The Dispensable Wife: The MisFit, #5

By AB Plum

Eyes are everywhere . . .

Look at the recently toppled powerbrokers in Hollywood, Washington, and Silicon Valley. Eyes somewhere saw their stupidity. From eyes to mouth to headlines.

When iconic Silicon Valley CEO Michael Romanov discovers his cheating wife flirting in public with an obvious loser, he tears her apart. But he slices and dices her with such civility none of the coffee drinkers notice. They're too in awe of the legend's presence.

One busybody, though, picks up immediately on his controlled fury. Sly as a fox, she begins to share her observations of his wife's past trysts. She can't believe that the "older gentleman" so often with AnnaSophia isn't her husband.

The more the witness divulges, the more she proclaims her discretion. Ready to explode, Michael sets a trap she walks into. That trap will render her permanently discreet.

Three children. An ailing father. No work history for the past fifteen years. No friends. No money. Despair keeps AnnaSophia shackled to a charismatic wolf in designer clothing. She has no hope to escape his hold. In a divorce, he'll take the kids and let her father die. Every day, she lives in dread of igniting Michael's short fuse. When he shows up at the coffee shop, she fears for her yoga instructor's life as well as for her own.

His revenge is surprisingly mild. Then, she learns of the murder of the girl in the coffee shop . . .

***

Read all of the books in The MisFit series:

The Early Years
The Lost Days
The In-Between Years
The Reckless Year
The Dispensable Wife
The Broken-Hearted Many
The Whole Truth

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Nov 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386049869

Book preview

Table of Contents

The Dispensable Wife

About the Book

Note to Readers

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Exclusive Content for The MisFit Series

The MisFit Series

About the Author

About the Book

Eyes are everywhere …

Multi-millionaire, high-tech icon, Michael Romanov demands total compliance with this mantra from his three model children and his unstable wife. When he discovers her flirting over coffee in a very public place with an obvious loser, he makes certain the see-all, tell-all witness never breathes a word.

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 PlumBooks

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, redistributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, print, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Author.

Dedication

For David, my biggest cheerleader.

Acknowledgements

Marjorie Brody and Linda Madl read the first draft—and every iteration thereafter. Thank you. EZ Writers—Karen Edelfsen and Dorothea Hamilton—gave me sustained encouragement as well as their critiques. Both made this book richer and stronger. Thank you, friends, for the past fifteen years together.

Maria Connor, VA Extraordinaire, and I have a shorter time working together; but she takes on all the thousands of tasks I hate doing and comes up with some great marketing ideas. Namely—The MisFit Sampler. Grab your copy now. Thanks for the idea, Maria, and for all you do—too much to lay out in detail or this book would be 50 pages longer.

Note to Readers

Thank you for reading The Dispensable Wife. It is the novel that set me on the MisFit path. The next two volumes—the final ones in this series—are scheduled for release in early 2018. In the meantime, check out the full list. AND, consider writing a review. Word of mouth works.

May you stay up all night reading The MisFit Series,

She is more precious than rubies.

—Proverbs 3:15

Prologue

Following a stranger requires little effort or talent or determination and results in mind-numbing boredom.

Following an acquaintance requires more effort, marginal talent, minimal determination, and too often results in only a modicum of entertainment.

Following a cheating spouse requires the least effort, the most talent, and the strongest determination; but results in minimal boredom, maximum entertainment, and highest hilarity.

How do I know these truths?

Quite simply—from experience.

I have nurtured a childhood aptitude and grown into a human-tracker extraordinaire.

"A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband,

but she that maketh [him] ashamed is as rottenness in him."

—Proverbs 12:4

Chapter 1

HE

Nine-thirty on a balmy morning in autumn. A perfect time to see and be seen.

A breeze snakes past my observation post on Castro Street, the main drag in Mountain View, California, as nouveau-millionaires parade past coffee shops, banks, the new mission-style City Hall and Performing Arts Center, restaurants of every ethnicity, and two funeral homes.

The millionaires’ shiny new Benzes and Teslas and top-down BMWs and custom-made reclining bikes scream money. Clout. Potency.

Ahhh, the musky smell of testosterone.

The air hums with rampant expectations. I adjust the lens on my Steiner Commander III Binoculars and peer at one driver after another. How many of these wannabes know what I know? How many ever think about losing their toys? Their reputations? Their power?

