The Wife Upstairs(51)

He blows out a long breath, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling before saying, “Well. At least you’re honest.”

I step forward, curling my hands around his wrists and pulling his arms down. “But I was wrong,” I insist. “Obviously. And I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m so sorry.”

And the thing is, I am sorry. I’m sorry I ever thought he might have been involved with Bea’s and Blanche’s death, and not just because I almost fucked up everything.

I’m the one lying to him, I’m the one who’s stolen from him, from everyone I’ve grown close to. I’m the one who has pretended to be something she’s not.

I’m the one who has actually done something terrible.

I press my forehead to his damp chest, breathing in the scent of his soap. “I’m sorry,” I say again, and after a long beat, I feel his hand rest gently on the back of my head. “And you were right, the other night. I should’ve trusted you about John, I should’ve come to you—”

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, but I’m afraid that it’s not. That I’ve let all my suspicions and distrust ruin this perfect thing I’ve found, this new life.

“Do you think it really was Tripp?” I ask him, still standing there in his arms, wanting him to tell me that yes, he does. That it’s that awful, but that simple, and there’s an easy person to blame.

“I don’t want to think he could’ve done it,” he says. “How many times did I have that guy in my house, or played golf with him, for fuck’s sake.” Another sigh, one I can feel as well as hear. “But he and Blanche were having issues. God knows he drinks like a goddamn fish. If he was drunk and they fought…”

He lets it trail off. I remember now how uneasy Tripp has made me feel. I’d never thought of it as anything truly threatening, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. Who could ever really know what someone was capable of?

“The police are doing their job,” Eddie says, his hand still stroking the back of my head. “If they think it was Tripp, I’m sure they’ve got good reasons.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Eddie…”

But he dips his head then and kisses me. “Shh,” he murmurs against my lips when we part. “It doesn’t matter, Janie.”

He kisses me again, harder this time, and I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, holding on not just to him but to this moment, to this chance I nearly threw away.

When we part, Eddie lowers his forehead to mine. “Tell me you trust me,” he says, his voice husky.

And for the first time in my life, I say, “I trust you.” And I think I actually mean it.





PART VI



BEA





NOVEMBER, FOUR MONTHS AFTER BLANCHE

Eddie didn’t hesitate today.

He came right in and sat down next to me, his thigh touching mine. When he said, “Are you okay up here?” I could smell the mint on his breath.

For some reason, that made it easier. Knowing he’d brushed his teeth before coming to see me, that he was expecting—hoping?—for this.

But then I’d gotten ready, too. I don’t have much in the way of makeup in here, but I’d taken a shower, pinched my cheeks to put some color in them, brushed my hair. It was a little longer now, closer to how it looked when we first met, and I figured that could only help with what I needed to do.

Ever since that last visit, when the look on his face changed as soon as I mentioned Hawaii, I’d known we would end up here, that the easiest and best way of keeping myself alive, reminding him that he needed me, was through the one thing that had never let us down.

Sex.

But it’s one thing to consider seducing the man who murdered your best friend, the man who’s keeping you locked up, the man you thought you knew, the man you married.

It’s another thing to go through with it.

I took his hand in mine, feeling the calluses on his palms, remembering that I’d always liked that about him, how he worked with his hands, how he wasn’t like the Tripp Ingrahams of the world with their soft, pale fingers.

He was beautiful.

He always had been.

I focused on that, taking a deep breath as I let my fingers run over his knuckles.

I couldn’t think about those hands on Blanche, couldn’t think about them pulling me into this room. Instead, I thought of all the times I’d wanted those hands on me, the times I’d thought I’d die if he didn’t touch me.

It had been like that, right from the start.

“Bea, what are you doing?” he murmured as I leaned closer, letting my lips brush the shell of his ear.

“I miss you,” I answered, and realized all at once that it was true.

I did miss him.

Not the Eddie who killed Blanche. I didn’t know that Eddie. But the Eddie from before, the one who had swept me off my feet with his easy smiles, his charm, the way he’d known exactly what I wanted before I knew it myself.

I focused on those early days now. Before we moved here, before things went darker than I knew they could.

“Do you remember that first night in Hawaii?” I asked him, rising up from the bed to stand in front of him, my hands on his shoulders.

His own hands easily came to rest on my waist, almost like a reflex.