Page 82 of The Wife Upstairs

She’s smiling when she says it, her fingers going to the little bee around her neck, but Bea sees her eyes.

Sees what she’s thinking.

“Does it?” Bea says. “I never noticed.”

PART IX

JANE

29

It must be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, going to Tripp Ingraham’s house. And that’s really saying something for me.

He’s been charged with murder. I am willingly going to an accused murderer’s house.

I say that to myself over and over again as I jog down the street, trying to look like it’s just a regular day, just regular Jane out for her morning run, certainly not about to do something so shit-stupid she might die.

His texts kept me up all night last night, and I can’t explain it, but I need to hear what he says.

Because something in me tells me he’s telling the truth.

Tripp is so many ugly things—a drunk, a lech, a Republican—but murderer still doesn’t fit on him. I’ve known violent men. I’ve been around too many of them, and I learned how to sniff them out early. I had to.

Tripp just… doesn’t smell right.

I hurry up his driveway, praying to god that no one catches a glimpse of me. His bushes are overgrown, dead leaves and flower petals strewn along the walk at the front of the house, and if I’d thought his place seemed dark and sad before, it’s nothing compared to how it feels now.

After ringing the doorbell, I wait for so long that I think he’s not going to answer, and I’m uncomfortably aware that anyone couldcome by and see me standing there. This neighborhood seemed to have eyes everywhere, and Tripp is not supposed to have visitors, not without it being cleared through the police first.

Like I was going to do that.

Just as I’m about to turn away, the door opens.

Tripp stares at me, wearing a plaid bathrobe tied loosely at the waist and a pair of matching pajama pants. His skin has gone grayish, his eyes nearly swallowed up by the hollows around them. Tripp looked rough before, but now, he looks half-dead, and I almost feel sorry for him.

“You came,” he says, his voice low and flat. “I honestly didn’t think you would. Don’t just stand there. Come in.”

He ushers me inside, and I’m hit with the smell immediately. Old food, garbage that hasn’t been taken out, and booze.

So much booze.

“Sorry I didn’t clean up,” he says, gesturing for me to head into the living room, but I shake my head, folding my arms over my chest.

“Whatever you have to say to me, go ahead and say it here. Say it fast.”

He lowers his gaze back to mine, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, and there it is again—a shadow version of that Tripp, sure, washed out and barely there, but still.

“Don’t want to spend too much time in the murderer’s lair. I get it.”

I’d tell him not to be a dick, but that’s like telling him not to breathe, so instead, I just glare at him, waiting, and eventually he sighs.

“You must’ve felt like you won the goddamn lottery when you met Eddie Rochester,” he muses. “Rich, good-looking, charming as hell. But let me tell you something, Jane.”

He leans in close, and I catch the ripe odor of him, the stink of unwashed skin and unbrushed teeth. “He’s poison. His wife was poison, too, so at least they were well-matched in that.”

Another smirk. “If I were you, I’d leave here, get whatever shit you can out of the house, and hit the road. Leave Eddie, Birmingham,all of it.” He waves one hand, sagging back against the door. “Sure as fuck wish I’d listened when Blanche said we should move.”

“Blanche wanted tomove?” I ask incredulously, and he nods.