Defense: So what if a woman read this and took it a little too literally? What if she thought that when you said “by whatever means necessary,” it included murder?
Marguerite Hill: That’s her problem, because that’s preposterous. That’s not how I intended it in the slightest. I don’t even have a clue how one might interpret it in that light.
Defense: What if that is what you meant, Ms. Hill? I’m not convinced you’re telling us the truth. Is your name Marguerite Hill?
Marguerite Hill: Of course it is.
Defense: Has it always been Marguerite Hill?
Marguerite Hill: I changed my last name to Hill when I got married. I kept the name after we divorced because I’d already used it on my work. My ex-husband and I are on friendly terms, so I didn’t care about changing it back.
Defense: What about before that?
Marguerite Hill: Before what?
Defense: Ms. Hill, as it turns out, your name was Katherine Bonaparte on your birth certificate.
Marguerite Hill: But how did you…
Defense: Look, Ms. Hill. I’m sorry for what happened to you as a child. The crimes against you were unspeakable and awful. But it’s time to be honest with the court. Please explain to the jury who you are, where you come from, and why you changed your name.
NINETEEN
Six Months Before
August 2018
Penny watched as Marguerite Hill flitted around the elaborate ballroom, a small posse flocking along beside her. Among her troupe walked Roman Tate.
It hadn’t been difficult to Google the event list for the Pelican Hotel and find out that Roman’s wife was throwing a party for Marguerite’s new book. Penny was still trying to puzzle out Roman’s reason for inviting her here. If he’d wanted to explain why he’d kissed her—among other things—wouldn’t it have been more prudent to go somewhere alone, just the two of them? Somewhere—anywhere—his wife wasn’t?
To Penny, it felt like she was a carrot being dangled just under Eliza’s nose. Was this all a big game to Roman? Was Penny his midlife crisis—a back-alley affair that would flash-bang bright, then fizzle to blackness when he returned to his wife and groveled for an apology?
Penny wasn’t going to stick around for any of that. She refused to be the other woman. So why had she come at all? Why hadn’t she ignored Roman’s email or sent him a giant fuck-you message back?
Because she was curious, and everyone knew that curiosity killed the cat. Penny wanted to know more; she wanted to know everything. She wanted to see Eliza with her own eyes, know the woman whose husband she had kissed. She wanted to see Marguerite Hill in person, her beloved guru, and hear from her lips that everything would be okay. That Penny’s life wasn’t over, that she could still take charge and move on from the messy trails she’d left behind.
And lastly, she was curious to hear Roman’s explanation. Would he be up-front with her? Would he lie? Would he tell her it had all been a mistake, and could she please keep their little interludes secret?
Nursing a vodka martini and chomping on one of the blue cheese– stuffed olives that came speared as decorative flair, Penny watched the smartly dressed group arrive at the party and slowly disperse. A few members of the group made their way over to the bar while others spread throughout the room in search of conversation with other attendees.
Penny fingered her H&M steal, biting her lip as Roman helped Marguerite out of her coat. The jacket was a shimmery pink thing that was entirely unnecessary in southern California temperatures, but it was stylish nonetheless and likely expensive. The guest of honor deserved to dress with a little pizzazz.
Penny was fascinated by Marguerite Hill and everything she stood for. Her last book had hit the New York Times list at number ten. She’d been a nobody before her unexpected success, much like Penny herself. Almost overnight, Marguerite had become the newest self-help guru on the continent. And now Penny was standing a stone’s throw from her idol.
There was something about Marguerite—something about the look in her eyes or the way she spoke. Maybe the way she moved or the way her words galloped across the page. Something about her that made Penny shiver. The woman was not to be taken lightly.
As Penny continued to stare over her martini glass, she couldn’t help but observe Roman as he inched closer to Marguerite. Was it Penny’s imagination, or were the two positioned a hair too close together? Maybe it was the little touches that threw Penny off or the way Roman tossed Marguerite’s jacket over his shoulder after she’d shrugged it off.
Maybe Penny wasn’t the only one Roman had his eye on. Penny wasn’t sure whether that made her feel better or worse, but she knew it made her feel something. And that something quickly became jealousy, an emotion that pinged around her chest like a ball in a pinball machine. Penny fought it back with every fiber of her moral compass, but it was a futile effort.
Trying to ignore her rattling nerves, Penny turned her attention to someone more interesting than either Roman or Marguerite. She watched Eliza Tate with mounting curiosity, wondering what she knew. Was it possible that Roman had confessed everything and she knew about their secret interludes?
When Penny entered the room, she’d seen a beautiful, forlorn-looking woman draped over a cocktail table, looking like a brokenhearted Disney princess waiting for a prince who would never come. Eliza’s long, shiny dark hair had been pulled over one shoulder, and her dress—sleek and short—was made from a crisp black fabric that made Penny feel like a starry-eyed teenager in her clearance-rack jumpsuit.
Penny might as well have worn sparkly eye shadow and chomped on bubble gum. It would have matched the duct tape slapped on the bottom of her shoe because she hadn’t wanted to shell out for a pair of new heels.
Turning to the bar, Penny slipped another olive between her lips. She was being stupid all over again, pining for a partner she couldn’t have when there was a real, tangible man bringing her flowers. Ryan Anderson might never be a yacht. But he made for a damn good dinghy.
“I’m glad you made it.” Roman’s voice clapped over Penny’s shoulder, prickling her skin in anticipation of a coming storm. “I worried you wouldn’t want to see me.”
“I’m still waiting to hear one good reason why I shouldn’t walk out the door right now.” Penny stared into her martini as she tasted the sour words. “You’re married.”
“You knew that from the day you met me.”
Penny’s face heated.
Roman leaned inward. “Yet you still wanted me.”
“I’m leaving—”
“Penny,” he chided gently with a matching shake of his head. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. What I meant to say was that there’s a greater force pulling us together. I can feel it, and I think you can, too.”
Penny’s throat went dry. “What’s gone on between us should never have happened. It’s not fair to anyone.”
“You’re wrong.”
Roman looked so convinced, it gave Penny pause as she stared into her drink. Somehow, most of her cocktail had already disappeared. She hadn’t eaten much all day, considering she’d picked her way around suspect beans for lunch.
“You’re an asshole.” The alcohol must have hit her harder than expected, which explained her newfound backbone. “I can’t believe I fell for your whole…” Penny waved her hand over Roman, head to toe. “All of it. I have half a mind to tell your wife everything.”