Her husbands murder, p.1
Her Husband's Murder, page 1
Her Husband’s Murder
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
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Part Two
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Part Three
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Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Jaime Lynn Hendricks
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
For my husband John, because I couldn’t do any of this without you by my side.
Part One
1
The Killer
The Wedding Day, 7:00 p.m.
He really thought he’d be able to get away with it.
So smug.
It happened quickly. At that point in the wedding reception everyone was drunk, bouncing around on the dance floor, and no one was paying attention. They were throwing glitter from the nearby bin, a bunch of adults acting like five-year-olds hopped up on sugar. People were clamoring together to try to be in the live Instagram video, but I watched closely as Trevor’s upper lip curled into itself, and his face turned a slight crimson shade. He stopped jumping up and down to Kool and the Gang and loosened his bow tie, but that did nothing to calm the swelled vein in his forehead.
Then BAM he hit the ground like a ton of bricks.
At first there was shock, then chaos as his new wife Fiona wailed for his EpiPen in her bag at the sweetheart table. Half of the guests were screaming to revive him, and the other half were trying to give him room to breathe. His anaphylaxis worsened as everyone panicked.
Trevor’s leg convulsed, his face flushed, and his lips swelled. I got a small amount of pleasure as he looked at me, though I wasn’t sure in his desperate state that he understood that it was me who did it. His threats to expose me to my friends, to hurt those I loved, those were things I couldn’t take anymore. I mouthed Fuck you to him as he clutched his throat, unable to breathe, and his shiny new wedding ring glistened from the overhead disco ball lights. His handsome face looked wretched as he gasped for air—his eyes bloodshot as the oxygen stopped flowing in his veins. No more gasping. He stopped moving altogether.
The EpiPen that Fiona always carried was nowhere to be found. She screamed obscenities to everyone around her, unable to leave Trevor, repeatedly tapping his face and asking him to wake up. The live video was killed, and the DJ had finally cut the music, which made Fiona’s pleas seem louder and more desperate.
It was too late by the time the banquet manager found their emergency EpiPen—Trevor stopped breathing minutes ago. The EpiPen plunged into his leg, and then out ten seconds later. Fiona was on the floor, Trevor’s head on her dress, and she freaked out when he didn’t respond to the injection—crying and flailing her arms in the air.
The five best friends, me included, gathered around an inconsolable Fiona who still hadn’t figured it out. There would be no cake cutting, there would be no honeymoon in Paris, no house with a picket fence and no family pets, children, or grandchildren. Not with him, anyway. Fiona was only thirty-two—she was young enough that she’d find someone else and move on with her life. Eventually. She’d been widowed on her wedding day, so she’d have to grieve, but she’d get over it.
While Trevor lay motionless, we were all ushered out of the room, save for Fiona and both their immediate families. On one side were Fiona’s mother, Susan, her Uncle John, and her brother, Jesse, with his boyfriend, Hector. Trevor’s parents, Margot and Harrison Vaughn, were on the other side.
In the lobby bar, the five of us shared our disbelief. There were tears and blank faces.
“I can’t believe this just happened.”
“Poor Fiona.”
“Was it the peanut allergy?”
“Why didn’t the EpiPen work?”
“What are we all supposed to do now?”
Everyone else came over and clasped hands on our shoulders and lower backs to console us, sad for us that we lost our great friend. Pfft. Trevor was the outsider since Fiona met him only a year ago. Our clan resulted in many hookups, as we all came to find out, but only two marriages. Wait—one marriage, since this once never really took off.
We all had a drink—yes, all of us—but it didn’t take the edge off as the stretcher rolled in. The medics were locked behind the ballroom doors for about five minutes when we heard screams, as they let the family know that at that point, there was nothing they could do. Trevor was dead, on his wedding day, and how epic that he was already dressed for his funeral. He did look lovely today. What a shame.
My work wasn’t done—he might’ve had a fail-safe plan in place—but for now, I had to try not to sway with the beat of the lounge music playing low in the lobby bar. After all, I was supposed to be mourning, not celebrating.
All heads sunk low and turned away as the stretcher came out, zipped body bag on top. He was lifted into the waiting ambulance by two EMTs. Trevor’s distraught parents got into the ambulance with the body to make an official identification and, in all likelihood, schedule an autopsy.
Fiona’s mother and Uncle John escorted her out of the ballroom, her makeup streaked all over her face, colors dripping down and staining the front of her white dress like a Monet painting. Her hair had come undone for the second time, having already been redone once after braving the storm outside, and she looked more like the Bride of Frankenstein than the girl who walked down the aisle on the beach only hours ago.
They were taking her up to rest in the honeymoon suite that would never live up to its name.
I assumed detectives would be questioning everyone soon. I wasn’t sure how specific these forensic tests could get. It was never my intention to get the hotel staff or the caterers in trouble, but as long as the blame was placed far away from me, well, those were casualties of war.
