Page 67 of The Wife Upstairs

Both women laugh, shaking their heads as Campbell takes the lid off her coffee to drain the cup.

“Oh my god, no,” Emily says. “She was sweet as pie. Tough, sure, ambitious and all that. But a real doll. I never saw her get mad at anybody. Not even when that catering company she hired completely screwed up her and Eddie’s anniversary party. It was supposed to be Hawaiian luau-themed, but they brought, I don’t remember, what was it, Cam?”

“Finger food,” she replies. “Like it was a tea party. Little cucumber sandwiches, petit fours, that kind of thing. Bea just laughed it off. Eddie was the one who—”

She stops abruptly, glancing at me, then shrugs it off. “Anyway, no, Bea never even got mildly irritated as far as I could tell.”

Silence descends, hanging awkwardly between us for a moment before Emily asks brightly, “So, are we all going to the country club tomorrow night?”

Oh, right. Another fundraiser, another thing stuck on my fridge because I’m one of these women now, the kind who goes to fundraisers at country clubs.

I smile at them.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

As we stand up to leave, Campbell’s eyes slide down my body. “Wow,” she says. “You look… great, Jane. Really.”

“Doesn’t she?” Emily says, giving me another pat on the arm. “I think she might wear pencil skirts even better than Bea, and that was, like, her entire thing.”

She’s still smiling, but something about the comment bugs me. I hadn’t consciously been emulating Bea, but I see now how I must look like I put on a Bea costume for this meeting. Me and my pencil skirt and binder, like some kind of pale imitation.

The ghost of Bea.

The thought unsettles me all the way home, and when I come in, I look at myself in the hall mirror.

My hair brushes my shoulders in the same long bob Bea wore. The earrings I’m wearing remind me of ones I’ve seen in pictures of her.

I’m even wearing the same shade of red lipstick.

Turning away, I pick up my purse, taking the binder back out.

She did stuff like this.

Do I want to be the new Bea to these people? Or do I want them to accept me as Jane?

I don’t know anymore.

My phone buzzes, and I sigh, reaching into my bag to fish it out.

It’s a text from John.

Hey, friendo,it starts, and fuck me, I hate him so much.

Little short on cash this week. Another $500 should cover it. You can mail it again. Cash. Xo

My fingers hover over the keys.

I could tell him to fuck off.

I could text Eddie.

And then I reach into my purse and pull out the folded sheet of paper, the one Eddie gave me with the Phoenix number scrawled across it.

Or I could find out who’s looking for me. What they actually want. What they know.

And finally put this all to rest, so that I can move on with my life.

Fingers trembling, I start to dial.