Three Single Wives Read online

  Also by Gina LaManna

  Pretty Guilty Women

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Gina LaManna

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Heather Morris/Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Olga Grlic

  Cover images © Joanna Czogala/Trevillion Images, Alta Oosthuizen/Shutterstock, Nadya Lukic/Shutterstock, Runrun2/Shutterstock, MirageC/Getty Images

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Transcript

  One

  Transcript

  Two

  Transcript

  Three

  Transcript

  Four

  Transcript

  Five

  Transcript

  Six

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  Seven

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  Eight

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  Nine

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  Ten

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  Eleven

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  Twelve

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  Thirteen

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  Fourteen

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  Fifteen

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  Sixteen

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  Seventeen

  Transcript

  Eighteen

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  Nineteen

  Transcript

  Twenty

  Transcript

  Twenty-One

  Transcript

  Twenty-Two

  Transcript

  Twenty-Three

  Transcript

  Twenty-Four

  Transcript

  Twenty-Five

  Transcript

  Twenty-Six

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  Twenty-Seven

  Transcript

  Twenty-Eight

  Transcript

  Twenty-Nine

  Transcript

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my two sweet boys.

  Prologue

  The Day Before

  February 13, 2019

  “More wine?” Eliza Tate raised a bottle of vintage merlot by the neck and gave it a tantalizing wiggle. When no one spoke, she lifted one dainty shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. “Well, I’m having another glass. I’ve earned it.”

  Eliza studied the room before her as she tipped a stream of deep-red wine gently into her Bordeaux glass. Despite the lackluster response from the three other women, she continued to pour. She topped off one of the other glasses and then the next, leaving the third empty for obvious reasons.

  “Bottoms up,” Eliza said once the last drop had been poured. “Marguerite, how do you feel about everything we’ve gone over? Anything else you’d like to cover?”

  “Actually, I have one more question.” Penny raised a reluctant hand. “Is that okay? Are we still allowed to ask questions?”

  “Yes, please do,” Eliza said. “That’s the point of a rehearsal.”

  “Did you have a theme in mind before you wrote Be Free?” Penny leaned back in the chair, her eyes flitting quickly toward Marguerite before settling on the tattered copy of the book before her.

  “It’s not quite that simple.” Marguerite Hill, bestselling author and self-help guru, leaned back in the sleek, violet-tinted chair before the unlit fireplace. Eliza’s sitting room ascended around her with lofted ceilings and elaborate furnishings. Marguerite stroked a hand over the velvety fabric on the chair’s arm and looked lost in thought. “There are several themes. Some more subtle than others.”

  “You were being subtle.” Anne gave a reassuring nod. “So subtle I almost missed it.”

  “You missed it because you didn’t read the book,” Eliza said. “It’s hard to notice a theme if you only read the back cover.”

  “Well, that too,” Anne agreed. “But I have little kids. I don’t have time to read books.”

  Eliza didn’t bother to touch on the other issues in Anne’s life that might have prevented her from reading a book. She was just happy to see her friend had managed to drag herself out of the house. Eliza wondered idly if there was a catch.

  “The most important theme, I suppose, is what inspired the title. See, men have held power over us, over women, for years.” Marguerite closed her manicured nails into a tight fist. “They have expected us to put our heads down, toil away, and obey their rules. We have been conditioned not to whine or moan, let alone put up a fight. We have never been truly free.”

  Penny nodded enthusiastically. Anne picked at her cuticles. Eliza watched the author as she gently stomped onto her soapbox—the soapbox that had earned Marguerite over a million dollars and far more than fifteen minutes of fame.

  “It’s time we take control of our lives and shape our destinies,” Marguerite continued. “If not now, when? Will we let another generation slip away when we have the power to change this very moment?”

  “But how?” Penny’s question emerged softly, like a subtle flavor infused into the conversation. Her words were accompanied by notes of curiosity and naivete. Finished with bold undertones of determination. “To be free…don’t we first have to escape?”

  Marguerite’s face underwent a transformation. An initial burst of surprise teetered into a stony, unreadable expression. She’s stumped, Eliza noted. Stumped by the not-as-innocent-as-she-looks Penny Sands.

  “I didn’t give you enough credit,” Marguerite said finally. “You’re so young. I thought you might still be an optimist.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “In answer to your question, we must start boldly and close to home. Sometimes, toxic relationships are before our very noses.” Marguerite’s gaze turned curiously toward Eliza.

