Every Last Secret
PRAISE FOR EVERY LAST SECRET
“A glamorous and seductive novel that will suck you in and knock you sideways. I love this story, these characters, and the raw emotion they generated in me. I devoured every word. Exceptional.”
—Tarryn Fisher, New York Times bestselling author
“Raw and riveting. A clever ride that will make you question everyone and everything.”
—Meredith Wild, #1 New York Times bestselling author
OTHER TITLES BY A. R. TORRE
The Girl in 6E
Do Not Disturb
If You Dare
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Select Publishing LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542020190
ISBN-10: 1542020190
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
To the wives
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART 1
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
NEENA
PART 2
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
NEENA
PART 3
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
NEENA
PART 4
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
EPILOGUE
CAT
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
NEENA
Now
The detective was beanpole tall, with a gap in between her middle teeth that I could push a pretzel stick through. Last night she had been unattractive. Now, under the harsh overhead light, she was downright ugly.
She stayed quiet, flipping through her case folder with the speed of a tadpole. I sighed and brought the flimsy foam cup to my lips, forcing the bitter coffee down and wondering where my attorney was. It was fine, for now. I would find out as much as I could, skirt the obvious traps, and keep my mouth shut. Keeping my mouth shut was a skill I’d perfected a long time ago. It was the gossipers who got in trouble. The braggers. People like Cat Winthorpe, who couldn’t just have the perfect life. She had to throw it in your face with her casual comments, her drip of wealth. Which is why she needed to be punished. You can’t blame me for what happened. I was simply putting her in her place.
“I listened to the call you placed to 9-1-1.” The detective studied me. “It was interesting. At one point, you yawned.”
I shifted in my seat, and the handcuffs clinked together. Twisting my wrist, I tried to find a more comfortable position. I had been hoping the phone hadn’t caught that yawn. It was one of those inescapable ones that sneak up on you right in the middle of a sentence.
“Do you realize the damage that a gunshot through the mouth creates?” She flipped over a glossy image and pushed it forward with a slow and calculated hand. “The bullet passes through an enormous number of blood vessels before piercing the brain and exiting out through the back of the skull.”
I leaned over and looked at the photo without comment, unsurprised to see a large exit hole in the top of the head. Nasty stuff, but I had seen worse. A face bloated, the lips splitting open as the features swelled past recognition. The alarmed look on the face of a man you had once loved, just before he dies. The sound of his begging that still echoes in the dark recesses of my mind.
I set down the cheap coffee. “Do you have a question, or is this just your show-and-tell time?”
The woman paused, the simple gold band on her left hand stilling as she studied my face. “Mrs. Ryder, you don’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation. You are under suspicion of attempted murder.”
I understood the gravity of her situation. That cheap wedding band? Those bags under her eyes? She’d chosen the wrong path. With braces early on and a strict fitness-and-diet routine, she could have done something with her life. Been someone. Put herself in a position to enjoy the finer things in life. I focused in on her face. “Dr. Ryder,” I corrected her.
She smiled, and there was something in that gesture that raised my hackles. I looked toward the wide mirror and studied my reflection, verifying that everything was in place.
My hair, freshly cut and dyed.
My skin, glowing and Botox smooth, despite the horrific lighting in this place.
My body, trim and thin underneath the designer workout gear.
My wedding ring, still in place, the large diamond glittering from my hand like a spotlight.
I had clawed my way to the top of this world, and they couldn’t take me down now. Not with the mountain of lies I’d worked so hard to construct.
“You moved to Palo Alto two years ago, is that correct?” At my silent agreement, she cleared her throat. “So, let’s start there.”
PART 1
MAY
FOUR MONTHS EARLIER
CHAPTER 1
CAT
The first week of May, we held a party. It wasn’t our biggest. There were no aerialists hanging from the great-room beams. We didn’t hire the valets or put up the tents. It was a low-key party, a fundraiser for local performing arts, and one that would double as a going-away party for the flyers.
That’s what I called them: flyers. Every summer, like migrating birds, the members of our community scattered south to apply sunscreen like tourists on boutique cruise ships and private islands. I had just a month and then they’d be leaving me, the group of women currently clustered around me, too concerned with children and cultural experiences to suffer through “another frigid summer” in Atherton.
“When you have kids, you’ll understand,” Perla had once whispered, her hand tapping a metronome beat on my shoulder. “Your life becomes about them, and they want to be in swimsuits, like normal kids.”
