“Luke Hamilton belongs to me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Anne hadn’t yet fully connected the dots, but lines were starting to be sketched. She could see where he was going with everything, but she hadn’t fitted together how Roman planned to emerge victorious.
She toyed with the frayed edge of her purse. “Are you going to tell me why you haven’t talked to Mark yet? Told him you know about the affair?”
Roman looked annoyed. “It’s no wonder you and Eliza are friends. You both don’t get it, do you? This is so much bigger than Mark and some stupid woman.”
“What do you mean, it’s bigger than that?”
“Luke didn’t give you every last detail that he dug up on your husband.”
“I still don’t understand why Luke would tell you anything about our private life. He has no right.”
“It was Eliza’s money paying your bill,” Roman said pointedly. “Eliza paid Luke for you. See, Luke and I have an arrangement, and when anything with Eliza’s name on it crosses his desk, he brings it to me. Let the highest bidder win. The check was in her name, so he came to me looking for an auction, and I gave him one.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That doesn’t matter. We all know how this works. Money makes the world go ’round. I’ve got a secret. If you’ve got money, that secret stays quiet.”
“I don’t have any money. I already told you that,” Anne said bitterly. “Like you said, I’m nothing but a housewife. I haven’t worked in nearly a decade. We have four children and live in Los Angeles. Our savings account is abysmal. If Mark got laid off, we wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage on our house for three months without filing for bankruptcy.”
“Right,” Roman said. “But Luke helped me out with that little… kerfuffle. As it turns out, your mother is one rich bitch. I met her once at your house, never liked her.”
Anne’s mind went immediately to Beatrice Harper. The woman who vacationed on Martha’s Vineyard. The woman who lived in a pristine, hundred-year-old Victorian house that qualified as a historical landmark. The woman who could afford to send her grandchildren to college without batting an eye. And the very woman who had never given her daughter a dime.
“I have no way to access that money,” Anne said. “Most of it is tied up in funds for the kids’ college tuitions, and we can’t touch it until they’re eighteen.”
“I don’t care about college funds. I care about cash. I don’t care if you get the money from your parents or if you whore yourself out to pay for it. I just want fifty thousand dollars by next month.”
“Or what?”
“Or I let Mark’s little secret slip to the police. Or better yet, a journalist. The DA. Someone who won’t find Mark’s little whoopsies quite so amusing.”
“They can’t fire him over an affair.” Anne’s lips felt dry. She still wasn’t used to the word affair.
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Mark’s integrity.” Roman studied Anne carefully. “It might seem as if Mark is a hero, a real stand-up officer. But what if I told you he wasn’t as squeaky clean as he’s led everyone to believe?”
“Are you insinuating that my husband is a dirty cop?” Anne scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Are you willing to take the risk that I’m wrong?” Roman shrugged one shoulder. “Fifty grand will keep me—and any evidence to the contrary—quiet. That way, you won’t have to run the risk that I am very, very right.”
Anne paused. Did she believe that her husband was a crooked cop? A year ago, she would have bet her life that her husband didn’t have a lying bone in his body. Now, Anne wondered how much more there was to Mark Wilkes.
Still, she trembled. Fifty thousand dollars? There was no way she could get that sort of money. From anywhere. She and Mark didn’t have anything near that in savings. They’d have to sell the house, and that would defeat the purpose of keeping this mess a secret.
Briefly, Anne flirted with the idea of phoning her mother. She pictured the call and snorted right there in front of Roman. There was even less chance of Beatrice giving her the money than of Anne being able to sell the house and keep the secret from Mark.
At this point, Anne’s best option would be to go on a crash diet, pick up a pair of stripper boots, and head down to the local club. And that was preposterous. Nobody wanted to see Anne naked.
Unfortunately, Anne knew how this worked. She read books, watched movies. This was just the beginning. Fifty thousand dollars was the start of a journey that would never end. She and Roman were entering a dangerous game of chicken that would go on until one of them flinched. Or ended up dead.
With a shudder, Anne suddenly understood the word motive in a new light. She’d always thought that mystery plots were too far-fetched, too unrealistic to ever exist in this world, especially not in Anne’s modest little life dedicated to raising four decent human beings while keeping her sanity intact. Her biggest problems were supposed to be keeping her children fed and bathed and the numbers on her bathroom scale at a reasonable level. And, of course, not running away from her family—again.
“If I’m going to get you that much money,” Anne said finally, “I deserve to know what you think my husband has done.”
“I figured you’d ask.” Roman tipped forward in his chair. He beckoned with his finger for Anne to lean closer. “Don’t worry. I’ve got nothing to hide from you.”
Then Roman told her. Every last detail.
Anne had always said she’d never be able to kill anyone. That murder wasn’t in the cards for her. But as Roman whispered in her ear, she felt nothing. She felt neither sick nor angry, desperate nor frightened. She merely wondered what it would be like if Roman ended up dead.
TRANSCRIPT
Defense: Ms. Hill, you were at both book club events on February 13, correct?
Marguerite Hill: I’m the author. The whole point was my being there.
Defense: It’s been established that the subject of murder arose on the afternoon of the thirteenth. Would you say that it was the content of your book that spurred the group’s discussion toward murder?
Marguerite Hill: I’d say that’s ridiculous. My book discusses women—our power, our rights, and the ability to take control of our lives. There’s nothing about murder.
Defense: I read your book, Ms. Hill. Impressive. You’re a talented author.
Marguerite Hill: Thank you.
Defense: But I found it interesting, reading your work under the current circumstances—specifically, the murder trial happening as we speak. Are there not several themes in your work about women taking what’s theirs, especially when it comes to men in a position of power?
Marguerite Hill: I suppose. But how does that relate to killing someone?
Defense: Let me read an excerpt to you, Ms. Hill. This comes from page 48 of Take Charge: “Ladies, I urge you to take what is yours, no matter the cost. It’s your right—your duty—to stand up for yourselves. By whatever means necessary.”
Marguerite Hill: So? I stand by my words.