Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes you scraped away the top layer of a prick, and underneath was just more of the same. I was only twenty minutes into Edward and I could foresee a seven-layer dip of selfishness and conceit. His secretary of seven years had been practically cheerful at her boss’s demise. Either she was an asshole or he was.

  My phone rang while I was scrolling through Edward’s LinkedIn profile. I hit the button on the steering wheel and put the call through the Fiat’s speakers. “Hey.”

  “Nora Price died,” Sam said, jumping straight to the point. I winced at my best friend’s news.

  “No,” I groaned. “How?”

  “Apparently she had cancer. No one knew.”

  Shit. Nora was easily the most famous Black comedian in the world and had never failed to make me laugh out loud with her quick wit and sharp humor.

  Two years ago, before Griswell Axe supposedly committed suicide—a death and obituary that led to my demotion and police record—I would have already been on the phone with Nora’s publicist. The Times would have had me on a first-class flight to New York to meet with her wife and children, pen in hand, ready to properly chronicle her life.

  “Are you there?” Sam’s smooth voice deepened with concern. The man could have been a phone-sex operator. I’d told him that the night I met him, at an open-mic performance at a comedy club. He had paused for a beat, then told me we were going to be best friends. I’d laughed it off, but he’d been right. Sam was always right, either by wisdom or forced design. It was one of his most annoying traits.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Just . . . caught off guard. I really loved her.”

  “Look, I’m headed to a showing in Calabasas, but wanted to see if you were down to hit happy hour later? Oyster House?”

  “Yes,” I said immediately, my gaze darting to the car’s dash clock. “When?”

  “Five?”

  “I’ll see you there.” I ended the call and pulled up the obituary order for my afternoon appointment. It was for Taylor Fortwood, a middle-aged woman who died in a car accident earlier that week. It was a paid obituary, hence the family interview, which was scheduled for one thirty. I weighed traffic at this hour, then fastened my seat belt.

  Nora Price. It was crazy, how quickly someone could be gone. No one would miss Edward Schwartz, but there would be memorial events, foundations, and nationwide mourning over the five-foot-two comedy icon. I pushed her out of my mind and pulled up Twitter, adding a hint for my followers, who had already decided that the maintenance man was definitely a goner.

  @themysteryofdeath: Hint: with more money often comes more problems.

  That clue was a bit obvious for them, but hey. The stress of perfectionism could be deadly.

  CHAPTER 7

  LILLIAN

  It’s important to examine why you are trying to uncover their cheating. Is it to solve and heal problems in your relationship? Or are you setting them up for justification for your own mistakes? —Chapter 4, How to Catch a Cheating Spouse

  In Los Angeles, coffee shops were the dating pools—singles edging around each other in line, sending bedroom eyes across small tables in crowded cafés, and sucking seductively on vapes in the shade of a palm on Hollywood Boulevard. Because of that, I typically walked into a shop on a mission, my shoulders steeled in defense, a permanent hell no stamped across my forehead to ward off men and the occasional panhandler.

  “One venti pumpkin spice latte, with almond milk and two Splendas.” Voice crisp yet kind.

  Card swiped.

  Tip added: 25 percent.

  Coffee collected.

  Seat captured.

  Headphones on.

  Laptop out.

  Fingers furious against the keys.

  I wasn’t a particularly attractive woman. But in Los Angeles, you had to wear armor or you were devoured, and your armor was either that of the huntress or that of the hunted (me). Nice women in between got eaten.

  The recently divorced (and deceased) Taylor Fortwood was a huntress, one with six boyfriends (according to her sister) and a two-story living room that could hold my entire house. I had perched on her fabulous red leather couch, sipped a pineapple chai latte served by her butler (yes, a butler), and flipped through a photo album that showed the successful calendar buyer on dream vacations and at celebrity encounters, and lounging with snow leopards alongside two sheiks and a Bentley. Taylor hadn’t been much prettier than me, but she had brimmed with confidence and life, the energy radiating out of every photo and each perfectly chosen piece in her home.

