“Jon told us you were living in New York,” Erica said. “I imagine you think we’re strange.”
“Oh no, of course I don’t.” I felt my face warming.
Erica laughed. She tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing a simple, but pretty, diamond earring. “Liar. I lived in New York for two years before I married Adam.” She glanced down at the enormous diamond ring on her finger. “This has got to be a culture shock for you.”
“Okay, maybe it’s a little strange,” I admitted.
The three friends exchanged nods.
Samantha, looking as perfect and perky as ever, smiled. “We’re not as desperate for friendship as you probably think.”
“I don’t think you’re desperate—”
“We’re just trying to be friendly.” Samantha leaned closer. “You see, you don’t know it yet, but you’re going to need all the friends you can get.”
Now, that was a weird thing to say.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that man upstairs—the one you’re about to marry—he’s not exactly what he appears to be.”
“We think he killed his wife,” Lindsay whispered.
Holy shit.
“She committed suicide,” I said, wondering why they would think such a thing.
I don’t know these women. They could be lying to make me leave. Maybe they’re all in love with Jon.
“Suicide? That’s what he told you?” Giving me a pitying look, Erica shook her head. “That’s a lie. If you don’t believe us—and really, why would you?—check it out for yourself.” She motioned for a pen with her hand. I found one in a drawer, along with a little spiral notebook. She pulled a sheet out and wrote a website on it, folded it, and handed it to me. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Jonathan Stewart was investigated for murder. He hasn’t been brought up on charges ... yet. They couldn’t find enough evidence. But the case is still open. Here’s the write-up in our local paper.”
Lindsay reached for my hand. “Be careful.”
I was dumbfounded. Speechless. What the hell was this? “Jon said she was depressed,” I stuttered. “She couldn’t get pregnant.”
“Depressed?” Samantha pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, hit some buttons, and handed it to me. “Depressed people isolate themselves from friends, from family. They don’t go to parties. They don’t laugh with friends. This picture was taken the day before Michelle died. At our neighborhood block party. Does she look like she was isolating herself?”
I looked.
First, Michelle could pass for my doppelganger. That was freaky enough. But second, she looked like she was having a great time at the party. And when I say great, that might be a slight understatement.
A shiver swept up my spine.
“There are more pictures,” Samantha said. “Hit the button.”
“I don’t need to see more.” I handed Samantha the phone and glanced down at my plate. My appetite was gone. Had I made the mistake of a lifetime? Had I left my job, my life, to move in with a murderer? “The pictures don’t prove anything.”
“You’re right. They don’t,” Erica said. “But we’re hoping the police will find some solid proof soon. You could help.”
“You want me to dig for clues while I’m living with a man you believe killed his wife?” This was crazy. Insane. Unbelievable.
I needed to find out more. About Jon, yes. But also about these women. I was having some doubts about Jon. Any girl would. After all, I’d learned a long time ago that something—or someone—who seemed too good to be true generally was. But I was also having some suspicions about my three neighbors. What were their stories? Why were they so hell-bent on convincing me Jon killed his wife?
“You don’t trust us. I can appreciate that,” Erica said. “At this point, all you have is what we’ve told you. But once you do a little digging, you’ll realize who has been telling you the truth and who has been lying.” She stood, motioning to the other two. “Ladies, I think we’ve taken up enough of Christine’s time.” She gave me a smile that seemed genuine. “Our offers still stand. If you need anything, from any of us, we’re here for you.” She was the first to head for the door. Samantha was second. Lindsay was the last.
At the door, Lindsay leaned over and whispered, “I really like you already. Please be careful.”
CHAPTER 3
I couldn’t push the freaking button. I was too afraid of what I’d see.
After The Pack cleared out, I returned to my girl-cave and tried to get back to work. As I moved things from one place to another, I kept telling myself they’d been lying to me. Jon’s wife had killed herself just like he told me. When I could no longer believe that, I switched to the theory that they weren’t lying—they really believed Jon might be a killer—but the police were wrong. Jon was innocent.
Eventually, after several hours, I hadn’t completely convinced myself of that explanation, either. So I’d done what any normal girl would do. I powered up my laptop, jumped a few hoops to get it connected to the house’s Wi-Fi, and typed in the URL Erica had written out for me.
It was there now, on my browser’s search line. But I couldn’t hit the button, calling up the page.
Hit the button, dammit. You need to know the truth.
Hand on the mouse. Cursor sitting on top of the SEND button, I closed my eyes. The muscles of my hand tightened. My heart constricted. My lungs slowly deflated.
I clicked.
I swear, my heart stopped completely.
After waiting a handful of seconds, I forced my eyes open.
The newspaper article was open. Oh God. I was about to learn whether I’d just made the mistake of a lifetime.
The first thing I saw was a photograph of a smiling, pretty Michelle Stewart. The sight of that image felt like a sock in the gut. The headline was even worse.
Husband Suspected in Wife’s Mysterious Death.
Shit!
Footsteps pounded overhead. They came closer. Someone was coming down the stairs. I clicked the red X, closing the page.
“Chrissy? Are you down here?” Jon called from the stairs as he stomp, stomp, stomped down them.
My hands were shaking as I grabbed the box of patterns I’d been sorting and pretended to be working. “Yep, I’m here.”
Jon turned the corner.
There he was. So handsome. Strikingly handsome. Was that the face of a killer? Were those dark brown eyes the eyes of a murderer? He smiled at me. The expression looked genuine. He looked happy, as glad to see me as I had been to see him only yesterday. “Hello there. Settling in okay?”
“Yes, I sure am.”
He came closer, too close. I felt my body stiffening, even though I knew that one newspaper article did not mean he was definitely a killer. I hadn’t even had a chance to read the article. Perhaps the headline had been misleading. Perhaps the article’s author had taken liberties with the facts in the case.
Perhaps I was hoping for a miracle.
He bent to kiss me but stopped short. “Is something wrong?” Clearly, the man knew how to read body language.
How to respond to that question?
“I’m just feeling a little ... overwhelmed, I guess.”
He straightened up. His expression was puzzled, not at all hostile or suspicious. “Overwhelmed about what?”
Of course, he had to ask that.
“About ... being a stepmother. About facing this huge change. We don’t know each other as well as we probably should, so there’s that, too.” It was a partial truth, as close as I dared get.
He glanced at the box at my feet then up into my eyes. “I understand.” He motioned to the box. “Can I help you unpack?”
“That’s very sweet, but I think I can handle this. Are you hungry?” I asked, thinking it might be wise to deflect his attention. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
“No, that’s okay. I didn’t bring you here to become my live-in waitress. Go ahead and keep working. I can find something.”
“Your neighbors stopped by. They brought muffins and bagels. They’re on the counter.”
Now his expression turned tense. “They did?” Underlying the tension, I sensed a little hint of hostility. I hadn’t seen any of that yesterday. Okay, maybe I had. But I’d assumed that was because they’d interrupted us. “They were here this morning?”
“Yes. Is that a problem? Do you dislike them? I didn’t get that impression yesterday.”
“No, I don’t ‘dislike’ them. Not at all.” As if a switch had been thrown, his expression brightened again. His stop-your-heart smile was back in place and the twinkles I’d always found so charming began twinkling. That shift had alarms ringing in my head. Back in college I’d dated a guy who’d had a bad temper. His moods shifted like that. Hot. Cold. Happy. Furious. Not a good sign. “If I can’t help you, I guess I’ll go upstairs, drag my lazy son out of bed, and get us something to eat.”
