The Replacement Wife: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  For now, I force myself away from the mirror before I do something I’ll regret. Almost everyone has a weak spot, otherwise known as vanity. To distract myself, I gaze longingly around my expansive closet. I guess it’s now or never, sort of like ripping of the Band-Aid. I won’t be able to hide out in here forever. Pride won’t let me. I pull a bag off the shelf. Too big. I’m going to miss you, I say. I reach for another. Too small. I could cry just thinking about how much I’ll miss that one. I let my fingers trail against the smooth, cool leather. I stop and linger for good measure. I’ve always had a soft spot for anything Italian. That’s why I’m in this mess to begin with.

  My father calls my name again, his voice loud and booming over the intercom, and I realize this is it. I can’t stall any longer. The third one will have to be the charm. “Coming,” I yell as I hurriedly stuff a few of my things into the chosen one. My mind is too fucked to know if I’m making the right choice. I mean, how is one supposed to choose between Givenchy and Hermes? It’s like asking me to choose between my right arm and my left. I feel sick being put in this position. When I’ve finished shoving in what I can make fit, I realize I can’t very well face my parents naked, so I throw on jeans and a t-shirt. It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. My mother hates it when I ‘dress down.’ I’m doing this for her. For the unfairness of it all.

  Everything in her life has taken a turn for the worse. It’s time to cut the cord, I overheard her say to my father. Good cop, bad cop. It’s always been their favorite game.

  Whatever. Let them play. Once I’m out that door, I’m never coming back. I promised as much through crocodile tears.

  “Melanie,” my father repeats. His voice bounces through the house, through doors and walls, like an all-knowing being. “Time’s up.”

  I fling the designer bag over my shoulder and then give the bedroom of my childhood one last look. I hesitate for a second, thinking maybe I should take more. What we forget, we can just buy when we get there. My mother taught me that. And anyway, who am I kidding? Of course I’ll be back. I’m guessing this whole thing will be swept under the rug within a few days—my parents are experts at that—and then I’ll be right back here in the only home I’ve ever known.

  Okay, fine. That last part is a bit of an exaggeration.

  Technically speaking, I have four homes, or rather, as my parents like to remind me, they have four homes. This one has always been my favorite. But now, thanks to a minor mishap, I’m looking at zero places to live.

  “You’re grown now,” my father informed me. “It’s time you started acting like it.

  “Go,” my mother agreed. “Spread your wings. We can’t have you living here forever.”

  “I like this house,” I assured them. After all, what’s not to like? Ten thousand square feet all to myself. Stocked pantry. Staff of five. Parents who only fly in on occasion. The rest of the time I’m left to my own devices. And yet, here they are, kicking me out of a house they hardly ever set foot in.

  My mother seemed to read my mind. “When I was your age—”

  “I know.” I rolled my eyes. “You were already married and knocked up.”

  My father started that pacing thing he does. “Why must you always be so crass, Melanie?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. It’s what led to this situation.

  “Do you realize the predicament you’ve put us in? The embarrassment this has caused?”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Well, obviously. You keep reminding me.”

  The night before, I’d cost him his biggest client by getting drunk at the semi-annual charity event my parents put on. It wasn’t intentional. I just glanced at the list of donors, chose the largest one, and gravitated that way. I hadn’t meant to sleep with him. But I hadn’t meant not to either. What was I supposed to do? I was bored. I didn’t even want to go in the first place. But my parents insisted I “show face”— whatever that means. I certainly succeeded at that in the end, though, they would attest. A full bar and a little coercion are a bad mix for me. Someone should have warned them.

  Now, he’s downstairs pacing again, she’s probably pinching the bridge of her nose, pleading with him to stop, and I don’t know why they’re acting so dramatic about the whole thing.

  “How will you ever amount to anything if you keep behaving in this manner?” My mother demanded to know after the incident, or rather after hotel security was called. The way they were acting, you’d think it was the actual police or something. You’d think I murdered the guy, not just fucked him. And they think they’re embarrassed? Let me tell you. He was old. Sure, to their point, he was married, and yes, I may have caused a bit of a scene when he said sleeping with me was a mistake, but that’s no reason to turn your back on your flesh and blood.

  Needless to say, my parents don’t see it that way. They only see in dollar signs. So, here I am, Hermes bag in hand, on the verge of being homeless.

  “You need to get a job or volunteer…or something,” my father said. “You do nothing but sleep all day and God knows what all night.”

  Apparently, it wasn’t a question, and seducing his biggest clients was not the response he’d been after.

  “You’re twenty-two years old, Melanie. It’s time. Your mother and I simply can’t support this behavior anymore.”

  My mouth gaped. I shifted from foot to foot. “Where am I supposed to go?” Please say the Bahamas house. Please. Please. Please. I crossed my fingers behind my back.