  Even her death—a simple blown tire that had led to a fishtail that had careened into oncoming traffic and resulted in a fourteen-car pileup—had been dramatic and impactful. When I died, it’d probably be from an infected toenail, and my obituary writer would struggle to fill the requisite three paragraphs.

  As Matchbox Twenty crooned through my headphones—Taylor had toured with them in Germany her sophomore year of college—I reviewed my rough draft of her write-up, which was already pushing six paragraphs, and that was highlighting only the most exciting moments of her life.

  Thirty-seven years old. Two years younger than me, yet a million times more interesting. I saved the draft and closed the laptop with a sigh. Slipping the headphones off my head, I took a long sip of my room-temperature coffee.

  It was a moment of vulnerability, heightened by a glance around the shop to see what I had missed. And there, sitting just one table over, was David.

  If he had been beautiful, I probably wouldn’t have fallen. I would have snapped my gaze back to my table, forced my face into cool disinterest, and worked my headphones over my ears. But David wasn’t beautiful, at least not in the manner that graced magazine covers and cologne ads. He was thin and scruffy, his chin and jaw covered by a wild beard that curled over his lips and matched the tufts of hair that peeked out from the sides of his baseball hat. He wore tortoiseshell glasses and a white T-shirt with board shorts. I stared at the shorts and wondered what grown man wore a bathing suit on a Thursday.

  “They come in women’s sizes, if you’re interested.”

  I lifted my gaze to his face and blushed. “I’m not interested, thanks.”

  “Oh, the bitter sting of rejection.” He cupped his hand to his chest, wounded.

  “I have a feeling your shorts will recover.” Why was I still talking? I should have been standing up to gather my trash and put away my laptop. I made a conscious move to lift the green coffee cup with my left hand, clearly exposing the diamond wedding band. Would he notice? Did he even care? Maybe this was just friendly conversation between two adults. I was too out of practice to know.

  “I haven’t seen you here before.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He was a few years younger than me. Maybe thirty-five. Maybe as young as thirty-two. His voice held an accent, and my ears played detective with the sounds of it.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, you wouldn’t have. I’m not normally in the area. I’m traveling through on business.”

  On business. I warmed to the unexpected lie. But what business? Maybe he wouldn’t ask. And anyway, wasn’t I leaving? I should have been leaving. Stand up, Lillian. Stand up right now.

  “Ah, business.” He gestured to the computer. “Let me guess. Insurance sales.”

  “That’s a very specific guess, but no.” Shit. I needed a business, and my mind grasped wildly at straws.

  “Divorce attorney?”

  My good mood sank, and I fought to keep the smile on my face. “Not even close.” I grabbed my crumpled napkin and stirrer and he groaned.

  “No, don’t do the clean-up-your-table thing. Please. If I don’t get it right on the next guess, then I promise that you can leave.” French, definitely a French accent.

  I laughed despite myself. “You’re not going to get it.” And how could he? I didn’t even know it.

  “Is it bigger than a bread box?”

  “What?” I laughed again, and I was being too loud. Two tables over, a teenager shot me an annoyed expression and rattled her bracelets.

  “Twenty questions. It’s a game. I ask you twenty questions about an item, and if I don’t figure out the answer, then I lose. The bread-box question is fairly standard,” he explained, “though the game is normally not about a job.”

  “I’m a calendar buyer.” I don’t know why, of all the possible lies, that one came out—except that Taylor Fortwood was still heavy on my mind, and I was still amazed at the idea that selecting calendars for stores to stock was a real job.

  He paused, then gave me a rueful look that admitted defeat. “Well. I would have needed more than twenty questions for that.”

  “I know. I hate to set someone up for failure.” Okay, Lillian. Stand up. You have your trash, your cup in hand. Stand, slide your laptop into your bag, and go. You’ve been friendly; now it’s time to leave.

  “I’m David.” He extended his hand.

  I hesitated, then slid my palm into his. “Taylor.”

  And just like that, my fake life began.