When you have kids. Such a cruel thing to say to a fertility-challenged woman. Besides, it was pure crap. No child in Atherton wanted to be normal. Children in Atherton wanted Instagram videos
jumping off yachts in taggable locations like the Greek isles. Our heated pools and chilly San Francisco gloom didn’t impress their classmates when they stepped from chauffeured sedans and returned to Menlo School in the fall.
I had smiled at Perla and wondered if she knew that her seventeen-year-old son was screwing our maid. “I know,” I’d said. “When we have kids, maybe we’ll join you.”
William and I would be “suffering” through the chilly summer with our heated tile floors, indoor and outdoor saunas, hot tubs, and six fireplaces. We’d be fighting off the gloom with day trips to Beverly Hills and weekends in our Hawaii home. And honestly, it was kind of nice to have a break from my friends and their always-present collection of children.
“I’m telling you,” Johanna drawled, eyeing a passing waiter with a look of longing. “Puerto Rico is where we’re buying next. A four percent tax rate? Think of how much we’d save.”
“Have you been to Puerto Rico?” I asked, following my husband’s path as he moved through the entrance hall, his head bent toward the older man beside him. “For an island, the views suck. If I’m moving that far away, I need a beach and a view.”
She shrugged. “We could buy an island off one year’s tax savings. That’s worth dealing with a subpar view. Plus, think of the cultural impact on Stewie and Jane. They could learn the language. Interact with the locals. See how struggling families live.”
Jane had received a boob job for her sixteenth birthday. The last time I saw her, she was sagging under the weight of a dozen shopping bags with a cell phone stuck to her ear, climbing into the passenger seat of an exotic car. I hadn’t seen Stewie in over a year but had heard of his expulsion from Menlo and rumors of an exclusive drug-rehab center that Johanna was touting as a study abroad.
“Forget Puerto Rico,” Mallory chimed in, one of her diamond chandelier earrings caught in her hair. “The home next to us in Cabo is going up for sale. One of you needs to buy it.” Her chin swung to me, and she raised a delicate, dark brow. “Cat? Come on. You could use a summer away.”
There was a general murmur of agreement among the women, and I laughed, carefully reaching forward and untangling her earring. “Not going to happen. I love my pasty-white skin. Plus, William can’t leave the office for a week, much less three months.”
Kelly tossed her arm around my neck. “You guys forget. Cat’s got Eskimo blood. Anyway, do you blame the woman? William’s keeping her warm.”
The conversation turned to my husband, their tones quieting as they criticized his work ethic while groaning over his good looks.
I leaned my head against Kelly’s shoulder and sighed. “You know you’re the only one I’ll miss,” I whispered, and it was true. Kelly—though she had the requisite +2 children Atherton admired—was the only one who displayed any sensitivity to my fertility woes. As an added bonus, she had been the only wife to welcome me to Atherton, sans snobby judgment. It had been a kindness I had never forgotten.
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said out of the corner of her bright-red mouth.
I smiled and straightened, half-heartedly participating in the conversation as I looked out over the party. It was the normal mix of familiar faces atop glittery gowns, the men’s tuxedos evenly mixed in with the colors. While I hadn’t personally met every guest, it was a small town, and we women had formed our own exclusive circle, one that centered around the Menlo country club and branched out.
A waiter bent to deliver a drink, and I watched as a monogrammed napkin fluttered from his tray to the dark wood floor. Excusing myself from the group, I moved toward the fallen item, checking on details as I went. Caviar buffet, stocked. The band was halfway through their set, the soft blues pairing well with the clink of champagne flutes and laughter. I was pleased to see that the great room wasn’t crowded, guests evenly dispersed between our home’s indoor and outdoor spaces.
“Cat!” A statuesque older woman approached, her gold gown brushing the floor as she reached out with both hands and fiercely gripped my shoulders. “I never had a chance to thank you for the donation to our new rehab clinic.”
I smiled at Madeline Sharp, one of the largest donors to tonight’s event and the chairwoman of a New York City charity for drug addicts. “I’ll pass on the thanks to William. It was his doing, not mine.”
“Oh!” She shushed me. “We all know who’s really holding the purse strings, dear. Men wouldn’t know where their shoes went if we weren’t there to point to their feet.”
I laughed, the visual so false in regard to my highly capable husband, one who had led covert operations in Afghanistan, managed his firm with cutthroat efficiency, and would go barefoot out of spite rather than take instructions on his footwear. Still, she was right about the purse strings. William hadn’t been aware of the six-figure donation. While my husband had many distractions on his time, our money—and how I spent it—wasn’t one of those.
