Page 4 of The Next Mrs. Parrish

I sigh and think for a moment. “Maybe we could go next month when the girls are out of school. Rent something for the summer. But I need support. Can you recommend someone for us to see in Connecticut?”

“Yes, of course.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “I realize this is the last thing you want to do. But legally he has no right to the children, so he has to play by your rules.”

I scoff. “Jackson doesn’t play by anyone else’s rules.” Then I shrug. “Maybe these months in prison have mellowed him.” But I don’t believe that for a minute.

Dr. Marshall leans back in her chair, tapping her pen on a pad. “Both girls are curious about their little brother, Jackson Junior. What are your thoughts about allowing them to meet him?”

It’s a question I’ve wrestled with since he was born. He’s innocent in all this, only two years old. I know how precious siblings are; I still miss my sister after all these years. If Tallulah and Bella have the chance to have a relationship with a brother, I don’t want to stand in the way.

“The problem is Amber. She and I are not exactly on good terms. I absolutely don’t want her having anything to do with my girls. She’s devious and scheming, a liar who plays mind games and will stop at nothing to get her own way. I won’t have them subjected toher manipulation. But she’ll never let her son be a part of our lives unless we include her.”

“Well, perhaps Jackson can persuade her to allow him to bring little Jackson with him.”

“There’s no way—”

She puts up her hand. “You know what, one step at a time. Let me find you a therapist to work with. Give him or her all the background, and you can navigate these issues then. And of course, you can talk to me any time while you’re away. The main thing is to help Tallulah and Bella come to terms with living apart from their father.”

I know she’s right, but a sense of dread fills me, nonetheless. “Okay. I’ll get in touch with him as soon as I can.”

“Have you filled the prescription Dr. Parker sent to the pharmacy?”

I shake my head. “I don’t need anything.”

“Just fill it and take it with you. If you get too anxious, the Klonopin can help.”

I nod. “All right, I will.”

—

On the drive back home, I rehearse what I’ll say to Jackson, how to appeal to his better self on behalf of Tallulah. I would go to hell and back for my children, but with Jackson involved, there may not be a way back. He’s a master manipulator, capable of assuming whatever persona is most advantageous to him at the time. He swept into my life like a hero, making me believe he was the answer to everything I needed. After we were married, Jackson’s behavior seemed controlling at times, but I rationalized it away, thinking I was perhaps being too sensitive. It wasn’t until after Tallulah was born that he showed his true colors, knowing my love for her was my Achilles’ heel. He would go from being loving and attentive to cold and critical in the blink of an eye, and I never quite knew what provoked him. I tried my best to please him and to make it work butwhen he threatened the safety of our child, I took her and left. He was one step ahead of me, though, and after making me appear unstable and having me committed to a sanatorium for months, there was little I could do once I returned home, without losing my child. I shiver when I think back to the first night he became physically violent with me. Tallulah had been almost two years old. We’d gone out to dinner with clients and the waiter complimented me on my choice of an appetizer, saying it was his favorite. We must have exchanged only a few words, but Jackson barely spoke to me on the way home. I kept asking what was wrong, but he claimed nothing was. In the middle of the night, I felt like I was suffocating. I began coughing and suddenly realized he was holding a pillow over my head. I struggled against him, and he finally let go. My relief was short-lived. He flicked the lamp on, and I saw that he held a knife in his hands, its blade gleaming close to my face. He pushed it against my neck.

“Were you dreaming of the waiter, slut?”

“Jackson, please. Put the knife down!”

“You humiliated me. Flirting with him like I wasn’t even there.”

He nicked my neck, and I felt the burn. He put his finger on the blood, then smeared it on my cheek. To this day, I still wake up in the middle of the night, breathless, worried that there will be a knife at my throat or a gun at my head, until I remember that I’m free of him. And now I have to go back.

– 3 –

AMBER

Amber had no idea if Jackson had stolen the diamonds or had obtained them legitimately. One thing was certain, however. She had to be cautious about who she showed them to, and thanks to good old Bunny, Amber knew just who to call.

Bunny Nichols was a woman Amber had met when Amber had wormed her way onto Daphne’s charity committee a few years back. The third wife of a repugnant eighty-five-year-old multimillionaire, Bunny was the embodiment of every cliché about the trophy wife. Despite her ditzy vibe, she was actually quite cunning. She had turned Amber on to Stefan Becker, a jeweler with impeccable discretion, who was not only willing to help turn gems into cash but was also a master craftsman, an artist really, in making flawless replicas of the jewels being sold. The ever-resourceful Bunny had found Becker when her husband, March, slashed her budget after discovering she’d been cheating. It was ironic, really, since Amber was the one who’d sent March the compromising pictures of Bunny and her lover way back when Amber had first befriended Daphne and needed Bunny out of the way so she could take her place as cochairman on Daphne’s charity gala committee. Of course, no one found out. Amber had availed herself of Becker’s services a few months back when their bank account had begun to dwindle. She’d sold her Blue Nile tennis bracelet and the ruby and diamond ring Jackson had given her for their one-yearanniversary—as if that were a milestone she wanted to celebrate—but the money was running out. She’d worn the fake the last time she visited Jackson in prison, and he’d been none the wiser. It gave her a little thrill to fool him.

—

The two thirty-foot streetlights with their diamond motif at the crosswalk of Fifth Avenue and Forty-seventh Street never failed to amuse Amber as she entered New York’s Diamond District—a mere city block through which 90 percent of diamonds entering the United States passed. She walked a short distance on Forty-seventh Street and entered the thirty-four-story Gem Tower.

“ID, please,” a uniformed man at the reception counter barked.

Amber handed him her driver’s license, placed her index finger on the automated fingerprint identification system, and then proceeded through the scanner and onto the elevator. It seemed only seconds before the elevator reached the twenty-eighth floor and the doors silently opened. She unconsciously clutched her handbag more tightly, strode to the suite, and rang the bell. There was a buzz as the door opened and then quickly shut behind her. She now stood in a small space between two locked doors—the so-called mantrap. She heard another buzz and when the door in front of her opened, Amber entered a tranquil space. A striking young woman with coal black hair and skin so white that it looked almost translucent greeted her. The sleek black turtleneck dress she wore highlighted the elegance of her tall slender frame.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Parrish. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Becker is expecting you.” Amber’s eyes focused on the bright red lipstick as she spoke, so startling against the woman’s pale skin.

“Thank you.”

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