  Some women careened into deception with reckless disregard, but I slid, on my bottom, slowly down the hill, bumping along and using my feet to stop myself if I started to get out of control. That first day, it was just an introduction and a simple lie about my name and occupation. David went his way, and I went mine, and no one was harmed in the transgression. It was my butt hitting the grass, my legs jutting out and pointing down the hill, my mind deciding whether I wanted to push forward and begin my descent.

  It was nice, having someone smile at me. Pay attention to me. Laugh at my witty remarks.

  It was nice, wearing the skin of another woman, even if I was the only one who knew of her intricacies.

  Maybe that was what my husband was keeping from me. A search for another life more exciting than our own.

  CHAPTER 8

  LILLIAN

  Two hours later, I held my purse over my head and jogged through the Oyster House parking lot, cursing at the rain, which increased in ferocity as I got closer to the double doors.

  I escaped into the interior and shook the rain off my bag, looking for Sam. The Oyster House was a tetanus-worthy dump with a sliver of a beach view. Their draw was in their cheap gulf oysters and ice-cold beer served in frozen mugs. I moved through the crowded tables and spotted Sam at a booth by the bathrooms. I was late, but he was used to that. He considered tardiness a sign of disrespect but always delivered the criticism with a smile.

  “Hello, my love.” I bent over to receive his standard kiss on each cheek. “Sorry for being late. You know. Traffic.” I waved a hand in the general direction of the 405.

  “No worries—it’s given me a chance to scope out the local talent.”

  “Any hot surfers?” I asked and stole a sip of his beer.

  “No, just suits and tourists.”

  Sam, who had a weakness for shirtless and sandy athletes, was on a yearlong dry spell. I’d been supportive. I’d played matchmaker. I’d analyzed dating profiles and social media messages and listened to a dozen bad-date recaps, which had been entertaining but dismal. Another reason to hang on to my neurotic yet stable husband, even if he was hiding something from me. As chapter 2 had pointed out, it might not be a woman; it might be a gambling debt or drug habit. It was pathetic that I was almost hoping for those—though my husband, a man who had read the owner’s manual on our new microwave before using it, would never gamble or use drugs. Sadly, he was above such weak activities.

  A woman, though . . . Was he above that? According to my new book, affairs were often more than just carnal need. They were about receiving attention or fighting insecurity. Which . . . after twenty minutes of quasi-flirting with the man in the coffee shop, I could almost understand. The attention of a strange man was intoxicating. I kept thinking about the way his eyes had been pinned on mine, as if he couldn’t wait to hear the next thing I said.

  I tried to refocus. “You act like you couldn’t be with a suit. Trust me, there’s nothing wrong with bedding someone with a high attention to detail.”

  He raised a brow. “Says the woman whose husband hasn’t tapped her calculator in . . . months?”

  “Easy,” I said sharply and gave him a warning glare.

  “Sorry.” He raised his hands in surrender and stepped into the one subject I really didn’t want to talk about. “How is your other half?”

  “Umm . . .” I looked around for a waiter. “Not great. I mean, Mike seems fine. But like you said”—I reluctantly met his eyes—“he’s been distant. It’s like there’s a wall between us and I can’t figure out what it’s made of.”

  He winced. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Have you given any more thought to—”

  “Don’t say it,” I warned. “Please. That was a weak moment, fueled by Jäger.” While tucked into Sam’s side at our Fourth of July barbecue, I’d shared that I was thinking of leaving Mike. We’d been alone in the living room, the rest of the party outside by the firepit, and I had been feeling uncharacteristically emotional and irritated by Mike, who had spent most of the evening chatting up our buxom new neighbor—a conversation he’d sworn was only in the interest of securing a new client.

  “Maybe the Jäger was telling you something.”

  Telling me to leave my husband? Not likely. I shook my head. “No. I just . . .” I thought of Taylor Fortwood. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d chosen a different path in life.”

  One without a husband and child. God, the words were so horrible. Could he hear me thinking them? I reached out and grabbed his arm, hoping to distract him from the last thing I’d said. “Tell me I’m crazy, please.”

  “You’re not crazy.” He leaned forward and gave me the same slightly crooked grin that had carried me through the last five years. “You’re normal. I know you don’t want to hear it, Lill, but you’re one hundred percent normal.”

