Heather and Harry each latched on to one of Olivia’s fingers. Gretchen peeled her skinny limbs from the sofa and finally managed to find the Off button on the television remote. From upstairs, the sounds on Samuel’s tablet went mute.
Samuel’s curious voice called down, “Is that Olivia?”
“Only if you’re in your pajamas,” Olivia called back, tittering with laughter. “And what about you, ma’am? Those don’t look like jammies to me.”
While Gretchen heaved with laughter, Anne shot a grateful look over her children’s heads to the babysitter. Olivia tilted her chin up, directing Anne upstairs to get changed.
Anne did so, taking a luxuriously long shower. It was seven minutes in total, start to finish, including time for shaved legs, plucked eyebrows, and the removal of one nasty ingrown hair. She spritzed her best perfume onto her bare skin and studied her reflection in the mirror.
Anne wasn’t gorgeous by any right. She’d been cute, once upon a time. But her long, chestnut hair had since been chopped into a bob, and her once-plump hips now carried an extra twenty pounds that were no longer cute but quite saggy. Her breasts had also joined the saggy club, along with her biceps, her ass, and her thighs. They were a stubborn bunch.
Anne wrapped a robe around herself and made her way into her bedroom. She slid into a forgiving black dress and popped on simple pearl earrings. It didn’t matter what she wore, seeing as she’d be alone tonight, but if she didn’t make half an effort, Olivia wouldn’t be convinced.
Anne sat on the edge of her bed and reached for the box of heels she kept stashed underneath. They were a new purchase, one her husband hadn’t—and wouldn’t—find out about. He’d go berserk if he found out she’d spent $250 on a pair of high heels when he’d worked overtime for a week to pay Gretchen’s ballet camp fee.
That’s what the private cash stash is for, she reminded herself. Random birthday money she received, cash back from store returns, the hundred dollars her friend had given her to house-sit all those years ago. Anne had earned those shoes.
Standing, Anne took one last look at herself in the full-length mirror. The shoes were worth every penny of the $250 she’d spent. They made her legs look more goddess-like than human. They even gave her butt a few extra inches of lift, making the excess weight look something close to attractive.
At the last second, she slipped off her heels and tucked them neatly into their box. She covered them with tissue paper and pressed them back where they belonged. Under the bed. Then, she slipped into comfortable flats and grabbed a purse. There was no need for heels. Not where Anne was going.
Jogging downstairs, Anne tossed keys into her bag and let herself out into the cool night air. She paused, inhaled deeply. The guilt hit when she exhaled.
With a flutter of panic, she turned back inside and sprinted up the steps to Gretchen’s room. She stood in the doorway, breathless, before the babysitter and a pile of children.
“Anne, are you okay?” Olivia asked. “You look flushed.”
Anne raised a hand to her forehead and felt sweat beaded there. She shuffled into the room and planted kisses on her children’s foreheads. She muttered half-hearted instructions to her children to obey the babysitter. When she let herself out of the room, her babies hardly seemed to notice.
Anne took the stairs two at a time. She wondered curiously if her family would notice if she disappeared. Stepped through the front door and never returned. Would Gretchen be relieved to see her meanie mom gone for good? Would Samuel even look up from his tablet? The twins…they wouldn’t know. They’d be fine. They’d all be fine.
Once situated inside her minivan, Anne wiped the beaded sweat away again.
“I’m okay,” she breathed to herself. “It’s fine. Plenty of moms forget to say goodbye to their children.”
She sat there for a minute, convincing herself it was true. When she didn’t like any of the thoughts dancing through her brain, she switched to safer thinking: her evening agenda.
Anne could go walk around Target for an hour, and it’d be nothing short of heavenly. She could push a cart without kids hanging off the sides or draping their bendy bodies across the underbelly. She wouldn’t have to play hide-and-seek across the clearance racks of clothes.
She could take a snippet of quiet time and read. There was a self-help book from her old friend Eliza that she’d been meaning to dive into for ages. She could grab a coffee at the all-night diner down the road and read, undisturbed. It would be a small slice of paradise.
Or she could do neither of the sensible options. The second the latter thought tiptoed into Anne’s brain, she knew there was no turning back. She was going to find answers. Answers she’d been seeking for weeks. Easing her key into the ignition, she cranked the car’s engine until it turned over and prayed their battery that needed replacing would last the night.
Mark, Mark, Mark, she thought as she pulled onto the streets. It’s time to find out where you’ve been going, oh husband of mine.
TRANSCRIPT
Prosecution: Ms. Sands, how long have you been living in Los Angeles?
Penny Sands: A little over a year. I moved here in May 2018, and it’s July now, so…thirteen months?
Prosecution: Fourteen.
Penny Sands: Whatever you say. I’ve never been great at math.
Prosecution: What brought you to Los Angeles?
Penny Sands: What brings anyone to Los Angeles? Lies, I guess.
Prosecution: Lies?
Penny Sands: You grow up thinking you can be anyone or do anything, but none of that’s true. Everyone moves here to be a movie star, and where do most of us end up? Well, I ended up in court, so there’s that.
Prosecution: When did you first meet Eliza Tate?
Penny Sands: During one of her book events. She was throwing a launch party for Marguerite Hill’s second book, Be Free, and I had an invitation.
Prosecution: Where did you get your invitation to Mrs. Tate’s event?
Penny Sands: From Roman.
Prosecution: Roman Tate—Eliza’s husband—invited you to the party?
Penny Sands: That’s what I said.
Prosecution: So you met Eliza Tate via her husband?
Defense: Objection. Already stated.
Prosecution: I’ll move on, Your Honor.
The Court: Very well.
Prosecution: Ms. Sands, when did you know that you were in love with Roman Tate?
TWO
Nine Months Before
May 2018
Penny Sands sat on the bus, eyes peeled wide, feeling much smaller than her 124 pounds. At five feet six inches tall, she was taller than the average woman and quite pretty, if she said so herself.
She felt much younger than her twenty-six years of age as the bus rolled its way into Los Angeles. She tried to take in everything— every honk from angry cars as they cruised in and out of traffic lanes, every closed-down, boarded-up, and graffitied shop, every overflowing garbage can.
The slightest bit of confusion flooded through her. A hint of panic. Barely discernible but definitely there. Surely, the Hollywood sign was hiding out of sight, just waiting to peep over the next overpriced gas station.
The beautiful people and movie stars, they’d be just around the next corner. On Rodeo Drive, probably. The bus just hadn’t made the correct turns yet. The glitz and glamour and hopefulness were tucked out of sight, waiting to be discovered by eager new hands. They must be.