“Just packing my things, sweetheart,” I called back cheerfully. I did not even bother to look up from my glowing laptop screen, where I was actively reviewing the extensive insurance fraud documents Patricia had already started aggressively preparing. “You know exactly how incredibly thorough I am when I handle important projects.”
He paused, shifting his weight outside the door. “About what you said earlier downstairs… those specific names you mentioned…”
“Oh, that?” I laughed softly, an airy, dismissive sound. “Please do not worry your head about it, Brad. I am completely sure it is absolutely nothing important. Just some funny little coincidences I casually noticed while researching Madison’s background online. You know how utterly paranoid corporate lawyers can be.”
I could practically hear the massive, rushing wave of relief washing over him through the thick bedroom door.
Poor Brad genuinely thought he had dodged a massive bullet, entirely unaware that he was happily standing blindfolded in front of a loaded cannon that simply had not fired yet. The absolute silence in the house was thick and pregnant with anticipation. At exactly 9:20 p.m., my phone vibrated against the mattress with a sharp text message from Victoria. It read, “Social media profiles deleted across all platforms as of 10 minutes ago. Someone’s running scared.”
I smiled into the dim light of the bedroom. Jennifer chimed in a mere five minutes later at 9:25 p.m. Her text was equally satisfying: “Bank accounts showing unusual activity. Large cash withdrawals started an hour ago.”
But Patricia’s swift message at 9:30 p.m. was absolutely my personal favorite of the evening. It popped up with a cheerful little notification sound: “Filed preliminary reports with fraud divisions in three counties. This is going to be fun.”
The real, undeniable entertainment officially started at 9:45 p.m. flat. I heard the distinct crunch of gravel and the low hum of an engine as a car pulled into our long driveway. I casually drifted over to the bedroom window and peeked through the blinds to see Madison’s pristine white BMW, the exact one Michael Harrison was currently paying the lease on, parking directly behind Brad’s dark Mercedes. She practically bounced out of the driver’s seat. She was carrying what looked like heavy brown takeout bags from that absurdly expensive organic place downtown. She was wearing form-fitting yoga pants that probably cost significantly more than most families’ monthly grocery budgets, and she sported a bright, beaming smile that could easily sell ice cubes to freezing penguins.
I quickly grabbed my phone and texted our newly formed syndicate: “The star of our show has officially arrived. Ladies, are you ready for the grand finale?”
Three immediate, viciously eager responses popped onto my screen in rapid succession. “Ready.” “Let’s do this.” “Time to end this charade.” From the first floor, I heard the heavy front door swing open. Madison’s voice immediately echoed up the stairwell, calling out in that breathy, pseudo-mystical tone she had probably spent hours practicing in her bathroom mirror.
“Brad, honey, I brought dinner!” she chirped. “I thought we could celebrate your new freedom with some organic quinoa Buddha bowls!”
Buddha bowls, naturally. Because absolutely nothing says ‘I am actively trying to destroy your marriage and steal your marital assets’ quite like aggressively appropriating Eastern philosophy and serving it up alongside some overpriced, soggy grain salads.
I heard Brad practically tumbling down the hardwood stairs in his desperate rush to greet her. His voice was thick with the exact kind of panicked, guilty enthusiasm of a toddler caught with both hands deep in the cookie jar, desperately trying to convince his mother he was just checking to see if the chocolate chips were still fresh. “Madison, I explicitly told you to wait until tomorrow! Harper’s still… she’s still here!”
“Oh, please do not even worry about that,” came Madison’s overly confident, soothing reply. “After tomorrow, this will all be completely behind us. We can finally start fresh in our beautiful new home.”
Our beautiful new home. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of this woman was almost admirable. Almost. I calmly closed my laptop, smoothing down the lapels of my tailored courtroom blazer, and checked my reflection in the full-length mirror one last time.
It was officially time to go downstairs and personally introduce Madison to the harsh, unforgiving concept of consequences. But first, I typed out one final, crucial text message to my new favorite group chat: “Showtime, ladies. Hope you’re recording this.”
I descended those wooden stairs feeling exactly like I was striding into a packed courtroom where I already knew the jury’s verdict. Madison and Brad were standing in the center of the kitchen. Her slender arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, and she was gazing adoringly at our expensive granite countertops, likely mentally picking out new paint colors. The brown takeout containers were spread messily across the kitchen island. She had even taken the liberty of lighting some candles, which were, ironically, the incredibly expensive artisanal ones I had bought myself from a little boutique over in Greenwich.
“Well, well,” I announced, my voice slicing right through their nauseating romantic bubble like a newly sharpened chef’s knife through warm butter. “Madison Rivers, or should I perhaps say… Melissa Rodriguez?”
The physical effect of those two names was instantaneous and absolutely delicious to witness. Madison’s perfectly bronzed face rapidly cycled through more color changes than a broken traffic light having a nervous breakdown. Brad, meanwhile, stood frozen, looking exactly like someone had just calmly informed him his entire retirement portfolio had been aggressively invested in Monopoly money.
“Harper, what on earth are you talking about?” Brad stammered, his eyes darting back and forth. But Madison had gone completely rigid. Her arms dropped away from his waist in a flash, backing up like she had just tragically realized she was hugging a live rattlesnake.
“Oh, I strongly suspect that Madison knows exactly what I am talking about,” I purred, casually pulling my cell phone from my pocket and setting it face-up on the granite counter. “In fact, I would be willing to bet serious money that she is frantically checking her text messages right about now. She is probably wondering why David Peterson’s wife, Michael Harrison’s wife, and Jennifer Mitchell’s wife have all been desperately trying to reach her phone for the past hour.”
Madison’s designer purse had been vibrating incessantly on the stool, but suddenly, the cell phone inside it seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. She stared at the leather bag like it might detonate at any given second. Considering the circumstances, that assumption was not entirely far off the mark.
“I do not know what kind of twisted game you are playing here, Harper,” she managed to say. However, her voice had completely lost that airy, mystical quality, deflating faster than a punctured tire on the highway. “Brad warned me you might try to cause some trouble.”
“Trouble?” I let out a sharp, genuine laugh that echoed violently against the kitchen tiles. “Oh, honey. I have not even started causing trouble yet. That little introduction was merely the opening act.”