And a war it was.
2
ETHAN
Two days before the wedding, 9 a.m.
Ethan Pierce couldn’t hold his lovely wife’s hand as they rushed their luggage through the airport, even though he wanted to. Wheels quickly turned over with a dull thud on the linoleum as he and Emma bopped and weaved their way through LaGuardia. The airport that Thursday morning was filled with the usual suspects: businesspeople and vacationers, foreign and domestic.
The traffic from their apartment in Midtown was ridiculous, as it always was two weeks before Christmas in New York City. The cab had to make its way through Rockefeller Center, where Santas on every corner jingled their bells, some for the children, some for the Salvation Army donations. The tourists who visited the tree crossed against the lights and walked across the streets holding hands, spanning the entire sidewalk, annoying every real New Yorker in a hurry to get around them. The ice that fell overnight didn’t help, and there were a rash of accidents on the expressway. Already late to the gate, they couldn’t miss their college friend Fiona’s wedding in Miami—her wedding to that wretched Trevor Vaughn.
Ethan had put on a happy face whenever Trevor’s name was uttered, and pretended they were friends, just like he’d been instructed to do.
Or else.
Or else Trevor would let his beloved wife know what he’d been hiding.
They finally reached gate B42, out of breath, where over two hundred people ambled around the ropes in the boarding section, indicating that no one had gotten on the plane yet. Emma looked at Ethan, and he smirked at her.
“Told you so,” he mumbled under his breath, making quite sure that she knew he spoke, but also that she wouldn’t understand him.
“Com licença?” she asked with a smile, being used to his snark. She was half Portuguese and liked to use her father’s native language when trying to make Ethan feel remorse.
“Nothing, darling,” he said as his arm slipped around her neck, and he leaned down almost ten inches and kissed her temple underneath her dark hair. She stood on her tippy toes to meet him halfway, her startling green eyes sparkling.
With one arm resting over Emma’s shoulders, Ethan felt in his back pocket for his cigarettes with his free hand, comforted by the structure of the box against his palm. Adjusting the New York Rangers hat over his dark hair, his blue eyes scanned the impatient crowd for a familiar face, looking for Dutch, Veejay, or Allie—they were all supposed to meet at the gate. Instead, he saw irritated businesspeople checking their watches, surely missing meetings because of the delay, and the usual zombies scrolling through Instagram on their smartphones, no doubt hashtagging #stilldelaye
Finally, he spotted the mess of loose platinum curls and knew he’d found Dutch, chatting up a young flight attendant. Perennially single, the man was like a heat-seeking missile when it came to women. Ethan let out a sigh, thrilled to see Dutch relaxed. Between the mess with their old friend Roger—Dutch’s best friend since high school—and the nasty divorce his parents were going through, he’d been a bundle of nerves for the last few months.
They all had. Roger’s deception and disloyalty had thrown them for a loop. Ethan took it as a warning to do as he was told—he was positive the information that got Roger banished from their group of friends came from Trevor. Aside from his love for Emma, Ethan had never been so sure of anything in his life.
“Should’ve known that’s what Dutch was doing,” Ethan said to Emma with a chuckle. Having forgotten his contacts in the rush of the morning, he squinted at the digital board behind the counter. “The flight is on a short delay, probably from the ice last night. Corrine said that we’re lucky to be getting out of town this weekend. It’s supposed to be absolutely freezing here, but it’s record-breaking heat down in Miami. Lucky us.”
Ethan worked in a newsroom for a local New York City channel, and Corrine was their meteorologist. He was waiting to be promoted to a producer, wanting to guide how the stories they covered were perceived. Chaotic as it was at times, he loved his job. He found out about storms and scandals and school closings before anyone else. Speaking of scandals…
His eyes shifted back to Dutch. When the flight attendant had had enough of his charm, she plugged her number into his iPhone and gave him a playful slap. Dutch turned on his heels and tucked his phone into the back of his jeans pocket. With a satisfied smile, he spotted his friends.
“My man!” Dutch said as he approached Ethan and Emma, and high fived both. That was his typical “hello,” an act he probably picked up at the youth center where he volunteered with disadvantaged teenagers for the past decade. “Are you ready to be a groomsman?” he asked, all smiles, while holding up his own tuxedo bag.
“Can’t wait,” Ethan lied and forced a smile—something he’d gotten used to doing whenever the subject of Trevor or the wedding came up.
They were all Fiona’s friends—not Trevor’s. They barely knew him. Ethan didn’t know why Dutch and Veejay were so amped up about being groomsmen. Ethan had to be blackmailed into doing it. Or else.
“So, where’s Veejay?” Ethan asked, scanning the area around Dutch. “Didn’t you guys share a cab from downtown?”
Dutch nodded to the left. “Yeah. He’s taking a leak or buying a book on aliens or whatever weird shit he reads. And we know Allie will be the last one here. That girl will be late to her own funeral.”
