The Wife Upstairs(50)

Maybe we should get married here instead of eloping after all.

But then thinking about the wedding is too hard when Eddie is barely speaking to me.

It’s been two nights since our fight in the bathroom, two nights of Eddie sleeping god knows where in the house, of him leaving for work early and coming home late.

The worst part is that I’ve been relieved he’s been gone so much. It’s easier with him not there, without looking at him every second, wondering if that flash of hardness, coldness will come back.

The number he gave me is still in my purse. I’ll never call it, but I want it there as a reminder of how badly I almost fucked up, how little I even really know about Eddie.

But here we are at the church’s little party, mingling in a garden, drinking lemonade because even though the Methodists aren’t the Baptists, no one wants an open bar in front of Jesus, I guess, and I’m just about to get another glass of the lemonade when Caroline approaches us, her blond hair swinging over her shoulders.

“Holy shit,” she breathes, surprising me because I’ve never heard her curse before and also, Jesus. I’m going to hell for all kinds of things, but even I manage to keep it PG at church.

She clutches my arm, her nails digging in. “Tripp Ingraham has been arrested.”

That last word is hissed in a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. I see other people looking over at us, and Emily already has her phone out, frowning at the screen.

Eddie is still talking to the reverend, and my insides feel frozen, my feet locked to the soft grass beneath my too-tight heels.

“What?” I finally say, and she glances behind her at her husband.

“Matt just got a text from his friend in the DA’s office. Apparently, they found something when they did the autopsy? Or something in the house? I don’t know, but I texted Alison who lives on his street, and she said a cop car full-on showed up and took him away in handcuffs.”

Now Emily is glancing over at me, and I can see little groups start to form, practically watch as the gossip moves through the gathering, all thoughts of fundraising replaced with this, the biggest story to hit this neighborhood since Bea and Blanche died, I’d guess.

When I turn toward Eddie, he’s staring at me. And even across the courtyard I can see it in his eyes.

He’s relieved.



* * *



The house is dark and quiet as we walk in, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts.

When I tell Eddie I’m going to take a shower, I wait for some of this old spark to come back, for a sly grin and an offer to join me.

Instead, I get a distracted nod as he keeps scrolling through his phone. He’d barely spoken on the car ride home, just confirming that yes, he’d heard the same thing, that they’d arrested Tripp; yes, it had something to do with the night Bea and Blanche died; no, he didn’t know what the actual charges were.

In the master bathroom, I step out of my dress, letting it pool there on the marble floor, not bothering to hang it up. I probably won’t wear it again anyway.

The water is scalding hot, which feels good after the weird chill I experienced on the way home, and I when I step back out of the shower, the room is filled with steam.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I walk to the mirror, wiping the steam off with one hand.

My face stares back, plain and starkly pale, my hair wet and shoved back from my face.

You’re fine, I tell myself. You’re safe. It was Tripp the whole time because of course it was.

But that doesn’t really make me feel better, and I’m frowning at my reflection when Eddie steps into the bathroom.

He shucks his clothes easily, and I can’t help but watch him in the mirror. He’s so beautiful, so perfectly male, but I feel no surge of desire when I look at him, and he’s not meeting my eyes.

I take my robe from the hook near the door, wrapping it around me as he showers, and then I sit on the little tufted bench in front of the vanity, combing out my hair for much longer than I need to.

I’m waiting.

Finally, the water shuts off and Eddie steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist as I fumble in a drawer for the expensive moisturizer I bought the other day.

“The other night. When we argued. Were you scared of me?”

I sit very still there at the bathroom counter, watching him in the mirror. He’s got a towel around his waist, water still drying on his skin, his hair slicked back from his face, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that I don’t like.

“Did you think it was me? That I killed them?”

I blink, trying to recalibrate, trying to get this back on track. “The last few weeks have just been a lot,” I finally say, adding a little tremor to my voice for effect. “Everything was finally so perfect, and we were so happy, and then…”

“And then you thought I murdered my wife and her best friend,” he says, relentless, and my head snaps up.

This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He’s supposed to feel sorry for snapping at me, for even suggesting I thought such a thing.

But he’s still watching me, arms folded over his chest, and since the lowered lashes and tremulous voice aren’t working, I turn and meet his eyes.

“Yes,” I say, and honestly, it feels kind of good to tell the truth. “I did. Or I thought you may have done it.”