fingers on the table, he nods, but his gaze is far off now, and we sit there in an excruciating silence for too long before he says, “There wasn’t anything. Between Blanche and Eddie. It was just your usual neighborhood bullshit. Eddie’s company was doing some work on our house, I was busy, so I let Blanche handle it. They hung out a lot, but Blanche and I were good. And honestly, even if I thought she’d cheat on me, she never would’ve fucked over Bea.”

He grimaces before adding, “Although Bea never deserved that loyalty if you ask me, but…”

His words just hang there, and I push, the littlest bit.

“You said that Bea took a lot of … inspiration from Blanche.”

“Basically took her whole life, yeah, but they both ended up in the same place, didn’t they? Bottom of Smith fucking Lake.”

Tipping his head back, he sighs. “Anyways, if Emily Clark or Campbell or any of those other bitches try to tell you Eddie and Blanche were sleeping together, it was just gossip. Maybe even wishful thinking, since it’s not like I was ever all that popular with that crowd.”

Whatever I was going to get out of Tripp is gone now, I can tell. He’s slipping back into his bitterness, and when he orders another beer, I make a big show of checking my watch. “Oh, shit, I have a hair appointment,” I say.

“Sure you do.” His tone is sarcastic but he doesn’t press further, and when I try to leave a twenty to cover my lunch, he waves it off.

Back at the house, I go back to my computer, pulling up Emily’s Facebook page, looking for any pictures of Blanche with Eddie, but there’s nothing. Not on Campbell’s, either, and while Blanche is clearly tagged in a few pictures, it’s a dead link to her page, which I assume someone in her family took down.

I’ve been so fixated on Bea, it never occurred to me to look that closely at Blanche.

Now it seems that was a mistake.



* * *



Eddie doesn’t get home until late. I’m in the bathtub, bubbles up to my chin, but I hear him long before I see him—the front door unlocking, his footsteps down the hall, the door to the bedroom opening.

And then he’s there, leaning against the door, watching me.

“Good day?” I ask, but instead of answering, he asks a question of his own.

“Why did you have lunch with Tripp Ingraham today?”

Surprised, I sit up a little, water sloshing. I fucking love this tub, so deep and long I could lie down flat if I wanted to, but right now, I wish I weren’t in it, wish I weren’t naked and vulnerable. Usually, the size difference between us is kind of a turn-on. Eddie is sleek, but brawny—he’s got real muscle, the kind you get from actually working, not just going to the gym. He makes me feel even smaller and more delicate than I am.

But for the first time, it occurs to me how easy it would be for him to hurt me. To overpower me.

“How did you know about that?” I ask, and I know immediately it’s the wrong response. Eddie isn’t scowling, but he’s doing that thing again, that forced casualness, like this conversation doesn’t really mean that much to him even though he is practically vibrating with tension.

“I mean, it’s a small town, and trust me, people were dying to tell me they saw you out with him. Thanks for that, by the way. Really fun texts to get.”

Pissed off, I stand up, reaching for the towel hanging next to the bath. “Do you honestly think I have any interest in Tripp Ingraham?”

Sighing, Eddie turns away. “No,” he acknowledges, “but you have to think about how things look. Especially now.”

He moves back into the bedroom and I stand there, still naked, still holding the towel, dripping onto the marble floor and looking after him.

I have worked so hard to present a certain version of myself to Eddie, to everyone, really, but in that moment, it snaps.

“How it looks?” I repeat, following him into the bedroom, wrapping the towel around myself. “No, Eddie, I didn’t think about how it looks.”

“Of course, you didn’t. Let me guess, you also didn’t think about how it might look for my fiancée to be handing over wads of money to the guy she used to live with.”

I am frozen standing there in my towel, my stomach clenching. I’m too rattled to even try to lie. “What?”