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.
“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.”