Page 2 of The Next Mrs. Parrish

Once outside, she quickened her pace. She was going to see for herself what the hell he was hiding on that boat.

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Amber pulled up to Mariners Point Marina, waiting as the camera recognized the RFID sticker on her car and the gates slowly opened. She parked, grabbed her tennis shoes from the passenger seat, andput them on. Next, she sent a quick text before getting out.Hey, Jessica,she wrote.Something’s come up. I won’t be able to make our tennis game today. Apologies. I’ll call you later.Tx.

The day was sunny and warm. Amber took a deep breath of the bracing sea air as she walked to the slips, so refreshing after the stuffy visiting room at the prison. There was no way in hell she’d ever let them put her behind bars. She turned onto the third finger pier, where Amber had a few days ago directed the boat be moved to, after its being in dry dock during Jackson’s incarceration. Walking past several power and sailboats, she approached theBellatada,scowling at the name painted on the transom. Amber had been in such awe when she’d first stepped foot onto the sleek and elegant yacht, but she’d always hated that it was named for Jackson’s daughters, Bella and Tallulah, and his ex-wife, Daphne. Especially as he liked to taunt Amber by reminding her that she had none of the bearing or elegance of the blond and beautiful Daphne. But today was not a time to bother herself with that.

She boarded the boat, moved belowdecks to the salon, and went straight to the safe in the main stateroom. Knowing the combination by heart, she spun the dial with anticipation. But once it was open, she deflated. Empty. It was unlikely that anything of value would be hidden in this part of the boat, but next she went through the salon, galley, and dinette anyway, moving cushions and feeling around underneath, opening drawers and cabinets, even checking the appliances. When she finished searching the main stateroom, she checked in each of the other three, feeling under mattresses, examining carpeting for any unusual bulges, rummaging through every piece of furniture. After two hours, she’d come up with nothing.

Amber returned to the deck and sighed as she sat on the captain’s chair, fingering the steering wheel and pondering her next move. A thought occurred to her. She jumped up and pulled a toolbox from the cabinet under the wheel. Taking a screwdriver, she began working to unscrew the cap on the steering wheel, her excitement growing. Finally taking it off, she exhaled in disappointment.Nothing hidden there. A search of the engine room and the flybridge produced no results either. The sun was beginning to set. All the frantic searching had been for naught. Amber was beyond frustrated. And furious. Something was stashed away on this boat—she was sure of it. She’d have to come back in the morning and look further, maybe cut open the cushions and check the headliner. Brimming with vexation, she needed to take it out on something.

Bellatada.That damn name caught the edges of Amber’s vision. She looked over at the pole with the blue flag mounted on the transom where the name was imprinted. Her hands clenched into tight fists as a storm of fury and frustration exploded inside of her. She spun around and grabbed the first thing she saw, the long metal boat hook, and wrapping her fingers around it, marched to the stern and swung the metal rod against the flagpole. It struck with violent force. She hit it again and again, all the pent-up rage bursting out of her and onto the shaft. She grinned at the sound of wood cracking, and with all her might took one last titanic whack. Amber dropped the boat hook and with satisfaction watched the pole splinter and fall to the deck in pieces. Sweat poured down her face, stinging her eyes as she stared at the fragments. She frowned and, blinking several times, tried to focus. A long metal cylinder resembling a cigar tube, but thicker, lay among the splintered wood. She stooped down, unscrewed the cap, and pulled out a wad of silk cloth. There was still something in the tube, and turning it upside down, she carefully spilled the contents onto the deck. Hues of red and blue and yellow winked in the sun. She bent over for a closer look, a smile spreading across her face. Some kind of red and pink gems. And diamonds. Lots of them.

– 2 –

DAPHNE

When I was a little girl, I couldn’t get enough of fairy tales. I especially loved the ones where the heroine escaped from the monster and went on to live happily ever after. But what I’ve come to learn is that sometimes there’s no such thing as a happy ending. Yes, there’s the blessed relief of freedom from tyranny and terror, but the scars live on. I still find myself reaching for the food journal Jackson made me keep, guilt consuming me when I eat anything not on his approved list. And then I remember, I don’t have to keep track any longer. I see him in my dreams—or rather, my nightmares—varied scenarios in which I’m back with him, bewildered at why and how I find myself at his mercy, a prisoner in his carefully cultivated world. With the break of every dawn, I find release and breathe deeply air no longer tainted by his presence. There are times I have trouble trying to regain some of what he stole from me: trust in the goodness of others, the ability to let my guard down with new friends, belief in the veracity of my own judgment. I’m wary now. Careful in a way I never was before. But maybe that’s a good thing.

California has been good for my daughters and me since we moved here a little over a year ago. Our home is peaceful. No angry arguments or yelling. People are friendly but not intrusive. A wave and a smile, a few polite words, and they let you go on with your day. My mother is in seventh heaven, thrilled to be a daily part of our lives, after being banished from it for so long. Jackson led her tobelieve that I didn’t want her around too often, when the truth was, he delighted in keeping us apart. She takes the girls to school and all their activities and insists on cooking dinner for us every night. It feels good to be taken care of again, and so I let her. I continue my work for Julie’s Smile, the foundation to raise money for cystic fibrosis that I’d started in memory of my sister, Julie, who died of the disease when she was sixteen. I’ve established a small headquarters here in Santa Cruz and continue to raise money for CF research. We don’t do elaborate fundraisers like we used to in Bishops Harbor, but we generate support through social media and direct marketing campaigns. It’s been a wonderful vehicle of healing for my mother too and a way for the two of us to feel we’re still connected to my sister.

I’ve joined the neighborhood book club and it’s so wonderful to make friends and be open with them. No more living in a silent hell and pretending it’s paradise. We bond over our shared parenting struggles, philosophical views, and the occasional cute single dad spotted at the monthly PTA meeting. My life is serene and calm. I relishit.

“Since Tallulah’s away, how about we cook the fillets you picked up the other day?” I suggest to my mother. Tallulah recently announced she was a vegetarian and can’t abide even the smell of cooking meat.

“Great idea,” she says, smiling.

We work together in the kitchen companionably, she seasoning the meat while I chop up veggies for a salad. I glance at my watch and see it’s close to six. My friend Maggie will be dropping Bella home soon from her Girl Scout meeting.

My phone rings and I go to the counter to pick it up. I see the name of Tallulah’s teacher on the screen and my stomach drops. She left two days ago for the eighth-grade field trip to D.C. I swipe left.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Parrish?”

“Yes, is Tallulah okay?”

“Yes, she’s fine. But we do have a problem.”

My hand tightens around the phone. “What is it?”

“I’m afraid she snuck out of the hotel this morning and took a train to Connecticut.”

“What do you mean? Is she—”

“We have her. Her friend, Molly, finally told us of her plans, and we were able to intercept her at the Bridgeport Train Station. Apparently, she was trying to get to her father. You’ll need to make arrangements to have her flown back today. I’m afraid we can’t risk her doing something like this again. We’ll have her escorted to the plane, but you will have to purchase the ticket and give us the flight details.”

My head is spinning. I can’t believe this. How did she even get the train ticket? I wonder. Then I remember the credit card I gave her for emergencies. Anger and relief vie for dominance, but in the end, relief wins.

“Did her father know of her plans?” I ask.

“Apparently not. She said she was planning to take an Uber and surprise him.”

“May I speak to her, please.” I do my best to keep my voice even.

“She doesn’t want to speak to you right now. I think it’s best if you talk to her in person.”

I skirt her questions about Jackson and custody.

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