The Wife Upstairs(71)

And I was right, I learned later. She’d just been checking out our pool area because she was trying to get an idea of what kind of bathing suit prints were popular among, as she put it, “normal women.”

Looking back, that probably should’ve been a hint, too.

At the time, I just patted myself on the back for guessing correctly.

I wish I could say there was some special trick to doing the kinds of things I do, some kind of secret code. But the fact of the matter is, I never really tried all that hard. All it took at the front desk of the Lanai was a chagrined smile to a pretty receptionist, a sheepish story about chasing my girlfriend all the way to Hawaii because I’d realized missing our vacation for work was the stupidest thing I could’ve done.

Not only did I get confirmation that Bea was there, I got a free glass of champagne for my troubles.

I’d asked the front desk to hold my things for me because obviously, I was hoping all would be forgiven and I’d be staying in my “girlfriend’s” room that night.

Which wasn’t quite how it turned out, but close enough.

My reasons for pursuing Bea might have started out a little mercenary, but I honestly did like her, right from the start. When I saw her sitting there on the beach, deep in thought, I was impressed. Most of the women I’d been spending time with were rich, but on someone else’s dime. I liked that Bea had her own money, her own company. I liked the way she was always thinking about how to make it better rather than resting on her laurels.

And look, I’m not a total bastard. I sent Charlie a text, let her know that I’d had a sudden emergency and been called back to New York, but that I’d definitely give her a call next week.

She’d bought it, and I hadn’t heard from her again until that email she sent after she saw that Bea and I were engaged.

And it’s not like I’d read that all too closely, obviously. I hit delete as soon as I saw who it was from, although I did pick up a few key phrases before I hit the trash icon.

Motherfucker, that was there. Manipulative, toxic, seriously psychotic, nothing all that unexpected, although years later, when things with Bea started going wrong, I’d wondered if those words had been about me or my wife.

Well, the motherfucker was clearly me.

Talking to Bea that first day was so easy. Like it was meant to be. Honestly, I would’ve thought she would’ve had her guard up so much more.

Except Bea wasn’t like that, not really. She wasn’t always looking over her shoulder, she wasn’t naturally suspicious. Later I’d work out that it was probably because she always knew she was the most dangerous thing in any room. Why should she have to look out for anyone else when she’d always win?

That probably sounds bitter, but I don’t mean it that way. If anything, I was in awe of her. At first, at least. Before the murders.





33





I’d never seen anyone more determined to get what she wanted than Bea. Not even me. Like I said, I’d always been the type to seize on opportunities that presented themselves, rather than the person to go out and make those opportunities happen, which is what Bea did.

I think that’s why I liked Jane so much right from the start. She was like me—always looking for an opening, then twisting to fit that opening. I’m sure she thought she was fooling me, thought I’d bought her whole act, but I recognized too much of myself in her not to see what she was doing. Whatever souls were made of, mine and Jane’s were the same—or at least similar enough.

But Bea—Bea was a totally different beast.

My breathing sounded watery and thick, and I closed my eyes.

I should be thinking of what to do now, how to get the fuck out of here, but all I could think about was Bea.

Last year. That dinner. Blanche was flirting with me, I knew. What her intent was, though? No fucking clue. I wasn’t from the South, but I’d lived here long enough to learn that flirting was like a second language with these people, or a casual hobby. Back home if someone had looked at me like Blanche was looking at me, I would’ve been sure they were ready to fuck me. Here, there was no telling.

Her hand was on my arm, her body close enough that I could feel the press of her breast against my bicep. I liked Blanche, definitely didn’t like Tripp, and Bea was so focused on Southern Manors that I was beginning to feel like I never saw her anymore. But sleeping with her best friend seemed like more trouble than it was worth, and honestly, I liked Bea’s money more than I liked sex anyway.

But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a little fun, seeing Bea get jealous.

So, I didn’t do anything, but I didn’t try to avoid Blanche, either. I was in charge of her renovation, so it wasn’t like I could brush her off. Lunches in the village to review architectural sketches and bathroom fixtures. Afternoons at her house to look at paint samples. Texts to confirm our next meeting. All of it seemed harmless to me, but god, Bea got pissed off.

And it wasn’t like I hadn’t known what Blanche was doing. I was just the latest prop in whatever cold war they’d been fighting since they were kids. But it had been nice, having Blanche pay that much attention to me. Bea was so busy building her empire, she’d stopped looking at me the way she used to.

The way Blanche did.

So maybe I encouraged it a little. Maybe I flirted back.