A bearded homeless guy sipping a tall Starbucks shuffles by. He stops. Plants his feet wide. Sets his coffee between his filthy, broken-down tennis shoes. He glances at me and curls his index fingers inside his thumbs. He places his binoculars over his eyes. Wiggles his ass twice, tilts his head then studies the cloudless sky with slow, exaggerated movements.

My nostrils flare. Loser. I wave the Steiners. May they trigger a full-blown PTSD-attack.

Laughter erupts from deep in his throat.

A muscle ticks under my left eye.

He drops his hands at his sides, picks up his coffee cup, exhales through his mouth.

My fingers twitch. I slide my right hand inside my suit jacket.

He throws me a smirk and shambles on down the street, middle finger held high, humming the first bars of The Star Spangled Banner.

God, it would be so easy to teach the asshole a lesson about respect, but I ignore the lowlife, remove my hand from my jacket, and stare through the Steiners again.

Birds sing, sunshine warms my bare head, and crimson-gold leaves ripple on young trees.

Not quite paradise, though, as I study my wife with her latest, besotted male friend.

The October sun shines so extravagantly I hardly need binoculars, but I take pleasure in their precision. Two twists and I see better than if I pressed my nose against Le Boulanger’s floor-to-ceiling windows. They face Castro, and the Steiners’ zoom feature offers a perfect view of the couple I observe with open curiosity.

Curiosity because I am searching for clues.

No, for answers.

For insight.

For understanding into this puzzle.

From my vantage point in the parking lot of St. Joseph’s Church, I count the white hairs on the head of my wife’s balding companion. His eyes—weasly, blah brown, too close together, and surrounded by prune-colored hollows—rest on gaunt cheekbones above a weak chin.

What does she—six days short of her forty-ninth birthday—see in him with her naked eye that I cannot see with my military-grade binoculars?

Customers mill around their table. Some queue up to a glass display of pastries and breads. Others stand in line to order their morning caffeine fix. No one takes particular notice of the two friends, but as owner-CEO of my soon-to-be-acquired biotech company, I understand the damage notoriety exacts.

Bad press spooks clients, boards of directors, potential recruits, employees, and investors.

A cheese Danish lies on a plate between them. My wife lays the fork to one side, pinches off a crumb, clamps it between her thumb and index fingers. Her other three fingers point toward the ceiling then drop to graze his hand.

My knuckles whiten on the Steiners. A CEO’s tarnished reputation almost guarantees him a swift and embarrassing exit. He may rise phoenix-like from the ashes—but not without enduring vicious public scrutiny and humiliation.

Eyes narrowed, I study the friend’s turkey wattles. They shake as he leans toward her on one elbow. He hangs on her every word, every syllable, every breath. He opens his mouth and takes the morsel she offers. His whole face lights up, as if fueled by an inner radiance.

Small, yellow teeth crowd friend’s less than generous mouth. He chews, swallows, and says thank you. Wrinkles ironed in by the sun crease his sallow skin. If he controlled his goofy, adolescent grin, he could pass for a Renaissance master’s depiction of an early martyr.  

Seeing them—without knowing she’s married with three young children since she’s not wearing her eight-carat diamond engagement ring—you might smile and envy the private island they’ve created in the hustle of the fast lane. You might think they are the only two people in the coffee shop.

In the world.

In the cosmos.

With the slow, calculated deliberation of a seductress, she removes the plastic lid from the cup in front of her. Her friend—a fly in a spider’s web—fixates on the lid. He’s so smitten, he’s blind. What are the chances he’d even notice her engagement ring?

She pushes the lid toward him. His chest stops rising and falling. So does mine. He’s totally oblivious silk threads can prove stronger than steel bonds. I, thanks to the Steiners, am completely aware of her deviousness. I press my forehead hard against the binoculars and stare at her left hand. No tell-tale white line from wearing a wedding ring for fifteen years.

Goddammit. Just how long—this time—has she been playing the single, unattached woman of the world?

Steam—visible through the Steiners—rises from the cup. Her lips purse as if about to bestow a kiss.

Her friend’s jaw drops.

Her gaze lowers demurely. She lifts the steaming cup. The tip of her tongue appears between her teeth like a small pink viper. Her tongue flicks her top lip, then withdraws. She blows on the vapor.

