Every Last Secret - A.R. Torre Page 0,96

brave enough to face the filler-enhanced faces at the Atherton athletic center. Too many Atherton wives attended there, and word had probably spread to a few of them. But what version of the events? The masked intruder? My potential involvement?

It was all ridiculous. I was innocent! Maybe not completely innocent, but my crimes were focused on seduction—not murder. I didn’t need to poison Cat Winthorpe—I could take her down in other ways. And why would I hire someone to kill Matt? I loved Matt. I did. Despite the gray tooth in his smile and his growing gut. Despite the fact that he once called caviar “jelly seeds” at a party. Despite all that—I loved him. Who else would desire me in such a complete and unwavering way? Even if I had entertained thoughts of leaving him—I would never have gone through with it. Not unless William Winthorpe had proposed, which he might have, if I’d had more time with him.

It had all been going perfectly until the hard right turn that had thrown me into hell. Hell and a queen-bed hotel room with a rattling air conditioner and questionable pay-per-view options.

I dressed in yoga pants and a sports bra, lacing up my Nikes while mentally moving through my daily affirmations. I opened the door to my room, my key card in hand, and came to a stop at the sight of the newspaper tossed in front of my door, an identical copy at each adjacent room.

LOCAL WIFE ATTEMPTS MURDER, AUTHORITIES ALLEGE

The headline could not have been in bigger font, a bold sans serif that competed with the photo of me—a horrible shot where my mouth was open, my attention sideways. I picked up the paper and studied the photo, which was from the July Fourth fireworks party. I looked terrible. Terrible and old and angry. Local wife attempts murder? How many people had seen this piece of trash? I pictured all my new friends, their features pinching in distaste, manicured hands reaching for their phones, frantic to share the news. Oh my gawd . . . did you hear? Neena Ryder tried to kill her husband. Kill him. It would hit social media, message groups, text threads. It would be everywhere within an hour.

Returning to my room, I engaged the dead bolt and sank onto the bed, reading the article in its entirety as my gut twisted into a tight knot.

When I finished, I read it again. I tried for a third but headed for the bathroom instead, my stomach heaving in protest. I vomited, then sank to my knees on the white floor mat and hugged the edge of the dirty toilet.

The article had included a quote from William, one in which he had called me “a deeply disturbed individual.” How could he have said that? Had he not felt our connection? Had our kiss, our sex, meant nothing? Among all the sparks and subterfuge, I thought there had been a genuine connection between us.

I had eight thousand dollars in my bank account and no job. No assets that weren’t controlled or being taken by Matt. This was supposed to have followed a simple path—a secret affair that led to William Winthorpe paying me off or falling in love with me. Two very clear outcomes, neither of which would have risked everything I had worked so hard for. Our house in the right neighborhood. Now a crime scene. My job at the right company. I’d be fired. My social standing in the right circles. Destroyed by this article. A husband who worshipped and loved me. Who had kicked me out of my own home. Mentioned divorce.

How did it all disappear in the course of a few days? Though if I really examined it . . . it was in the course of a few minutes and a misfired gun.

I almost wished the gun hadn’t misfired. Matt would be dead, and I would have everything. The house. The life insurance. The money in the bank. His company. I might have been investigated, but at least I would have the money to hire attorneys, a crack team that could shine the light on this shoddy investigation and find the true killer. I warmed to the idea of being a rich widow, sympathetic looks all around. Finally, I’d be able to watch what I wanted on television. Get rid of his ugly leather furniture. Live without dirty towels on the floor or sports magazines on the coffee table or junk food filling