The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives by Kristin Miller

Author:Kristin Miller [Miller, Kristin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2021-07-20T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ERIN

The moment the door closes behind the detectives, Georgia lets out a long, exasperated sigh and stretches her arms over the couch.

“They think I killed him, just like the others,” she says, dropping her head back against the cushion. “They’re going to make my life hell. They’re never going to leave me alone.”

Brooke locks the door and slowly makes her way toward the living room, her heels clacking over the tile. She’s got a strange look in her eye that reminds me of the one Mason has when he comes home late from work. It’s guilt. Plain and simple. She knows I caught her snooping through Georgia’s things, and she doesn’t know if I’m going to blab to Georgia. Come on. Of course I am. As for Mason, that’s a conversation we need to have with our therapist present.

As Georgia groans and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, I start mixing a martini.

“No, don’t,” she says, sitting up with a jolt. “What time is it?”

“A little after ten.” I shake faster, sloshing the ice against the metal canister. “But it’s five o’clock somewhere.”

“Damn. My wedding dress. I—I’m sorry, I forgot. I have to pick it up before noon.”

I pour the martini anyway, and toss it back. It’s cold and smooth and perfect. Brooke eyes me curiously, so I offer her the remnants of the drink in the shaker.

“I thought you already picked it up,” I say to Georgia, recalling the way she’d gushed over her dress last month.

She dumps her phone into her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “I went for my final fitting, but there was a problem. I’ll explain on the way. Brooke?” Georgia asks, turning to her. “Want to take a ride?”

“To see your wedding dress?” Brooke asks with her usual perky enthusiasm. “I’d be honored.”

As we’re packed into Georgia’s Alfa Romeo and speeding through the city, she explains how she’d ordered a one-of-a-kind dress from an up-and-coming designer, Monica Normande, in Los Angeles. Georgia had been sent swatches of fabric and embroidery, and had three fittings once it’d been sent to a private boutique in the city. However, at the final fitting, Georgia had noticed the hem wasn’t even in the back. Rather than settle for something flawed, she had demanded it be fixed, even though I’m sure no one would have noticed anyway. She’s not sure of the reason for the delay, but she’d been told to pick it up today, two days before her supposed wedding.

As if she didn’t have other, more important things to worry about.

Zipping off Broadway onto Laguna, Georgia clutches the wheel in a death grip, glancing behind her into the rearview. “You know what the craziest thing is? Those detectives are wasting time questioning me, asking where I’ve been, and digging into our relationship, when they should be out there looking for him. I bet they’re not even searching. They’ve probably already made up their minds.”

“It’s hard not to,” I say, steeling myself against a hard turn.

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