  I returned his smile, but inside, a part of me cracked in dismay. Normal. How incredibly boring.

  CHAPTER 9

  LILLIAN

  @themysteryofdeath: A wealthy woman, an anxiety-ridden teen, and an elderly man get stuck in an elevator together. Three months later, one of them will be dead. Who will die?

  I parted ways with Sam at six thirty, avoided most of the traffic, and was at home by seven, in my pajamas by eight. Mike was working late, and Jacob was parked with his homework at the dining room table. I poured a glass of wine and escaped into the cramped utility room that housed our washer and dryer.

  We’d purchased this house during the market crash, when Jacob was a toddler and Mike had an insurance settlement check from a car accident that had permanently damaged the sight in his right eye. Over the last fifteen years, we’d renovated the kitchen and master suite. This room was next on the to-do list—only we’d been saying that for six years, and I was still using a shuddering old machine and stacking clothes on a rusty hot-water heater.

  Taking a generous sip of wine, I checked my tweet, curious whether anyone would get the sly reference to a Saturday Night Live skit that Nora Price had been in three months ago. So far, it was going completely over their heads.

  I raised the washer lid and pulled clothes from the hamper, checking pockets and then pushing them into the opening. My yoga pants went in, followed by two golf shirts, Mike’s pajama pants, and some underwear. As I went through the pockets of his khaki pants, I tried to justify the business card that I’d withdrawn from the back pocket of my pale-blue skinny jeans just fifteen minutes ago, before I put them in this basket. David Laurent’s card, which he had passed on “just in case” I ever needed anything.

  I had accepted it out of sheer politeness, planning to toss it into the trash as soon as I got out of eyeshot. Except that I hadn’t.

  It wasn’t too late. Right now, I could go upstairs, withdraw it from the pajama drawer I had hidden it in, and throw it away.

  In the front pockets of Mike’s khakis, I found a five-dollar bill, a receipt, and some change. Dropping the collection on top of the dryer, I tossed the pants into the washer and dug deeper into the basket.

  The next pair of pants had nothing, and I pushed them in, then unscrewed the top of the detergent bottle. Pouring in the measured amount, I thought of the obituary I would be writing for Nora Price if my prior station in life were restored.

  The comedian deserved something witty, a sharp dissection of the life of a sister, daughter, and Saturday Night Live regular. It needed to be both celebratory and mourning, a mini-memoir of her journey and the funny and influential moments that had marked her forty-nine years.

  Whatever. I shouldn’t care. It was out of my hands, and the obit was no doubt assigned to Janice, who would craft the important tribute with the care and skill of a toddler with a fat scented marker.

  I added a capful of softener, then dropped the lid closed. As I turned to leave, my gaze caught on the crumpled receipt next to the five-dollar bill, both still sitting on top of the dryer.

  Gain access to his bank records, phone records, and find a way to track his movements.

  I had made it to chapter 3 of the book, which focused on how to properly spy on your spouse. While it all seemed fairly obvious, most of the suggestions were impossible for me. I had spent our eighteen-year marriage oblivious to everything Mike did. He had his bank accounts; I had mine. He had a company cell phone; Jacob and I shared a family plan. I had tried, unsuccessfully, to log in to his bank account using our anniversary, his common pass codes, and the last four of his social but crapped out. What I did have was our joint credit card statements, but those had been pristine.

  I grabbed the receipt and uncrumpled it, both hopeful and fearful that it would incriminate him in some way.

  It was from a steak house in Malibu. Two filets mignons. One bottle of wine. Dessert. I sucked in a breath at the dollar amount at the bottom of the receipt. We hadn’t spent that much on dinner in years. Only on special occasions, if that. Mike was tightfisted, and I was always happy with a salad and a glass of house wine. I checked the date. Tuesday night, at 7:32 p.m. I fished my cell phone from the pocket of my flannel pajama pants and did an internet search for the restaurant. It was small and upscale, with views of the ocean and attached to a boutique hotel. The exterior view of the hotel was familiar to me—I’d passed it whenever I felt like driving the forty-five minutes to Sam’s ritzy area of town.