Her friend gapes—as if stunned by an angel.

You have no idea how fine the line is between angel and slut, I say aloud. My lungs constrict. My breathing slows. Hands shaky, I fumble open my briefcase. I stow the binoculars, and then slam the lid shut.

No one observing me would guess I’m suddenly breathing a little faster than normal. My resting heart rate is forty-eight and my BP an enviable 110/60. Exhaling, I relax my grip on the briefcase and wait for the light. A Google bus stops on the cross street of Church for a dozen bright-eyed worker-bees. Their reserved, luxury coach will convey them the three miles to their private kingdom by the Bay. I reach the opposite curb, and my pulse ratchets up.

On a hunch, I pivot away from Castro and jog for the parking lot behind the bakery.

I’m betting the friend will depart by the rear entrance. Unless AnnaSophia coaches him to shoot out the front door.

That scenario would spoil the full impact of my surprise arrival.

Caution controls the weak of imagination. In the parking lot, I tap an icon on my phone and smile. Fire burns inside me, but my mind attains a cool focus.

Hello, Darling. My fingers spasm on the phone. I savor the two words in my mouth as if honey coats each syllable. I resist laughing.

What I’d give to see her cheating face. Are you at Starbucks?

In my mind’s eye, I imagine her long, titan waves cascading around her wanton face. The picture of innocence. Making her huge eyes bigger. Wider. Luminescent. Blameless.

Fake innocence.

Had I seen her red hair that first time we met fifteen years ago, I’d have walked away. I’d have left her jammed between her two bohemian boyfriends and never have thrown her a second glance.

My gut roils. No time now to gnash my teeth and beat my breast. Rectifying that long-ago mistake drives every decision I make.

Chapter 2

SHE

Hello, Darling.

The endearment—a fat tick—slithers into my ear. The silken, cynical baritone triggers an instantaneous and familiar pattern. First, my clammy skin contracts and tries to crawl off my arms. Next, a chill creeps across the back of my neck and down my spine. My adrenaline spikes, and the contents of my stomach reflux into my mouth.

Donotthrowup. Do. Not. Throw. Up. I close my eyes and inhale.

What’s wrong? John skims his fingers across my knuckles.

My eyes snap open. Primed for flight, I jerk my hand away. My fingertips graze my cup of coffee. The cup teeters. Reflexively, my hand shoots out. Steaming liquid sloshes my wrist.

Shit, shit, shit.

Damn. I’m sorry. John rights the coffee, dabs a napkin in water, and lays the makeshift bandage across the bright red spot already forming a blister.

Not your fault, I counter, jaw locked. I reclaim my hand and inhale again. No time to explain.

Always, always, always check the LED. Never, never, never accept human comfort.

Darling? I missed what you said.

Nothing. I knocked over my coffee. Galvanized by the second Darling, I hitch my head toward the back door. Leave, John. Go. Now.

Oooh, poor baby. Did you burn yourself? Quietly asked, but the subtext screams, You’re always hurting yourself. Do you need ice?

No. No ice. No burn. Just made a mess. Where are you? Why doesn’t John stand up?

At Castro and Church, Darling. The velvety menace in his tone closes my throat. I just left Wells Fargo and saw your car. I deduced you must be at Starbucks.

Deduced? The blatant lie clears my head. I push back my chair and stand, spine straight as a flagpole, legs pressed primly together. I stare straight into the sun-drenched window, blink against the glare, and scan the pedestrians coming from the bank’s direction. Where is he? Is he coming through the parking lot? Is he already at Starbucks?

Hold on, Sherlock. I meet John’s gaze. Why hasn’t he left? I swallow and pitch my tone to teasing, but snap my fingers at John. "My car at Wells Fargo led you to deduce I’m at Starbucks?"

Well, Darling, you do know how my mind works.

Yes, I know exactly how your mind works. Another hint of lightness to deflect the sarcasm and slow the shakiness now pouring into my legs. I doubt he picks up the sarcasm. He’s become accustomed to my fear and panic. A sliver of pride surfaces, and I smile.

John remains seated, his eyebrows raised. Wondering why I’ve lost my mind?

I’m not at Starbucks. I cover the mouthpiece and speak to John. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll explain then.

