Every Last Secret(78)

It had all been going perfectly until the hard right turn that had thrown me into hell. Hell and a queen-bed hotel room with a rattling air conditioner and questionable pay-per-view options.

I dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra, lacing up my Nikes while mentally moving through my daily affirmations. I opened the door to my room, my key card in hand, and came to a stop at the sight of the newspaper tossed in front of my door, an identical copy at each adjacent room.

LOCAL WIFE ATTEMPTS MURDER, AUTHORITIES ALLEGE

The headline could not have been in bigger font, a bold sans serif that competed with the photo of me—a horrible shot where my mouth was open, my attention sideways. I picked up the paper and studied the photo, which was from the July Fourth fireworks party. I looked terrible. Terrible and old and angry. Local wife attempts murder? How many people had seen this piece of trash? I pictured all my new friends, their features pinching in distaste, manicured hands reaching for their phones, frantic to share the news. Oh my gawd . . . did you hear? Neena Ryder tried to kill her husband. Kill him. It would hit social media, message groups, text threads. It would be everywhere within an hour.

Returning to my room, I engaged the dead bolt and sank onto the bed, reading the article in its entirety as my gut twisted into a tight knot.

When I finished, I read it again. I tried for a third but headed for the bathroom instead, my stomach heaving in protest. I vomited, then sank to my knees on the white floor mat and hugged the edge of the dirty toilet.

The article had included a quote from William, one in which he had called me “a deeply disturbed individual.” How could he have said that? Had he not felt our connection? Had our kiss, our sex, meant nothing? Among all the sparks and subterfuge, I thought there had been a genuine connection between us.

I had eight thousand dollars in my bank account and no job. No assets that weren’t controlled or being taken by Matt. This was supposed to have followed a simple path—a secret affair that led to William Winthorpe paying me off or falling in love with me. Two very clear outcomes, neither of which would have risked everything I had worked so hard for. Our house in the right neighborhood. Now a crime scene. My job at the right company. I’d be fired. My social standing in the right circles. Destroyed by this article. A husband who worshipped and loved me. Who had kicked me out of my own home. Mentioned divorce.

How did it all disappear in the course of a few days? Though if I really examined it . . . it was in the course of a few minutes and a misfired gun.

I almost wished the gun hadn’t misfired. Matt would be dead, and I would have everything. The house. The life insurance. The money in the bank. His company. I might have been investigated, but at least I would have the money to hire attorneys, a crack team that could shine the light on this shoddy investigation and find the true killer. I warmed to the idea of being a rich widow, sympathetic looks all around. Finally, I’d be able to watch what I wanted on television. Get rid of his ugly leather furniture. Live without dirty towels on the floor or sports magazines on the coffee table or junk food filling our pantry.

If the gun hadn’t misfired, there was the possibility that the gunman could have turned it on me. But honestly, death would be better than this. I checked the dramatic statement for accuracy and was horrified to see that it was true.

Death would be better than life as a divorced and penniless social pariah.

And yet . . . it could get even worse, because that envelope from our safe was still missing. Who could have it?

It had to be Cat who was behind all this. Cat, who had probably faked her poisoning. Cat, who had put lies in Matt’s head about the railing. Cat, who had probably hired someone to kill Matt—all so she could hold on to her shaky marriage.

But how had she gotten into the safe? When had she planted the photos? How long had she been planning this?

And if she was the one with my will, what did she plan to do with it?





CHAPTER 52

NEENA

Two weeks later

My new life sucked. Somehow, I was climbing the steps to an apartment, my keys jingling from my hand like a janitor. When I opened the door, I’d be looking at a room of rented furniture, the additional fifty bucks tacked on to my monthly rent as part of a never-ended Christmas special.

I didn’t belong here. Not in this cramped one-bedroom, not in this low-rent part of San Francisco, not on the losing end of divorce proceedings that seemed to hollow me out more and more with every meeting.

I didn’t even recognize Matt. For one, it was his teeth. The man who never seemed to care about his appearance now had veneers. They sparkled from his mouth every time he opened it, and he was suddenly opening it a lot, filled with opinions on everything from alimony to what car I should be driving. He knew I had an issue with American cars, yet that ended up being my option—he’d buy me a cheap sedan, or I could buy my own.

I took the sedan with its cloth seats and clunky styling, my head ducked in shame whenever I entered and exited it. My old car, the BMW that I had always taken for granted, now taunted me from a roadside spot at the used-car dealership, its windshield covered by a price tag I couldn’t afford.

Couldn’t afford. Two words I’d run from my entire life. Two words I’d buried in the dirt after I walked down the aisle with Matt. Two words I’d forgotten the second I’d gotten my degree. Two words that had come back to bite me.

I made it through the door and heaved my computer bag onto the round dining table, rubbing my shoulder with a sigh. Turning back to the door, I flipped the dead bolt and worked the security chain into the slide.