The Wife Upstairs(77)

Lying there all night alone at the foot of the stairs, blood gushing then slowly leaking onto the hardwood.

Bea had waited for months to feel bad about it, but in the end, all she’d felt was free.

And she’d put it out of her head, mostly, for years. Even Eddie didn’t know the truth about how her Mama had died. She’d given him a vague story about Mama’s drinking, and since Eddie was vague enough about his own past, he’d let it slide. It hadn’t come up again until just a few months before Blanche died.

The two of them, having dinner at that same Mexican restaurant they’d gone to after Bea had met Eddie.

Things had been tense—this is after Bea catches Eddie and Blanche at lunch, after she fucks Tripp in the bathroom, not that Blanche knows about that—but Bea is still unprepared for how angry Blanche seems that night.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” she asks, and Bea stares at her until she’s the first to look away. “Eddie. That all your shit is fake. That this whole”—she waves one arm in the air—“Southern Manors thing was basically stolen from me.”

“I know it’s hard to believe the world doesn’t revolve around you, Blanche, but I promise that’s the case,” Bea replies, her voice calm even as her pulse spikes.

Blanche takes another drink, sullen now. Was she always like this, or is this what being married to Tripp has done? Bea wonders.

She even looks like him now, her hair the same sandy shade as his, cut nearly as short. But her body is rail thin, unlike his, bangles jangling on her wrist as she plucks a chip from the basket. Bea can’t help but inspect those bracelets, looking for something familiar, but no, not a one of them is from Southern Manors. They’re all Kate Spade, and she wrinkles her nose.

Blanche sees. “What?” She’s not eating the chip she’s holding, just picking small pieces off of it, and Bea reaches over to wipe away the pile of crumbs.

“If you need bangles, we just did a new line,” Bea says. “I’ll send some over to you.”

Blanche’s lips part slightly, eyes wide, and after a moment, she gives a startled laugh that’s too loud. “Are you fucking serious?” she asks, and Bea sees heads turn in their direction.

Frowning, she leans closer. “Lower your voice, please.”

“No,” she says, letting the remnant of her chip drop to the table. “No, I seriously want to know if you’re pissed because I’m not wearing your stupid jewelry. I want to know if that’s what’s happening right now, Bertha.”

“Mature,” Bea replies, and Blanche hoots with laughter, sitting back in the booth and crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m asking you if your husband knows that everything about you is a lie. You’re bitching about my bracelets, and I’m the immature one, okay.”

Bea’s hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist, the one covered in those goddamn bangles, and she squeezes so hard Blanche yelps.

“You’re drunk,” Bea tells her through clenched teeth. “And you’re embarrassing yourself. Maybe leave that to Tripp.”

Dinner ends early that night, and it’s only two days later that Eddie is asking why Bea never told him her mother died in a fall.

Which is when Bea realizes there is no affair, when she realizes that even if Blanche had wanted to hurt her, Eddie did not. And because Blanche did not get what she wanted for once in her life, she’s now acting out, firing the only ammunition she has left.

Bea shows up with coffee the next morning and breakfast pastries. She even gets Blanche one of those gluten-free abominations she likes.

“Peace offering,” she says, and she can tell that a part of Blanche wants to believe it, that she wants things to go back to the way they were.

The lake trip is another peace offering. Another olive branch.

And Blanche grabs it with both hands.




Jane sits there, twirling the stem of her wineglass between her fingers, and I watch her mind work. I like not knowing exactly what she’ll do, and it is oddly satisfying to see how shallow her loyalty to Eddie really is.

I hadn’t lost him after all.

It surprises me how much that thrills me.

But maybe it shouldn’t. Some of the things in the diary were for show, to cover my tracks—the majority of it, really—but the sex? The way I felt about Eddie?

That had all been real.

But then Jane sits up a little straighter and says, “We should call the police. Tell them what Eddie did. Let him pay the consequences.”

Is she playing with me, or is that what she really wants? The ambiguity that I’d enjoyed so much just a moment ago is now irritating, and I wave one hand, finishing my wine.

“Later,” I say. “Let me enjoy a few hours of being out of that room before I’m stuck answering a bunch of questions.”

Looking around, I add, “You really didn’t do anything new with the place, did you?”

Jane doesn’t answer that, but leans closer, reaching for my hand. “Bea,” she says. “We can’t just sit here. Eddie murdered Blanche. He could’ve murdered you. We have to—”

“We don’t have to do anything,” I reply, yanking my hand out from under hers and standing up.




“The stressful part is always making the decision,” Bea used to remind her employees. “Once you’ve made it, it’s done, and you feel better.”