  Eliza cleared her throat and dodged Marguerite’s intense stare.

  “But I mean specifically what can we do?” Penny persisted. “What actions can we take? For example, if I was in a toxic relationship, what should I do about it?”

  Marguerite’s polished lips curved into a tiny smile. “I think we need to give men a taste of their own medicine.”

  “Of their own medicine?” Penny echoed. “You mean have an affair or something?”

  “An affair,” Anne said with a scoff. “That’s way too much work. I can barely handle one husband. The last thing I want is another man who needs to be fed and clothed and attended to.”

  Eliza gave a soft snort of agreement.

  “Well, what if you found out Mark was having an affair?” Penny asked Anne. “What would you do about it?”

  “I’d probably kill him,” Anne said. “I don’t have the patience for a long con.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Oh, come on,” Anne said with a groan. “I don’t mean literally.”

  “Of course not,” Penny said with a weak smile. “We knew that.”

  “You guys, it was a joke.” Anne curled her legs beneath her on the sofa as she settled a few inches deeper into the lush couch. “Do you think I would actually murder my husband?”

  Another uneasy silence slid around the room.
br />   “Come on. I couldn’t do that. I love Mark,” Anne said. “I’m too queasy for murder-murder. I could probably pull off poison or something, but blood is too messy. Plus, my husband’s a cop. His friends would sniff me out before he was cold.”

  “Well, if we’re talking in hypotheticals, there’s one man in particular I wouldn’t mind running over with my car,” Penny said. “Theoretically, of course,” she added quickly.

  “Of course,” Anne chirped.

  “I mean, I just get so mad sometimes,” Penny said. “I’d be the type to explode. Boom. Like you read about in the papers—as awful as that is to say.”

  “What about you, Eliza?” Anne asked. “If good old Roman had to go, how’d you do it?”

  “Yes,” Marguerite said. “I’m sure you’ve thought of it, darling. I mean, Roman’s not a saint.”

  Eliza stalled with a dainty sip of her wine. “I’ve never considered it.”

  “That’s a load,” Anne said. “You and Roman have been married for ages. He’s got to push some of your buttons.”

  Eliza felt her hands tremble. The truth simmered just below the surface. If only they could peer through the hazy steam and sort through the lies, they wouldn’t be asking such a touchy, touchy question. Would Eliza kill her husband?

  “Maybe,” she finally said, fueled by the cozy warmth of wine and the camaraderie of a group of women. “I suppose if I was angry enough…”

  “Oh, doll, don’t be modest. You’d make a statement.” Marguerite winked at Eliza and followed it up with a devilish little chuckle. “I think a knife suits you. It suits Roman, too. He’d have to go out in style, bless his rich little soul.”

  “A knife,” Eliza echoed. “You mean stab him? That’s pretty brutal.”

  Anne shrugged. “Just play along, won’t you?”

  “I suppose,” Eliza said, feeling a redness creep down her neck. “A knife would be one way to make sure he was dead.”

  “You do follow through on your promises,” Marguerite said. “I can vouch for that. If you ever set out to murder someone…well, let’s just say I’d hate to be on your bad side.”

  “And you, Marguerite?” Anne asked. “How would the self-help guru go about getting revenge?”

  “I really don’t think murder is the best way to handle your problems,” Marguerite said, shooting Eliza a somewhat bewildered glance. “I hope you know that’s not at all what I meant when I said we needed to give men a taste of their own medicine. Things spiraled for a bit there.”

  Eliza hid her smirk. They hadn’t covered this in their PR briefing earlier in the day. It wasn’t often Marguerite stumbled from her platform. In a way, it pleased Eliza to see her floundering. However, instead of savoring the moment, Eliza tossed a life vest to her client. Leapt in to save the day as usual. That’s why they paid her the big bucks.

  “Marguerite’s far too clever for anything as obvious as plain old murder,” Eliza said. “If she wanted to get revenge on a man, she’d probably off him in a big way, then frame all of us and get away scot-free, wouldn’t you, Marguerite?”

  Transcript

  The Court: Prosecution, you may call your next witness.

  Prosecution: I call to the stand Anne Wilkes.

  The Court: Will the witness please stand to be sworn in by the bailiff.

  (witness stands)

  Bailiff (to witness): Please raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

  Anne Wilkes: I do.

  (witness goes to stand and sits down)

  Prosecution: Mrs. Wilkes, let’s start with the night of February 13, 2019. What do you remember about that day?