Confusion and curiosity and some indecipherable emotion flicker across his gentle face.

Darling? You’re fading.

How about now? I avoid eye contact with John and revert to searching the sidewalk.

Much better. From the background noise, I deduce you’re inside. Just a trace of gotcha in his tone.

An on-the-money deduction this time. I point at John, then wave toward the back door.

He frowns but gets the message. He shrugs, scoots his chair away from our table, picks up his yoga mat, slings it over his shoulder, and wades past customers toward—I hope—safety.

Inside, but not at Starbucks. I stretch my neck to follow John’s progress. A few more steps and he’ll be safe. I’m at Le Boulanger. Next to the front door. Where are you?

Halfway across the Boulanger parking lot. I chose the scenic route to Starbucks.

Give me a minute. A little breathless, I grab my purse and press the blister on my arm, wincing, but feeling more alert and confident and resilient—buoyed by the every-day smells of roasted coffee and warm bread. En route to the front door, bits and pieces of a plan fall into place. I’ll meet you by the fountain.

Arriving at the back door on John’s heels poses too big a risk.

Too late, Darling. I’ve already turned around. No reason we should both run in circles.

Someone else just claimed my table, I counter, my voice thick and guilty.

Life is a timing problem. Unspoken, like our life together. Maybe a couple of caffeine jolts will get us back on track.

His mocking note sucks me in, but I resist the impulse to spar with him. The caffeine addicts in here would drop the maybe.

He chuckles. Until they’ve drunk a full cup of Russian coffee, they have no idea.

I repeat like a parrot, They have no idea.

But I do. I know that even mainlining pure Russian caffeine won’t get us back on track.

A small commotion of squeals and laughs and over-loud apologies offers salvation. I swallow my inane remark before it rolls off my tongue. The hubbub escalates and I glance behind me, then freeze.

Seeing is not believing.

Two twenty, maybe thirtysomething women picking up their hot orders have bumped into John. He turns. They stop. He grins. My fingers dig into my thigh.

Get out, dammit. Get—

I’m at the back door, Darling. Wave when you see me.

All right. Single syllables are all I can manage as I fight against screaming at John. He and the women are chatting as if they’ve known each other forever. They shift to one side as another customer approaches the pick-up counter.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Between inhales and exhales, I will John to move.

Shoulders touching, three heads bobbing, he and his new friends spread out toward a back booth like a multi-celled amoeba in a petri dish. None of them pays any attention to the man entering the back door.

Dozens of male and female techies on the other hand gawk at the presence of a Valley icon. Even those who work in non-technical jobs must recognize him. For anyone who hasn’t caught him on TV or on YouTube or in the national media or in area newspapers, his custom-made suit, shirt, tie, shoes, and briefcase attest to his wealth.

His swagger confirms his power.

His calculated smile reflects his predatory character.

One young man dares stick out his hand. Instantly he goes still and steps back. He fists his hand behind his back, opening and closing his fingers. His minor act of eagerness undoubtedly cost him a few small, broken bones.

As if making way for a prince, the young man scoots aside. The moment gives me just enough time to wrap a scrunchie around my hair and pull it into a ponytail.

A ponytail is the best I can do for peace.

In my ear, the tick burrows deeper, gorging on more of my blood, attaching its claws more tightly, devouring whatever it wants from me—giving nothing in return.

Chapter 3

HE

Hello, Darling. I kiss her behind the ear and so telegraph my awareness of her ponytail. I detest her hair flowing down her back in lush, shiny, coppery waves. That kind of exhibitionism belongs in the bedroom behind closed doors. The corners of my lips twitch.

Who says women aren’t teachable? Of course, since she pulled the ponytail in place after I called her . . . well, let’s just say she has more to learn.

Eyes straight ahead, mouth tight, she hugs her waist and stands as rigid as a virgin. No recoil as I breathe on her neck, but her carotid gyrates. She says nothing.

A small show of power?

You’re perspiring, Darling. I nip her ear—my own small show of power. I straighten and lay my hand on top of her head. My nails dig gently into her scalp, and I feel her blood boiling under my fingertips.

More silence.

No cool down today? Temptation burns the tip of my tongue. Christ, I want to give her a shock. Inform her I know she was wearing her hair down, patting it, twirling a long strand around her fingers while she chatted with her friend.