“You’ll have to come to the clinic once it’s done,” she urged me. “We’re heading there for the summer. It’ll be set up by fall!”
Another bird, this one flying east. I felt a moment of presummer blues, our full life always a little lonely once our jeweled town vacated. Just as quickly, I reminded myself of the positives. Peace and quiet. Time for just William and me to focus on our marriage and refortify our bond. We always left each summer stronger. Closer.
We are a team, he once said to me. Summer is our season.
“Maybe we can make it to the opening.”
“Absolutely, you must. Now, I’ve got to go find my husband.” Madeline leaned forward and placed a baby powder–soft kiss on my cheek. I smiled, clasping her in a hug, then watched her leave.
“Crab cake, Mrs. Winthorpe?”
I glanced to my right and nodded at the waiter, taking a miniature creation off the silver tray and placing the petite stack on my tongue. I crushed the delicate layers of crab and crust in my mouth, the key-lime sauce playing nicely with the flavors, and watched as a couple moved through the arched opening of the east balcony.
At first glance, they fit in well. An attractive blonde, paired with a balding and stocky husband. Late thirties, though the blonde was trying hard to hide the fourth decade. As I watched them weave through the crowd, the minor details emerged. Her dress, an off-the-rack number that could be found at a discount retailer, if an aspiring woman hunted hard enough. His cheap watch, the rubber band sticking out from the sleeves of a tuxedo that looked rented. I returned my attention to her, watching as she wound through my party, her eyes scanning over the room, her husband trailing obediently behind.
I moved through the crowd, keeping her in my sights, and mentally clicked through the guests I had invited. Everyone on the exclusive list was a well-known Winthorpe Foundation donor or board member. I stopped next to one of the butlers and gave a subtle nod toward the couple, who had stopped beside our Picasso and were admiring the painting. “Franklin, who is that couple by the staircase? The woman in the blue dress?”
He nodded with a pleasant smile, his eyes never roving over to the area, his professionalism impeccable. “That’s Matthew and Neena Ryder, Mrs. Winthorpe.”
My gaze sharpened. “They weren’t on the list.”
“I believe they are guests of your husband.”
Well, that was interesting. I nodded with a grateful smile. “Wonderful. Thank you for the information.”
“Absolutely, Mrs. Winthorpe. It’s my pleasure. May I get you a glass of champagne? Or perhaps something from the cellar?”
“No.” I stepped away, anxious to find William.
“Mr. Winthorpe is on the veranda.”
I paused and met his gaze. “Thank you, Franklin.” I made a mental note to pad his tip appropriately.
I was a few steps onto the veranda when a hand curled around my waist, pulling me back. I turned and melted into William’s side.
“Hey,” he said softly, a grin tugging at his lips as he looked down at me.
Devastating
ly handsome. That was how my mother first described him, and it was apt. I held him at bay for a moment, examining his strong arrangement of features, then pressed my lips against his, enjoying the protective way his hand tightened on the small of my bare back.
“The silent auction is going well.” He nodded to the balcony, where long glass tables displayed two dozen different items. As I watched, a woman in a beaded gown and a massive emerald ring bent forward and picked up a pen. I had spent the past month soliciting items for the auction, which ranged from an Alaskan spa getaway to a Menlo country club initiation fee.
“Franklin said you added a couple to the guest list.” I ran my hand through his short dark hair, then tugged gently on a thick tuft of it.
He nodded. “Our new hire at the company. Dr. Ryder and her husband.”
How incredibly sexist of me to assume that Dr. Ryder had been a man. I remembered William’s mention of a new employee, some sort of motivational coach for his staff. We’d been at dinner, and I’d been distracted by an odd taste to the pâté and had barely paid attention to his enthusiastic mention of the doctor who he believed would solve the morale issue at Winthorpe Technologies.
Money would solve the morale issue. The team had spent four years on a new medical device that could replace pacemakers; pass through metal detectors; and reduce allergic reactions, infections, and surgery complications by more than half. The team’s profit sharing and bonus structures were tied into the successful launch of the product, which had already dragged eighteen months past expectations. Everyone was tired and frustrated. We’d lost our top technician last month, and there was a general feeling of dissension among the ranks.
William was über-intelligent, decisive, and charming. He was also a cutthroat workaholic who valued money over personnel and demanded perfectionism without excuses. Leading a team had never been his forte, and I feared that Winthorpe Tech’s staff was close to mutiny.
“Here she is now. Neena,” he said warmly, and in that smile, you’d never think that he had kept the team working on Christmas or cut bonuses as punishment for a failed FDA trial. “This is my wife, Catherine.”