“Watch it,” Emma said, naturally defending her best friend.
The door to the jetway opened to let the flight attendants and the pilot into the plane, and the single-digit windchill sailed through the waiting area. The door clanked shut behind the employees, but the biting cold lingered. Emma shivered and pulled her cashmere sweater tighter around her shoulders, and Ethan overcompensated.
“Are you okay?” he whispered into her ear, away from Dutch’s eyes. “Are both of you okay?” His gaze drifted south.
They had planned to tell everyone that Emma was pregnant once they’d settled into the hotel, even though they were only at the seven-week mark. People were bound to question why she didn’t always have a glass of red wine in her hand while on a mini vacation and at the wedding of one of their closest friends.
Ethan rarely shied away from a cocktail. It was a hard habit to grow out of in his twenties, which had caused a couple of breakups with Emma over the last dozen or so years. Now, at thirty-three, he knew it was time to grow up, especially with the baby coming. Emma was obsessed with her niece Bianca in Portugal, even from across the Atlantic, so he couldn’t wait to see what kind of mother she’d become. What kind of parents they’d become, together.
She’d always brought him more pleasure than the bottom of a bottle.
No matter what he did while they were apart. No matter what lies he’d told.
3
EMMA
Two days before the wedding, 9:05 a.m.
“The baby is fine, shhh,” Emma said with a smile, and giving Ethan that look.
He smiled back at her, pulled her close to his chest, and kissed the top of her head, a gesture she loved. She’d always had stars in her eyes when it came to Ethan, since the first time she saw him in her Intro to Humanities class, when she was still an undergrad. Too inexperienced to make the first move, she waited. And waited. It only took him two years to ask her out, but she never looked back.
That was how she’d rationalized her faults. Mistakes were made, but her heart stayed true.
Breaking away from her husband’s comforting embrace to scan the crowd, she still didn’t see tall, redheaded Allie, who was hard to miss. Emma, a bit of a gossip at heart, was starving for details regarding Allie’s recent divorce from Wharton, but Allie had been vague about the reasons. They’d been married just over five years, and Emma never understood why Allie fell for someone twice her age, but it wasn’t like Emma had much dating experience herself. Ethan was her first real relationship. Her first everything.
Although Emma wasn’t as naïve as she’d let on.
Her stomach dropped every time she thought about what Trevor had said to her five months ago, when she found out that he knew about her past. It still made her sick to that day.
It’s not just about you, Emma. You’d all turn on each other if this came out.
The worst part was, she knew he was right. Hell, when Roger’s secret was exposed right after Fiona and Trevor’s engagement five months ago, the whole group stopped talking to him. In Emma’s own situation, everyone would be forced to take sides. While Allie would stay camp Emma, even she would probably look at her differently. Once this wedding was over, Emma hoped she’d be able to cut the puppet strings Trevor had been using to manipulate her. She was tired of talking about what a great guy he was.
“Has Allie given either of you details about the divorce yet?” Emma asked, thankful for the background noise of another flight’s boarding, pushing down her jealousy at the people heading to places like Paris, London, and of course, Lisbon.
Dutch shook his head sympathetically. “Nope, she hasn’t said anything to me. But old, rich men like Wharton seem to want to upgrade every few years, and Allie’s over thirty now.” Dutch scoffed. “Poor girl. She’s a catch, too.”
Dutch had no love lost for his father, another old, rich man, and Emma always wondered why—the divorce was his mother’s doing. Dutch had the most privileged of upbringings, with his father being one of the lead real estate developers in New York City.
“I feel so bad for her,” Emma said with a frown and a slow, deliberate shake to her head. “I sent her a box of romance books we have coming out. Hopefully, they’ll keep her mind occupied.” Emma’s Ivy League English degree had landed her a job as an associate editor for one of the top publishers in New York. Emma moped. “Do you think Wharton cheated on her?”
She bit her tongue at the slip in front of Dutch. Divorce was almost always about infidelity.
At least Ethan hadn’t been unfaithful to Emma. Not really. His dalliances happened when they were broken up. It crushed her to know that he’d slept with other women since they’d met, but she broke up with him both times. What was he supposed to do, join the priesthood?
They’d met at eighteen, started dating at twenty, and married ten years later. Their first breakup lasted for three months when they were fresh out of college, both figuring out adulthood, and Emma had had enough of Ethan’s constant partying and drinking. She took him back when he promised to change. It didn’t last, and their next breakup lasted for a full year. It was the darkest period of Emma’s life, for so many reasons. That time, Ethan had changed, but she couldn’t take him back, even though she wanted to.
Trevor found out why. And he’d been dangling it in front of her for the last five months.
Just do what I say, and he’ll never know.
That was reason enough for her to play his sadistic game.
Her phone pinged with a text from her sister, Cassandra, who still lived in Portugal. As she usually did when she got any sort of communication from Cassandra, she dropped everything and fixated on her phone.
