“Not the drink.”
“No, not that.” Roman took a third step. He was near enough for Penny to smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Not that,” Penny chimed in a whisper.
“Why are you here?” he repeated finally. His eyes flicked toward the window as a wave of laughter sounded from inside. “This is my house.”
“I just—” Penny swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
Roman’s eyebrow raised. More laughter from the inside. Ha-ha-ha, Penny thought, the sound getting on her nerves. Suddenly, nothing was funny. That hint of anger returned, her guilt at being outside Roman’s house taking a back seat to the injustice of it all. If anyone could rationalize their way out of a sticky situation, it was Penny Sands.
“Damn it, Roman.” She took a jagged breath. “What the hell is going on here? You kissed me in your office, and then…”
Roman raised a hand, pressed it over Penny’s mouth. “They’ll hear you.”
She smacked it away. “I don’t care! It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“It’s complicated.” Another flick of his eyes. Flick, flick, flick.
“Then you shouldn’t have kissed me. I deserve better. Your wife deserves better.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“Roman, did you get lost out there?” Another titter of laughter followed as a woman’s voice trickled through a rectangle of light splicing the otherwise dark driveway. Roman must have left the door cracked.
“Be right in,” he called over his shoulder, keeping his gaze firmly moored on Penny’s. “I can’t talk now. Soon, I promise. I’ll explain everything.”
“But—”
Then, like the very ocean itself, Roman tugged Penny below the surface as his lips crashed against hers, and together, they swirled, topsy-turvy through uncharted waters. Her hands dug into his hair, and though she tried to stop, she couldn’t. When Roman finally released her from the kiss, Penny was left standing speechless on the sidewalk outside the Tate house, watching the man she loved return to his pretty little life.
TRANSCRIPT
Defense: When’s the last time you had a glass of wine, Mrs. Wilkes?
Anne Wilkes: A few days ago. I don’t know. I don’t keep track.
Defense: That’s interesting, isn’t it? Many recovering alcoholics know the date of their last drink.
Anne Wilkes: I’m not a recovering alcoholic.
Defense: Did you or did you not check yourself into a rehab facility three years ago? Your son Samuel would have been about a year old at the time.
Anne Wilkes: I checked myself in, and I checked myself right back out. I’m fine. Going to that center was a mistake. I had everything under control then, and I still do now.
Defense: Your husband testified yesterday that he’s been concerned about you. That you’re drinking again. Have you seen a doctor recently, Mrs. Wilkes?
Anne Wilkes: I’m sorry, how is this relevant to the case?
Defense: Your Honor, Mrs. Wilkes has a history of making rash, unstable, and downright dangerous decisions. She also had a reason to want the victim dead. I think Mrs. Wilkes’s precarious mental state is completely relevant to the case at hand.
The Court: Please answer the question, Mrs. Wilkes.
Anne Wilkes: My mental state isn’t precarious. It’s fine. I’m fine. I walked away from my kids once, and I don’t plan on doing it ever again. Not for him, at least. If I had killed him, I would have made damn sure I wasn’t caught. Whoever killed him was sloppy. That’s not how I work.
FOURTEEN
Six Months Before
August 2018
The launch party for Be Free is tonight, and I kept your name on the guest list in case you changed your mind about attending,” Eliza said. “You really should come. You’ll love Marguerite. Plus, you need to get out and talk with other adults. Keep your mind off things at home.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you know where to find me. It’s not every day you’re invited to the Pelican Hotel.”
Anne considered Eliza’s invitation. “I’d love to come, but the kids…”
“What about that new sitter Roman sent your way?”
“Penny? She’s great. But I had her over twice last week to help, and we saw each other on the weekend… I can’t spring this on her short notice.”
“You have a husband, don’t you?”
“Mark? You think he’d offer to watch all four kids at bedtime?”
The pause told Anne that Eliza was having a hard time understanding the monumental task she’d be asking of her husband.
“Whatever. That’s not important,” Anne said on a sigh. “Tonight is about you. Your company is throwing a launch party for Marguerite Hill! How awesome is that? I have her book in my van.”
“The first one? I gave that to you ages ago. Have you finished it yet?”
“I’ve made good progress,” Anne hedged. “The kids have been sick for the last few weeks.”
“And the weeks before that?”
“I’m working on it!” Anne grinned across the phone line. “It’s not my fault. If you’d made it mandatory reading for a book club or something, maybe I would have finished it on time. You know I need deadlines, or I’ll procrastinate forever.”
“A book club.” Eliza sounded genuinely intrigued. “Not a bad idea actually. Anyway, I’ll see you tonight. I know you’ll make the right choice.”
The door opened downstairs, and Anne sighed yet again. “Speak of the devil, I’ve got to go. Time to feed the vultures.”
“We’re having catered appetizers tonight.” Eliza needled Anne with a tantalizing lilt to her voice. “Bacon-wrapped scallops for starters. There will be a nice bubbly champagne, chilled of course, and an ice wine tasting. And don’t forget the best part of all…”
“I’m already drooling. Don’t torture me.”
“You don’t have to cook, wash, or clean a single dish.”
“I think I just had an orgasm.”
“See you soon.”
Eliza hung up first, leaving Anne to stare at the silent phone. She blinked, considering the invitation while stifling the longing rising with it. Did she want to go? The answer was an easy, resounding yes. Should she go? That answer was a bit murkier. She had kids to feed, a husband to look after, a house to clean…
Anne sighed, returning to fiddle with her dresser some more. She was determined to fix it so the damn drawers didn’t squeak. For some reason, the state of the vanity had become an obsession for her in recent weeks. What had been a minor inconvenience for more than a decade had suddenly become a major headache. She couldn’t stop fixating on the stupid thing.
Wiping sweating palms on yoga pants that hadn’t seen the inside of a washer in far too long, Anne set to work. She’d been picking away at this project for days, but the Wilkes household had been more chaotic than normal as of late.
Harry had picked up a nasty bug at daycare that had been transferred from one child to the next until the rotation was complete. Anne had been up to her elbows in sick children for weeks, so much so that she’d barely had time to think about Mark.