He gave a shrug, then gestured at his colleagues and gave a low whistle. The men wrapped the vanity with a heavy cloth, then retrieved some sort of dolly to lug the thing downstairs. Anne stood out of the way and watched, her chest tense and her breathing forced.
If the affair had been the only trouble with her relationship, Anne could have moved on. She could have made things work with Mark. She could have forgiven him quickly and swiftly, and while the betrayal had hurt, she would have swallowed her pride for the sake of her family. Unfortunately, the truth—a slippery, black snake—had slithered into their lives, and it was so much more.
Mark was due back at the house today. He was scheduled to arrive at noon, and it would be the first time Anne had seen him since Roman had been found dead. Murdered, Anne reminded herself. The same day Anne had asked her husband to move out.
The police still hadn’t arrested a suspect. They’d questioned Penny, Eliza, and Anne over and over. Anne wondered if the other women had broken, shared their secrets with the police. Is that why the cops are hanging around? The authorities hadn’t let their suspicions of the three women drop despite a lack of evidence. Anne couldn’t help but feel she’d already been condemned in the eyes of the police.
Plenty of people had motive, Anne thought wryly. And with that, Anne wondered—not for the first time—where Mark had been on the night of Roman’s murder. She hadn’t asked him. Instead, she’d kicked him out of the house. Had she asked him to leave because of the state of their marriage or because she was afraid of him? Of what he was capable of doing?
Anne had told Mark that she needed time to think things through, and she couldn’t think with him sleeping next to her. His response had been simple. So you know then. Anne had pointed toward the door, and Mark hadn’t argued. He hadn’t even tried to offer an explanation.
Anne glanced down at her phone, debating a call to Eliza. At the last second, she dropped her cell back into her pocket. This—the vanity—wasn’t Eliza’s problem. The poor woman had enough to deal with already. The loss of her husband, a police investigation, a company that was a complete and utter mess…
Instead, Anne debated dialing Penny’s number but quickly dismissed the thought. The poor girl was in just as deep as Eliza but for a myriad of different reasons. Compared to Penny and Eliza, Anne had limited problems.
It was better she didn’t talk with her friends anyway. The more they spoke, the more Anne suspected the police would think they’d gone in on something together. Eliza had disagreed, telling Anne and Penny that she thought their caution made them look guilty and that they should continue to interact with one another as usual.
“I’m not losing my friends over this,” Eliza had announced to Penny and Anne the day after Roman’s death. “I’m not staying away from you because of one ridiculous rumor that I offed my husband.”
A response had been on the tip of Anne’s tongue. She wanted to ask Well, did you?
But she never asked. Neither had Penny.
Just like Eliza hadn’t asked Penny or Anne if they’d done it.
None of them wanted to know the answer.
The door downstairs opened as the movers shuffled the vanity outside. Mark slipped through the door behind the movers and made his way upstairs, looking confused as he entered the bedroom. They faced one another in silence. It was Mark who spoke first.
“So this is it?” he murmured. “You haven’t even asked me to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Anne said firmly. “It’s the lying that I can’t handle. I could’ve gotten past the rest of it.”
Mark looked like he wanted to say more, but at the last second, his face crumpled. He looked Anne dead in the eye. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’ve made up your mind. It’s over.”
Anne closed her eyes. “Yes, Mark. It’s over.”
Mark made his way toward Anne and stood before her, studying her with a quiet intensity. In one swift, unexpected move, he took Anne in his arms and pressed her to his chest. Anne felt the dampness of tears on her skin.
Anne found herself hugging him back, her nails digging into his skin as she wished upon all the stars that things were different. But they weren’t, and their tender embrace came to an end. Anne lifted a file that contained divorce papers from the bed and handed it to her husband. He tucked the folder under his arm and left the room without a backward glance.
Anne waited for the lump in her throat to fade. When it didn’t, she ignored it instead. Picking up the phone, she dialed the one person who would know what to say.
“Eliza,” Anne said, “are you free?”
There was a long hesitation from the other end of the phone. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. I can’t talk now.”
“It’s Mark.”
“I’m sorry, Anne,” Eliza said briskly. “This will have to wait.”
THIRTY-FIVE
One Month After
March 2019
Eliza sat in her newly leased, barren office, fingers flexed over her computer keyboard. She’d gotten the keys to her first solo office just three days after her husband’s death and, simultaneously, three days after the loss of her only client. It was salt in the wound to sit behind her desk and pretend to work, but what could she do? She was on the hook for six months of rent. She might as well use it.
Humming a tuneless tune, Eliza stared listlessly at her hands. To anyone peering in from the outside, it would look as if she were deep in thought. Truth be told, she was simply killing time, musing over a chip in her nail polish and wondering when it had gotten there.
In another round of irony, in the month since her husband’s death, Eliza had found herself suddenly in the black. She’d been able to pay off all her debts, including the loan to Jocelyn and Todd, in large part due to the sale of Roman’s cars. All was going well in the world of Eliza Tate. Except, of course, for the fact that her husband was dead.
A knock sounded on the door, startling her from the study of her chipped nail. Eliza jerked to attention, fielding a flash of annoyance that she hadn’t gone ahead and hired an assistant. The CEO of Eliza Tate PR shouldn’t be opening her own damn door. Then again, the CEO of Eliza Tate PR needed to get clients in order to need an assistant.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Eliza opened the door to reveal two uniformed policemen standing in the hallway. “Can I help you with something?”
“Mrs. Tate?”
“That’s me.” She glanced pointedly at her shiny name plaque on the door.
The taller cop’s gaze followed, but he didn’t appear amused. He scratched at the back of his head, then glanced over Eliza’s shoulder. “May we come in for a moment?”
“I’m very busy, so I hope we can make this quick.”
Eliza returned to her seat. She sat, folded her hands across her desk (tucking the chipped nail out of sight), and tried to look disinterested in whatever the cops had to say.
On the inside, however, Eliza trembled with nerves. Ever since she’d come to this country, she’d felt uneasy around law enforcement, as if they would somehow sniff out the fact that she didn’t belong. That she was an imposter, an intruder.