The realization made bile rise in my throat. Every kindness I had shown them was now a weapon they used against me. My infertility, my greatest sorrow, was their punchline.
I looked at my phone again. I needed to delete the call log. I couldn’t let Richard know I had called. If he saw a four-minute call that he “missed,” he would know I heard everything. He would cover his tracks. He would hide the money better. He might even become dangerous.
I took a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that felt too tight. I had to go home. I had to walk into that house, look my husband in the eye, and not claw his face off. I had to be the Laura they thought I was—sweet, oblivious, naive Laura.
But the Laura sitting in the car on the side of the I-5 was dead. The woman who turned the key in the ignition was someone else entirely. She was the daughter of Arthur Reynolds, a man who chewed up competitors for breakfast.
I put the car in drive. The rain was letting up, leaving the city lights reflecting on the wet asphalt like spilled oil. I was going home to a crime scene, but this time I wasn’t going to be the victim. I was going to be the detective, the judge, and the executioner.
Pulling into the driveway of our colonial-style home usually brought me a sense of peace. The manicured hedges, the warm yellow light spilling from the porch—it was the sanctuary I had built. Tonight, it looked like a stage set for a horror movie.
I checked my face in the vanity mirror one last time. I applied a fresh coat of lipstick to hide the fact that I had chewed my lip until it bled. I practiced my smile. It felt stiff, like a mask made of clay that hadn’t quite dried, but it would have to do.
I unlocked the front door, and the smell hit me instantly: garlic, rosemary, and searing steak. Richard was cooking. This was part of his routine. Whenever he felt guilty or whenever he was about to ask for a large sum of money, he played the role of the Michelin-star chef.
“Honey, is that you?” His voice drifted from the kitchen, warm and inviting. It was the voice I used to fall asleep to. Now it sounded like the hiss of a snake.
“I’m home,” I called out, aiming for cheerful but landing somewhere near exhausted. That was okay. I could play the tired wife card.
Richard walked into the hallway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He was wearing the cashmere sweater I bought him for Christmas. He looked handsome. Damn him. He looked so handsome with his salt-and-pepper hair and that boyish grin. He walked up to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I had to command every muscle in my body not to flinch. I had to force myself to stay limp, to let him pull me close.
“You’re late,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “I was getting worried. How is your mom?”
“She’s fine,” I lied. “Just talkative. You know how she gets about her garden.”
He pulled back slightly, looking into my eyes. For a second, panic flared in my chest. Does he know? Can he see it?
“You look pale, Laura. Are you okay?”
“Just a migraine,” I said, rubbing my temples. “The traffic was a nightmare. The lights were blurring together.”
“Poor thing,” he cooed.
He kissed my cheek, and that’s when I smelled it. Beneath the scent of garlic and his expensive cologne, there was a faint lingering note of vanilla and coconut. It was her perfume—Monica’s cheap drugstore body spray that she loved because it “smelled like vacation.”
He had been with her recently. Maybe right before he came home to cook my steak. He hadn’t even bothered to shower. He was so arrogant, so sure of my blindness, that he walked into our home carrying the scent of his mistress on his skin.
“I think I need to lie down for a bit,” I said. “The smell of the food, it’s a little strong for my head right now.”
“Of course,” he said, the picture of concern. “Go rest. I’ll keep your dinner warm. Do you want some aspirin?”
“No, just sleep,” I said.
I walked up the stairs, feeling his eyes on my back. My legs felt like lead. I entered our bedroom—the room where we had tried to conceive a child for five years—and locked the door. I walked straight to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the sink. Nothing came up, just bitter bile. I turned on the faucet to mask any noise. I splashed cold water on my face, watching the droplets run down like tears I refused to shed.
I needed to know more. The phone call was the smoking gun. But in a divorce involving millions of dollars, specifically inherited wealth, I needed a nuclear arsenal. I needed to know exactly where he was planning to move the money. He mentioned an offshore shell.
I dried my face and walked back into the bedroom. Richard’s iPad was on the nightstand. He usually took it everywhere, but he must have left it charging. My heart rate spiked. I knew his passcode. It was his birthday. Narcissist.
I unplugged it and sat on the edge of the bed, my ears straining for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. I opened his messages. He had deleted the thread with Monica. He was careful about that. But he hadn’t cleared his browser history.
I clicked on Safari. My fingers trembled as I scrolled.
Non-extradition countries. Real estate in Belize. How to hide assets in a trust divorce. Paternity test accuracy timeline. And then the most chilling search of all, time-stamped three days ago:
Average life expectancy of woman with high blood pressure.
I froze. I didn’t have high blood pressure. But my mother did. Was he planning to wait for my parents to die, too? Or was he hoping the stress of the divorce would kill me?
I heard the heavy thud of a footstep on the stairs. I quickly locked the iPad, plugged it back in, and dove under the duvet, pulling it up to my chin. I feigned sleep, my breathing shallow and even.
The doorknob turned.