We always cool down. She shifts and forges a splinter of space between us.

My fingers tingle. I imagine a calculated pinch to her jaws. With her lips pushed forward, she’d look like a fish struggling for oxygen. She regards me with barely disguised contempt. I relax my jaw. Patience. There’s a right time for revealing every lie.

You’re quite flushed. I tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear. I think we should sit. Where’s your table?

I don’t have one. I’d already given it up when you called.

But you told me you spilled your coffee . . . My eyes narrow, but I smile widely—as if I believe every lying word she utters.

When I stood up. Guilt flushes her throat, then floods the ashen skin on her ears and face with an ugly shade of raspberry. Several nearby coffee drinkers stare.

Raspberry provides an interesting contrast with copper-colored hair.

When I stood, she repeats in a breathy rush. I spilled my coffee when I stood.

Where were you sitting? I gaze around the room, come back to focus on the table where my wife and her friend sat, and make eye contact with the young brunette who has been eyeing us with a cobra’s calculated avidity. I take a step toward the table, smile my CEO-smile, and shoot my cuffs, giving her a glimpse of my Tour De L’Ile watch. Her eyes widen.

Ahhh, she’s never seen a watch that costs more than a million dollars.

The monster greed breathes into her ear. Dollar signs glow in her bright blue eyes, but I need no further encouragement.

You wouldn’t mind sharing your table. Not a question, but I deduce the brunette sporting twenty cheap earrings in the cartilage of one ear and a fake diamond tongue ring laps up faux sincerity. I tack on a PC-courtesy line. Would you?

Please. Sit. Please. Her tongue doesn’t hang out, but if she was a cocker spaniel, her tail would whump from side to side. As it is, I suspect she’s wetting her pants.

Marie Antoinette climbed the steps to the guillotine with less reluctance than my wife approaching the table. She says, We should get coffee to go—

No, no, no. The brunette shakes her head, then pushes two stools toward us and stares at my left wrist. She’ll have quite a story to tell her friends about the Tour De L’Ile. I don’t mind sharing. In fact, I almost asked you earlier if you’d mind sharing with me.

Blood drains from AnnaSophia’s face. She swallows, frowns, shakes her head.

When you and the older guy—gentleman—were sitting here. But the two of you looked so intense I didn’t want to interrupt.

How nice of you, right, Darling? Luckily for my lying wife, I am alert to her body language. I slip a chair under her before her legs collapse.

But you could’ve interrupted. She lifts her chin and tilts her head back and away from me—small gestures of defiance.

Such bravado. I chuckle. Is she even aware her carotid is hammering hard enough to knock her off the chair?

Let me guess. Silkiness textures my sarcasm, You were discussing yoga.

That’s right. Her frown asks if I’ve thrown her a life line or a cement anchor, but she stumbles on. We were discussing yoga poses.

I’ve always wanted to learn yoga, our table companion says. Do you take a class?

Across the street. Next to Wells Fargo. Five days a week. My darling’s voice drops to a mumble on the last phrase. She wants this conversation to end.

I repress a snicker. Since I read lips, I know with absolute certainty she’s lying about the topic of conversation with her friend. Yoga is your passion, right, Darling?

I find yoga a challenge. Her face remains impassive, but her tone carries an edge, raising the brunette’s eyebrows.

And I know how you love a challenge. I set my briefcase on the table—a subtle reminder that it contains, in addition to papers and my Steiners, a .357 Magnum.

The brunette must sense the topic isn’t yoga, but she says, I’ll have to check out the class someday. What time does it start?

Nine o’clock. That’s an advanced class. I’m not sure about the beginning classes.

The chill in her tone dampens the brunette’s enthusiasm. She murmurs, Oh.

What do you want, Darling? Besides getting away from me as fast as possible? A latté or an espresso?

Head down, she licks her dry lips. Coffee. Plain.

I turn to our table companion. How about a refill? Pastry? Breakfast?

Thanks. Nothing for me. I’m fine. Her tone borders on flirty, and she emphasizes fine as she watches me from under thick, black eyelashes.

Too much mascara for my taste, and willowy instead of curvy like AnnaSophia. I wink. Why not make someone in the world happy? You’re sure.

She tosses her head—a gesture I hate—and shoots me a smile full of promise and fun as she pushes her chair away from the table. You need help carrying the coffee?

