Page 1 of Happy Wife

Prologue

I watch through the window as a police car turns up my driveway. And then another one. A squad car would usually be out of place on this upscale street, but with everything going on, they’ve been frequenting this neighborhood.

I should have known better. I should have seen this coming.

When exactly the fait accompli was set into motion, though, is harder to put my finger on.

“Uh…Nora…,” Este says from somewhere behind me.

The tone of her voice drives home the certainty that something bad is about to happen.

I open the front door and step outside, the Florida heat hitting me about the same time the blood drains from my face. Three more cars follow behind the first two. An ominous processional.

“Nora, what is going on?” she calls from inside the house.

I try to answer, but my breath catches.

Detective Travis Ardell gets out of the lead car, followed by a cop from the shotgun seat. The other cars all have two, three, and four officers in them. They’re taking out kits, brown evidence bags, gloves, and booties. They’re preparing to descend on the property, and they’ve brought enough equipment to dismantle my life.

Ardell makes eye contact with me, a damning accusation behind his eyes, and I swear I can hear the thought inside his head. The one saying,I’ve got you now, Nora.

A memory of Will’s face momentarily eclipses the scene unfolding in front me. His piercing blue eyes twinkle—he’s almost in reach. I blink and he disappears. Again.

“Come inside,” Este calls to me.

But there’s no point. I stand there, waiting.

I know they are coming for me.

Chapter1

The night of the party

It’s just a party, Nora. All you have to do is make it through the next couple of hours. Make it through a party. That’s the whole job.

Our nine-thousand-square-foot house has never felt smaller, filled up with hundreds of Will’s friends and colleagues. Various shades of pink streak the late afternoon sky, and I can hear the distant hum of conversation coming from the veranda. Guests have spilled out into our manicured backyard to sip cocktails and watch the sun slip beneath the horizon beyond the lake. There’s plenty of room to socialize. The yard stretches from the house to the water, broken only by a huge pool and sweeping lawn that sprawls down to the boathouse and dock at the bottom.

And here I am, huddled in the corner. Hiding.

Este walks up to me and nudges my side. “Beau brought a weed pen,” she whispers. “Want me to find him?” She scans the partygoers in my living room for her husband.

“Jesus. Do I look that nervous?” I try to sound offended, but Este nods without hesitation. “It’s just a stupid party,” I say, more to myself than to her.

The irony of dreading such a frivolous activity after all of the truly grueling jobs I’ve had in my life is not lost on me. For a brief second, the entry-level dues, mundane tasks, and menial labor ofmy past life spin through my mind like a shitty highlight reel. Babysitting unruly neighborhood kids, serving up ice cream in sticky Florida summers, lifeguarding on the weekends, and burning my fingers on hot plates as I waited tables.

You name it, I’ve probably done it.

But that was all before Will Somerset swept me off my blistered feet and retired me from minimum-wage jobs forever. Before everything changed. Now, I no longer mentally visualize my bank balance before swiping a card at the grocery store or dread the first day of the month and looming bill payments. And the blisters on my feet? Nonexistent thanks to regular spa days and pedicures.

I have no real problems. I know this.

Everything I’ve ever wanted is right here. A handsome, successful attorney husband. A sprawling lakefront estate. His influential circle of friends. The only thing Idon’thave is the respect of the crowd of people gathered here tonight.

As Will’s twenty-eight-year-old second wife, I’m something between arm candy and dinner theater to most of his friends. A spectacle to be sure. At best, I am a strange interloper, someone new who doesn’t know any of their inside jokes. At worst, all the wives jeer at me like I’m the Ghost of Christmas Future, a harbinger of younger second wives yet to come. Never mind that Will’s divorce from his first wife, Constance, is well behind him—a divorcesheinitiated.

But this party, Will’s forty-sixth birthday, is meant to change Winter Park’s perception of me. After tonight, I won’t feel like an outsider anymore. After tonight, they will see I’m not just the interloper. After tonight, I will be one of them.

But first, I need my hands to stop shaking.

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