  My mother looked like she wanted to cry, so I figured I wasn’t getting my first choice. Fine. The Aspen house? Then she did cry, and I thought, surely that’s it. She really loves that house. It was probably a compromise with my father, as a part of their good cop, bad cop routine. If I have to kick her out, you have to give her the Aspen house. It would take some redecorating—it’s safe to say my mother and I have very different taste—and sure, I’d have to get used to the cold, but it could be workable.

  Better yet, maybe they bought me my own. It’s not like my mother to concede, and I’ve been pining for something that belongs to me. I told them as much, and they got me a puppy instead. I’ll leave that story for another day. The short version is I’m no longer a dog owner.

  When I come downstairs, bag in hand, my father hands me an envelope. I could cry. I could leap up and down and throw my arms around him. Finally. The deed to my very own home. His sudden frown at my eagerness to rip the envelope from his hands kills my excitement. I feel dead inside. “We’ve cancelled your credit cards,” he says. “That one there,” he points, “It’s prepaid. I’m afraid you’ll have to learn to budget.”

  My face drops. My stomach follows suit. It’s not the deed to my own house. I break out in a cold sweat, and that’s not an exaggeration. Budget. Who has time for that? Prepaid? I don’t even know what this means. That word wasn’t even on my radar, and I didn’t think my father’s either.

  “How could you do this to your only daughter?”

  They stare at the floor. I assume they weren’t prepared for that question. It always cuts right to the heart of the matter. For all of us.

  “Now I’m going to be like all of those people you think you’re better than. You realize that, right? You know, the ones you look down on?” I throw up my hands. Clearly, they haven’t thought this through. “What are you going to tell people?”

  They look at each other. No one speaks. My parents were born into money, both of them. Their business, as successful as it might be—even with the untimely departure of their largest client—is just a front for hiding some of that good old money.

  Finally, my father sighs. “Donovan is waiting in the car,” he tells me, glancing at my one bag. “Have you finished packing all your things?”

  Donovan is our family driver. Look at these two. They even outsource kicking their daughter out.

  “You’re serious?” I search the foyer for hidden cameras, a sign that this is all a joke. Then I pinch myself, watching as the blood p
ools to the surface. “Ouch.”

  “Please don’t hurt yourself dear,” my mother pleads. She wipes a fake tear from her fake eyelashes. She acts like she cares. She only cares about herself. If I off myself, it’ll be on her conscience. “We know you’ll make us proud.”

  I shake my head. “This feels like a dream.”

  “It’s time you face reality,” my father says.

  “Just wait,” I seethe. “I’m going to show you guys. You can’t get away with treating your daughter this way and not have it come back to—”

  “I’ve paid for two weeks at The Driskill,” my father interrupts. His voice is stern. “After that, you’re on your own.”

  My eyes widen. “You’re sending me to a hotel?”

  “You can’t stay here,” he said. And that was that.

  Chapter Two

  Tom

  Before

  A clear motive is what I was looking for. In hindsight, I realize it is ridiculous. Often, you can’t assign a reason to irrational acts. Oddly enough, she expected me to feel sorry for her. I didn’t. Serves her right, what happened. Minus the blood. That part I do regret. I hate blood. I hate Houston. I hate that I was sent there. Even one day is too much to spend in that trash receptacle they call a city. And I really don’t like hotels, or sidewalks outside of hotels. Or, for that matter, people.

  She was just one among many I happened upon that day, head down, oblivious, in a rush. All of them the same in their incessant hurrying from one place to another, so unoriginal. Like insects scurrying about. Like cockroaches when you turn on the light. Don’t mess with them, Aunt Jeannie told me once, and they won’t mess with you. My aunt was a liar. But not about that. I once kicked an ant pile just to see it scatter. It landed me in the ER. Messy business if they catch ya, she said as I spent hours in an oatmeal bath that had long turned cold. Needless to say, I never tried that again. That’s what I was thinking when she bumped me, her iced coffee splattering my crisp, white shirt.

  “Jesus. Look what you’ve done,” I huffed, dabbing at the stain. At least I’d thought to have June pack me another. Always better to be safe than sorry. I don’t know what I expected her to say, but an apology would have been nice. When I looked down, ready to meet eye to eye, that’s when I saw she wasn’t standing at all. All I saw was a heap of long legs, wavy blonde hair, and fair skin. I hate the unexpected.

  “What I’ve done?” she quipped. “You’re not the one on the ground.”

  “Here,” I offered, extending my hand. My eyes drifted down her legs. Five, maybe six-inch heels. Nude. Not the most practical of shoes for one to wear when they aren’t watching where they are going.

  She refused the gesture. Part endearing, part amusing, I reveled in the time—time I didn’t have, I might add— that it took her to rise to her feet.

  “Easy peasy,” I said.

  She countered my mocking by straightening her back, causing her clear blue eyes to meet mine. They hit me right in the gut. So vibrant, so angry. I bet she’s good in bed. The ones who can hide their anger, the self-contained, normally are. You just have to know how to channel it properly.

  “I needed that coffee. Every bit of it. And now look—” Her voice came out smooth, direct, like music you can’t help but turn up.