AnnaSophia jerks her head up, mouth open. I speak over her. Thanks. I could use a hand, but shouldn’t I introduce myself? For all you know, I’m a known criminal. Or a serial killer. Or a sexual predator.

Sitting up straighter, AnnaSophia looks as if she’s suffocating on her own breath. She’s gone pale as death again, flat-eyed, droopy-mouthed, brain shut down. I place my hand on her shoulder, and muscles across her back jump as if tensing for an assault. Are you all right, Darling?

If you need to stay here, I can go get the coffee, the brunette says, her voice pitched to eager-to-please.

No. AnnaSophia’s lips barely move. I’m fine. A little too warm.

The sun’s wicked. The brunette shades her eyes against the glare streaming through the window.

You must have sat here too long after your yoga class, Darling. No one—least of all the brunette—could decipher my real message to my cheating wife. You know you can’t take much heat.

Her jaw cracks, but she speaks in a low, even tone. I want coffee and a bottle of water.

No please, but I reply, My pleasure.

No thank you as I turn. Liars cannot afford bad manners. I stop, snap my fingers but choose my words carefully. By the way, I’m Michael Romanov. This is my—

I’m AnnaSophia. She dislikes being introduced as my wife—says the term implies she is my property, my chattel.

AnnaSophia and I share the same surname and the same bed at the same address as our three children. I admit my voice carries a trace of acid. How many chattels have engagement and wedding rings worth half a million dollars? She’s a feminist and a wife.

One corner of the brunette’s mouth lifts, but her voice is bright and jaunty. Hi, I’m Tracy Jones. I recognize you Mr. Romanov from the TV news. I’ve seen you in here quite often, Mrs. Romanov, but always with that older gentleman.

This unsolicited tidbit drops on AnnaSophia with an impact that shocks her into silence.

The crumb slides into my brain like an overdose of nitrous oxide. The impact buzzes along my spine, turns my legs and arms to jelly, but fuels me with the power to crush my enemies and regain my position as the husband. Those words—with the older gentleman— confirm my long-held suspicions.

Suspicions that have taunted—me for years.

Suspicions that now crystalize.

Suspicions that to the outsider qualify as paranoid figments of my imagination.

A movie on my mental DVD rolls out, frame by frame. I reach into the briefcase, withdraw the .357, aim, and shoot a single bullet into my cheating wife’s brain.

The conversation in the hot, airless space soars around me to a crescendo. My fingertips tingle. The urge to laugh becomes overpowering. My lying wife’s eyes squint at me as if I have come undone.

You see, Darling. It takes no effort to return from my fantasy. Just as I’ve always said. There are eyes everywhere.

Chapter 4

SHE

Eyes everywhere . . .

And Michael’s eyes are the biggest of all. The better to see you m’dear.

A cold deep inside me bites my fingers, shaky on top of the briefcase. I trace and retrace the outline of a concealed gun. Revolted, I shove to my feet, stretch my neck, and scan over the waiting customers. Michael’s head is inclined toward Miz Bigmouth. Does he see John?

Does she see John? At this moment, she has her big, soft eyes fixated on Michael.

Why didn’t I ever notice her watching us? Taking notes? Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Why don’t I see John? My friend for the past year. My friend who doesn’t know and couldn’t guess who my husband is. Couldn’t guess I’ve put him in danger.

What kind of friend am I?

The kind who has kept so many dark secrets.

The darkest—my marriage to a man obsessively charming. Calculating. Controlling.

Sunshine scalds my neck and back. I scrunch my shoulders. A rushing fills my ears. It’s too hot in here. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

Chapter 5

HE

Do you believe in serendipity? Ignoring the eavesdroppers in front and behind us waiting to order coffee, Tracy Jones speaks in a throaty, intimate contralto that invites teasing secrets and sexual innuendos.

Suspicion pings in my chest, but I reply, Define serendipity.

Piece of cake. No batting of her eyelashes. No accidental jostling. No overt flirting. Just über-confidence she has hooked a big fish. I excel at defining words and sizing up situations.

The hiss of the espresso machine and the murmurs of the caffeine junkies muffle her conceit, but my fingers twitch with the urge to clap my hand over her red, mocking mouth. Little does she know she has hooked something—something big and dangerous.

Surprise. Surprise.