The Wife Upstairs(54)

No, I’d be in an orange jumpsuit before I’d even had time to say the words not guilty.

It’s another reminder that this world, the world these people live in, might as well be a different planet.

Tripp’s lawyer was able to prove his client wasn’t a flight risk, so he’s still here in Thornfield Estates, waiting for the trial, which is still months away.

I tell myself that by the time he goes to trial, it won’t matter as much. Eddie and I will be married by then, and even though Eddie will certainly have to testify, I can stay out of it.

That hasn’t stopped me from reading everything I can about the case, though. I know that when they found Blanche, there was a massive fracture in her skull, and that Tripp had bought a hammer just a few days before Blanche went to the lake.

Dumbass used his credit card at the hardware store in Overton Village.

The theory is that Tripp surprised the women, talked them into taking out the boat even though they were all completely fucked up, and that something happened. A fight, an argument. Tripp was drunk, they all were. And it ended with Blanche in the water.

They don’t know about Bea. Maybe she was screaming and he hit her, too. Maybe she was passed out, or down below in the boat when it all started going down. Maybe she came up, confused, disoriented, and Tripp pushed her overboard.

The cops have admitted to Eddie that getting a murder charge to stick to Tripp for Bea might be harder since they still haven’t found her body and since there’s no evidence on the boat. No blood, no DNA. It’s all conjecture at this point, which is another part of why Tripp’s lawyer was able to get him bail.

Well, that and Rich White Dude Privilege.

I pause now outside his house, a stitch in my side that I pinch with one hand as I stare at the windows, wondering what Tripp is doing in there. What he’s thinking.

Eddie says he won’t do much jail time, even if he’s found guilty, because guys like him never do. Since the case is still mostly circumstantial, the DA might lower the charge to manslaughter, for a better shot at conviction. Tripp’s lawyers will argue that all the prosecution has is Blanche’s body, and a crack running up the back of her head. The fact that Tripp bought a hammer doesn’t mean he used it to kill his wife, and she could’ve hit her head when she fell off the boat.

Upstairs, there’s a flicker of movement, a drape being pulled back slightly, and I know Tripp is watching me.

I wait on the sidewalk for a bit, wondering if he’ll come out or try to talk to me, but there are no further signs of life, and after a moment, I jog on.

The house is empty when I get home, Eddie already off to work, and I stop in the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge and resting one hip against the counter as I drink deep, the water so cold it makes my teeth and my temple ache.

I’ve just set the bottle down when I hear a noise.

It’s a thump from somewhere upstairs, just like the one I heard that night the cops first came to tell us about Blanche, and I stand there, frozen, listening.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Like someone picking up and dropping something heavy.

“Hello?” I call. “Is someone there?”

Excellent, I’ve gone the full horror movie. Soon I’ll be running down to the basement in my underwear in the dark.

But then there’s a thump again, and my heart beats faster.

I move across the living room slowly, quietly, my ear cocked toward the ceiling, but there isn’t another sound. I can’t hear anything except the purring of the air conditioner and my own rasping breath.

The silence feels loud, weighted, my sweat cooling so fast on my skin that now I’m cold, and when my phone trills, I shriek.

My hands are even shaking slightly as I pull it out of the little pocket in my yoga pants, and I see Eddie’s name on the screen.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says when I pick up, and he sounds so relaxed, so casual, that my heartbeat slows a little, some of the fear draining from my veins. “Just calling to see how your day was going.”

I can hear noise in the background, the thwap of hammers on boards, a distant buzzsaw, so I know he must be on a job site, and I try to picture him there, his shirt rumpled, his sunglasses on.

“You just saw me two hours ago,” I remind him. “Miss me already?”

I try to sound flirty, sexy, but Eddie must pick up on something in my voice because he asks, “Hey, everything alright over there?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, even as I keep my ear cocked toward the ceiling, still listening. “I just heard something in the house.”

“Like what?” Eddie asks, and suddenly I feel very young, getting spooked by a noise in the house, like a kid left on her own.

“Just a thump,” I tell him, shaking my head even though he can’t see me. “Or a few thumps. It’s so stupid, I know. Now I’m creeping around upstairs like I’m in a gothic novel or a bad horror movie.”

I expect him to laugh, or make a joke. Instead, he says, “It’s a big house, Jane. It makes all kinds of noises, especially in the summer.”

“Sure,” I say. “Like I said, stupid.”

“Why don’t you go back to bed, Nancy Drew?” he says, cajoling, and a spike of irritation shoots through me, angry and hot.

But I shove it down. He’s trying to be nice, and I can’t keep doing this, I can’t keep trying to destroy a good thing that’s right in front of me.