  “Maybe you should consider putting the phone down,” I offered, glancing at my watch. I frowned, realizing I wouldn’t have enough time to run back into the hotel, take the elevator to my floor and make the necessary change. I’d be late, and stained shirt or not, that’s a rule I couldn’t break.

  “Maybe you should watch where you’re going.” Her voice was rougher this time. Less melodic. “Maybe you should learn to be a gentleman.”

  My eyes met hers. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words were lodged somewhere deep in the recesses of my brain. Always be a gentleman, my father told me once. They can take a lot from you. But never that.

  She didn’t try to fill the silence, she simply smoothed her navy dress. That’s when I noticed the blood.

  “You’re bleeding,” I said.

  Her eyes followed mine. I expected some of her front to falter. She only shrugged. I stared into her pale eyes, awaiting a response, but her expression was blank. I was disappointed this turned me on as much as it did. I reminded myself that I am a happily married man. She smiled then, reminding me that her face is sweet, but not altogether innocent. A deadly combination, to be sure. My phone buzzed in my pocket. “I have to go.”

  “Aren’t you going to apologize?” I detected anger in her voice. The sight of blood paralyzes me. Nothing else has that effect. Certainly not her.

  “Sorry,” I shifted. “About your knee.” I remind her she bumped into me.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re an asshole.”

  I didn’t have time to argue for my limitations. Instead, I adjusted my suit jacket, turned on my heel and practically bolted in the other direction, the annoyance running through my veins propelling me toward the future. I did not come here for distractions, nor did I have time for them. Stained shirt or not, I would sprint to that meeting if I had to. I was going to crush Watson. Get in, get out, my father always said. Make it so quick they don’t know what hit ‘em. Best not to let ‘em see you coming. That, my son, is the art of war.

  “If I never run into you again,” she called out, her voice tinged with rage, “it’ll be too soon.”

  Unfortunately for her, too soon came later that evening in the hotel bar. Seated at the bar, I spotted her immediately. It was the hair, half done up in waves, her slim shoulders, tanned and inviting in the backless shirt she wore. She wasn’t a novice. Even I could see that.

  I had six minutes and thirty seconds before Sam Watson was due to arrive, if he was on time. Thankfully, I knew he would be. I slid onto the empty barstool, leaving two seats between us. The bartender came over and pulled a napkin from the pocket of his vest. “What can I get you?”

  “The lady,” I motioned. “Her drink is nearly empty. How about another? Just water for me.”

  When the bartender placed the drink in front of her, she looked up from her phone. He nodded in my direction. Her eyes landed on me. “You.”

  “I hope this isn’t too soon for you,” I said, toasting her with my water.

  Her finger trailed the rim of her glass.

  “A peace offering.”

  Her eyes met mine. “How presumptuous of you.”

  “No,” I told her. “Gentlemanly.”

  “Well, at any rate, you owe me.” She twisted on her stool and brought her legs from under the bar. “My knee,” she pointed. “I think you broke it.”

  I studied the bandage and then raised my brow. “Looks good as new to me.”

  “Yeah, well,” she twisted back. “I guess we see what we want to see.”

  “That or we aren’t looking at all,” I said, a subtle reminder who’s at fault.

  “Funny.” She took a sip from her glass and then held it in my direction. “Thank you for the drink. But I don’t think we should talk anymore.” She blushed when she said it, and I wondered if the rest of her was as flawless as her face. “I’m meeting someone.”

  God, she’s young. “What a coincidence. I am, as well. ”

  “Your wife?” I followed her eyes to my left hand.

  “No.”

  Her face fell. I was expecting the opposite effect. “Oh.”

  There was a lull in conversation. I knew better than to fill it.

  “What’s it like?” she asked, finally. “Being married.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk anymore…”

  She shrugs. “I’ll never see you again…” she said. “So, I just have to know the stranger I met in a bar once upon a time was happy.”

  “Can I offer you a little wisdom?”

  “That’s why I asked.”

  “Most people you’ll meet in bars aren’t happy.”

  She laughed. “But you see, I wasn’t asking about most
people.” I watched her lips as they met her glass. I felt a pang of something. Jealousy, maybe. She looked up then. “I was asking about you.”

  “It’s everything,” I answered. “It’s being as happy as you’ve ever been…”

  She cocked her head. I could see she thought I was joking. “Is that even a thing?”

  “You tell me.”

  She gaped at me. “I wouldn’t know. I’m never getting married.”

  “That’s a shame.” I checked my watch. “I guess you’ll never know.”

  She looked away. “Are you expecting your mistress?”

  “How presumptuous of you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t like the taste of her words on my lips.

  “No,” I told her, finally. “A member of my church.”

  She coughed, choking on her martini.

  “Well, a potential member, actually.”

  “Here…you’re meeting…in a bar?”

  “They have tables and chairs.” I motioned around the place. “Ambiance and…very attractive scenery.” I smiled. “What more could a man want?”