Page 96 of Happy Wife

I pick up two different prescription bottles.

“What are you doing, Nora?”

“Just going to head back into oblivion, thanks.” My nerves are shot and I’m exhausted. I start to unscrew one of the bottles, thinking a three-hour nap might take the edge off, but Este slaps my hand down.

“No. No more Grey Gardens bullshit. This is serious now, and as much as it pains me to say it out loud, Fritz is right. Don’t talk to anyone else. Not without him around.”

I huff. But I know she’s right.

“Did you see how many reporters are out there? They’re multiplying like fucking rabbits.” I slump down onto the couch, and Este joins me. “I didn’t do anything, Este.”

“Oh, come on. You and I both know that doesn’t matter now. You’re the perfect poster child for people like Lindy Bedford to splash all over the news. ‘Young, dumb, pretty wife is actually a young, dumb, pretty murderer.’ America eats that shit up with a spoon. The whole world does. Give them a few more weeks and they’re going to try and convict you on cable news before Ardell can move on to another suspect.”

Fuck.

I pull out my phone and google my name to make a point. I stop dead when I see the first thing that pops up in Google search.

“What the—”

On my screen is a picture of me from the funeral, talking to Marcus. His hand is on the small of my back, and the headline blasts out that I’m a prime suspect in my husband’s murder, looking “cozy” with an unidentified man. Even I think the photo makes me look suspicious, maybe even guilty of murder.

Este takes my phone and scrolls through a few pictures that are up on some rag-mag site. “This is why the press is all over your house and the station.” She chucks the phone on a couch cushion. “These people live for a murder. And they are waiting with bated breath for you to be the one who did it, looking for all of the so-called evidence that they can get their hands on. They’re going to sell a million magazines to a million murder-obsessed housewives. And then the TikTok murder girlies are going to find you. Lindy’s chumming the waters with every new broadcast. Someone’s going to start a fucking podcast.”

She stops and takes a breath, and I can tell she’s holding back the last thing she was going to say.

“What’s wrong?” I demand.

Este shrugs it off. Shakes her head in an unconvincing no.

“Fuck you, Este. What’s wrong?”

“I saw you one morning. Coming home. I saw Marcus drop you off at like sixa.m.” She looks at me and there’s genuine sadness in her eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you, or ask, but…those pictures, that morning. What’s…going on there?”

“Fuckingnothing.” I’m pissed. I stand up and pace around infront of the fireplace. “Why didn’t you just ask me? Or tell me that you saw me?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to be seen, so I was waiting for you to tell me what was going on.”

“The answer is still fucking nothing. Will and I had a shitty fight, a really shitty fight, and I left and was driving around, and I got a flat. I called Marcus for help. And then Will didn’t bother to call me or find me, so I stayed at Marcus’s. In theguestbedroom.”

I can feel my blood pressure ticking up and don’t want Este to know it, so I sit back down and hang my head in my hands. “That is all that happened,” I say, my voice muffled through my fingers.

“I am going to ask you something one time, and whatever the answer is, I’m here. I’m your ride or die. Okay? But I have to know so I can help you.”

I drop my hands and hold her gaze. I’ve never seen her look so serious.

“Are you in this? Did something happen?” she asks. “Are we talking about a murder weapon buried somewhere that we need to go make disappear? Maybe it was all just an accident. Something went too far in a heated moment? Just tell me and I’ll get a shovel and a convertible, and we’ll ride off into the sunset and no one has to know.”

“You’re really asking me this?” But I know I can’t even be mad. The Marcus pictures, Constance’s accusations, my nonexistent alibi. None of it looks good.

“A good friend holds your hand. A best friend gets the shovel.”

“Este. Have you buried a body?”

“No. Have you?” she bandies back.

“I didn’t kill Will, Este.” I look at her and I hear myself panting. “I didn’t kill him. I loved him…I think.”

Is it possible to feel yourself coming unglued?

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