Page 66 of Perfect Wives
‘You’re right,’ I whisper, my pulse racing, my head light. ‘But why not just kill him and disappear?’ I ask. ‘Every time we find an answer, it feels like it leads to more questions. I just don’t get it. Why go to the trouble of finding us, encouraging us into planning his murder? Why drag us into this whole sick game? And tonight…what if we’d actually gone through with it? What then?’
Georgie’s eyes narrow. ‘Then she’d have had us. Properly. Not just a recording, not just us fearing for our families. We’d have been as bad as her. Murderers. It would’ve bought our silence.’
Tasha’s face is pale. ‘I feel like we’re missing something.’
Georgie and I turn to look at Tasha. ‘But what?’ I ask.
‘She could easily have killed Jonny and walked away without involving us,’ Tasha replies.
‘Yeah, but she’s crazy,’ I hiss, feeling the panic take hold. ‘This was never part of a murder-swap deal. She just wanted cover. She wanted to make us the fall guys if the police ever realised her connection to him.’
‘I don’t know,’ Tasha starts again, biting her lower lip. ‘She’s crazy, but she’s not stupid. And bringing us into this feels really risky for her. What do you think, Georgie?’
‘I’m not sure either,’ Georgie agrees. ‘Something isn’t adding up.’
‘The important thing is?—’
My next words stop dead. There’s a sound. A door banging. Footsteps from my garden. A second later, a light clicks on outside.
We drop into a crouch, hiding beside the sofa.
‘It’s Alistair,’ I whisper, heart hammering. He can’t find me here. ‘He’s in our garden.’
We fumble to turn our torches off as the silence stretches, each second longer than the last. I don’t dare move. Don’t dare breathe.
Then there’s a flutter in my stomach. Not fear or nerves. Something softer. Butterfly wings brushing against my belly from within. The faintest movement but unmistakable. The baby. My baby. She’s moving.
Tears spring to my eyes.
I should be home. I should be with Alistair. I should be curled up on the sofa with my hand on my bump and a cup of herbal tea in my hand, not hiding in a dead man’s house.
I did this for Alistair. For us. For my baby. I can’t lose it all now because of Jonny.
THIRTY-SIX
GEORGIE
I’m shaking as I peel off my clothes in the en-suite bathroom, allowing the warmth from the heated floor tiles to seep into the chill that’s settled inside me. Tonight has been…a lot. We almost killed a man. And the worst part? I wanted Beth to do it. I thought it was our only way to fix everything, to get us out of this nightmare.
What if we’d gone through with it? At least we have something on Keira now. Our own evidence to use against her like she’s been doing with us.
I draw in a long, steady inhale, releasing the air slowly. I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands and the terror in my eyes, and ground myself in my present.
I make myself look at the slate-grey tiles, the white walls, the polished chrome. Then I close my eyes, feel that heat in my toes, and the scent of eucalyptus from a diffuser in the corner. ‘I am blessed,’ I whisper.
I step into the shower and let the hot water wash away the fear I felt in Jonny’s house tonight. Beth holding up that photograph. I swear my heart faltered, and I couldn’t stopmyself from snatching it from her hands as though if I was fast enough, Beth would unsee it.
But it wasn’t the photo I was looking for – the real reason I suggested going to Jonny’s house – it was Keira and Jonny arm in arm in what looked like an old holiday snap. Their faces slightly blurred.
The water steams around me as I scrub at my skin with the frangipani monoi salt glow body scrub. Just one of dozens of expensive indulgences I cherish in my daily routine and share on my Insta stories. But right now, it feels like a scour on my skin. Like I can rub away the fear and panic of the night.
I shiver and turn up the temperature. Hot water needles my skin, burning like the sting of Nate’s rejection last night.
‘I don’t think we can be fixed,’ he said.
It isn’t just the humiliation of standing in my underwear, offering myself up, trying to fix whatever has broken between us. It’s the fact he doesn’t want to try. Doesn’t care enough to try. Not for me. And not for Oscar. That’s what really hurts. Our sweet little boy who loves dinosaurs and Lego and pretending to be a pirate. How do we tell him his perfect world is being torn apart?
‘You’ll change your mind,’ I whisper, putting my back to the water and letting the needles pummel the knot at the nape of my neck. ‘I haven’t done all this to let you go.’