  Anne Wilkes: I met up with a few of my girlfriends for a book club event that afternoon.

  Prosecution: Which girlfriends?

  Anne Wilkes: Eliza Tate and Penny Sands. Marguerite Hill, the author, was there, too, but I didn’t know her well at the time.

  Prosecution: Which book were you discussing at this event?

  Defense: Objection. How is the book club selection relevant to the murder case?

  Prosecution: I will demonstrate its relevance if given the opportunity.

  The Court: Overruled. You may continue, Ms. Clark, but make your point.

  Prosecution: The book, Mrs. Wilkes?

  Anne Wilkes: It was called Being Free by Marguerite Hill.

  Prosecution: I’m not familiar with a book by that name. Not by that author. Do you mean Be Free?

  Anne Wilkes: Er, yeah. Same thing.

  Prosecution: This is a murder investigation, Mrs. Wilkes. Details are important.

  Anne Wilkes: Sorry.

  Prosecution: Is that or is it not the follow-up to Ms. Hill’s nonfiction bestseller Take Charge, a smash hit that took the world by storm a year ago?

  Anne Wilkes: Yeah. Er, yes. At our first book club in October, we read Take Charge. We liked it, so in February, we read the sequel.

  Prosecution: What is the book about?

  Anne Wilkes: I think the title is self-explanatory. Both of Marguerite’s works are pretty typical self-help books for women. About how to take charge of your life and all that garbage. It’s inspirational, or so I assume. I didn’t actually read either book. There are hefty SparkNotes summaries online that are a godsend if you’re looking to get the gist of it. I have four kids. How do I have time to read a book that doesn’t involve pictures?

  Prosecution: Where were you between the hours of 11:00 p.m. on February 13 and 2:00 a.m. the next morning?

  Anne Wilkes: At a bar. Garbanzo’s. Our book club, uh, didn’t go as planned, so we went out to blow off some steam.

  Prosecution: Were you with Eliza Tate during that time?

  Anne Wilkes: Part of it.

  Prosecution: Please explain what happened that night at book club.

  Anne Wilkes: Now, that’s a long story.

  Prosecution: We’ve got plenty of time, Mrs. Wilkes. Why don’t you start from the beginning?

  One

  Nine Months Before

  May 2018

  Whole wheat bread. One and a half slices of ham. One squiggly squirt of mustard. Five Lay’s cheddar cheese potato chips arranged carefully on the bread. Cut crusts off, insert into plastic baggie, draw permanent-marker heart on the front of the brown paper lunch sack.

  Was Anne Wilkes in a rut?

  Probably, she thought, looking at the sandwiches she’d prepared for her children while simultaneously spinning to yank the refrigerator open and place the ham, cheese, and mustard in their rightful spots.

  She stared at her perfectly organized fridge. Even her fridge was in a rut. The same milk, the same yogurt (Activia because Mark suffered from indigestion and bloating), and even the same treats. One Lindt truffle per day in order to keep her ass smaller than Pluto. After four kids, two of them twins, it was a constant battle.

  The fridge closed, and Anne gave an incoherent mumble into the phone that would keep her mother’s stories flowing for the next few minutes. Jutting a hip against the counter, Anne snuck a few cheddar cheese crisps from the bag, figuring it counted as breakfast.

  “Anne, are you even listening? I wish you would pay attention,” Beatrice said. “I wish…”

  Beatrice didn’t need to finish the sentence. It didn’t matter, because Anne knew where she was going with it. Her mother wished for a lot of things. She probably wished for a different daughter. After what had happened three years ago, Anne was officially an embarrassment to Beatrice Harper.

  For a while there, Anne had been somewhat mediocre in her mother’s eyes. She’d acquired a house, children, and a highly respected husband. Anne’s marriage had been her crowning glory for the last fourteen years. Happily married to a handsome, decorated LAPD officer—formerly of the narcotics division, newly promoted to detective—she’d done one thing right in her life. Until she’d failed at her marriage, too.

  “Mom, I’ve got to let you go,” Anne finally said. She’d hit a wall and was unable to listen to her mother’s latest drama about the country club for a second longer. “It’s time to get the kids ready for bed.”

  “You really should hire a chef, or at least a nanny,” her mother sniffed. “It’s not good for you to be running around like you do. You’ll get bags under your eyes. Then Mark will leave you, and you’ll be all alone—an unwed mother of four children.”