26

Briana Meyers was being too evasive. With her dingy notepad and dark bags under her eyes, she flat-out refused to tell Victoria what had happened to Warren. He was dead, she knew that, and they were fairly certain it was murder; she knew that too. But how?

Victoria excused herself and ducked into the half bathroom, leaning against the sink with shaking hands. The robe was suddenly too hot. Too itchy. She pulled at the collar and splashed water on her neck. In the kitchen, the officers’ walkie-talkies crackled. They had a brief exchange about whatever had come in while she hid on the toilet.

Get a grip, she ordered her zombied reflection. Get a fucking grip.

Taking out her phone, she quickly googled Briana Meyers. She found half a dozen articles about charity events and local accolades. Nothing unusual. No scandals or blemishes on her record, at least not on the surface. But she also hadn’t been promoted in years, and she wasn’t making the rounds on the Connors’ roster, which suggested one of two things: one, she was an actual do-gooder type, or two . . .

Well, two was that Briana Meyers was like Victoria.

She really hoped it was the former.

“Mrs. Tate?” A tap on the door. “Are you all right?”

Victoria startled but managed to not knock over the bowl of potpourri. “Fine,” she said, tucking her phone into her pocket and pretending to wash her hands. She opened the door to the inquisitive face of Briana Meyers and skirted any further small talk by walking directly to the kitchen table. She plopped into the seat with the tired limbs of someone who hasn’t slept in days. That wasn’t far from the truth. When was the last time she’d gotten a solid night’s sleep?

Meyers joined her. She tucked her hands in her lap, watching Victoria trace the rim of her mug with her thumb. “I have a few questions,” she said. “When you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” Victoria said. “I—it helps me to have something to focus on.”

“I understand,” she said. The notepad from earlier made a reappearance. “If you need a break, let me know.”

“Thank you, but I’m okay,” Victoria said, sitting a little straighter. She wasn’t okay, not even in the same ballpark, but she would concentrate on Meyers’s questions. “What do you need to know?”

Meyers sat for another beat, trading glances with the officers, seeming to wait for Victoria to change her mind. When that didn’t happen, she gave a nod of acknowledgment and dove in. “Had your husband seemed distracted lately?” she started.

“Yes, but that was normal with the end of the quarter approaching.”

Straightforward answers from Victoria, she’d decided. Short and simple. No overexplaining. Less chance of getting caught in a lie, especially when she didn’t know what she was up against yet.

“Was he a gambler?”

Victoria shook her head. “Warren’s not the betting type. Had a terrible poker face and never took much interest in cards. We go to the racetrack in Saratoga a few times every summer, but he rarely puts money down. It’s mostly because it’s expected of us.”

“Any history of recreational drug use?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He drank,” she sniffled, “sometimes too much.”

“Mm,” came the reply. “Anything unusual about his behavior recently? Mood swings or . . .”

Meyers let her fill in the blanks, and Victoria stumbled a bit. Her initial reaction was to play up Warren’s mood swings, his anger and fits of depression—none of which was true, but it was the narrative she’d been practicing. It fit well with her plan, but she hadn’t actually murdered Warren, so convincing the detective that her husband was suicidal might be counterproductive.

She landed on, “I don’t know, I guess he has been a little short-tempered. But he’s been under a lot of stress, so, nothing stands out.”

“What kind of stress?”

“Work,” she said. “Everything ramps up this time of year. I’ve barely left the office as it is, and Warren is even more of a perfectionist than I am. He holds himself to such high standards because they expect so much out of him. The clients. Not to mention the demands that come with being the boss. It’s a lot to always have to be on, to have all the answers and be the go-to person.”

It was easy to explain it that way. Warren’s job was difficult because Warren made it difficult. Meyers didn’t need to know she was talking about herself.

Meyers nodded, making notes without comment and moving on to the next question. The peacoat was unbuttoned now, revealing a plain blue boatneck top with a small stain in the middle. A little circle of red. Victoria stared at the dot. Spaghetti sauce?

“Did Warren have enemies?” Meyers asked. “Anyone with a grudge?”

Salad dressing? Meyers didn’t look like the type to order a cobb over a sandwich. “No,” she declared. “Everybody loves—loved—Warren.”

Well, except for me, she thought, choking on the change in tense. Victoria had a pretty big grudge, but love was complicated, right? Right.

“Is that so?”

“Sorry?” Victoria scowled. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“Nothing.” Meyers waved her off, but Victoria saw it for the ploy it was. She had to be careful. “Just covering bases. How would you describe your marriage? Were you happy?”

Whiplashed, Victoria sputtered. Who was ever really happy? she wanted to ask. In fact, she was beginning to think that happiness was a myth perpetuated by Hallmark, because as far as her rays of sunshine were concerned, happiness was much closer to a hole in the ground than it was to a white picket fence.

“We loved each other very much,” she said instead.

“I have to ask,” Meyers said, leaning closer. “Had Warren . . . Had you ever suspected that your husband might be having an affair?”

That irked Victoria. Warren was many things, but a cheater wasn’t one of them. He didn’t have it in him. Using his wife as a rung on the corporate ladder was one thing; she’d even wondered if maybe it hadn’t been a coincidence that he’d hit on her that night at the bar. Maybe he’d known who her father was the whole time. But disrespecting the vows he made in front of God—and Jeremy fucking Livingston? He would’ve lit himself on fire first.

She said as much, folding her hands together and arching her best business brow at the detective. Meyers, face full of pity—and screw her for that, Victoria thought—flipped the notepad shut and stood to leave.

“We’ll need you to come down to the station to file a statement,” she said. “Can I call anyone for you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I can handle it. Thank you, Detective.” She pushed in her chair and walked Meyers and the two officers to the door.

On the porch snow swirled around them, slower now than a few hours ago. The worst of the storm was passing.

As soon as the cavalry pulled away from the curb, Victoria trudged upstairs. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to have to worry about what everything meant. Not yet.

Instead, she decided to finish deconstructing the murder room she wouldn’t need because her would-be victim was already chilling at the morgue. Alanis wouldn’t be singing about that irony any time soon. Throwing herself into the task, she was lost to the crinkling plastic and the zwip of painter’s tape.

Once the supplies were handled, she undressed slowly and climbed into the shower. The water was hot, and the pressure was good, but she couldn’t get past the singular thought that Warren would not be coming home again. It should’ve been grounds for some morbid celebration. Not a party—her husband was dead; that wouldn’t be a good look—but a smile or fist pump or something.

Nothing.

She waited for the dip of guilt, but that didn’t come either. Maybe that wasn’t indicative of anything, though. Victoria hadn’t killed Warren, so she didn’t need to feel guilty. The absence of her moral compass didn’t mean she was broken so much as it meant she was absolved.

Okay, she wouldn’t go that far.

So many times she’d pictured this moment, expecting the thrill of independence. The reality of her situation, however, was not that straightforward. With Warren, in death as in life, it rarely was.

Victoria was in limbo, an odd space between reclaiming her life and burying the past. And that, she thought, simply wouldn’t work for her.