Nora Holliday is not that kind of woman. Not the kind who has an illicit affair with a married man. But Josh Landon is everything Nora's alcoholic husband isn't. And now she and Josh are so infatuated, they can't stay away from one another.
Abby Landon, Josh's daughter, is home from college nursing a broken heart. She's seeking solace, not more scandal, so when she catches her dad kissing Nora, she vows to take the homewrecker down.
And as for Abby's mother and Josh's wife, Gwen? To anyone on the outside looking in, the mother of two appears to be living the ideal suburban life.
Until she winds up dead.
The serene seaside town of Shoreham has always been the perfect place to raise a family--not somewhere housewives are brutally murdered. So who killed Gwen Landon, and how many twisted secrets will be exposed as the vindictive plot comes undone?
The Last Affair, Margot Hunt
Prologue
Other than the woman’s
blood-covered body splayed facedown in the grass, it could have been any
typical upscale Floridian backyard.
There was the ubiquitous
pool with a water fountain feature, a patio furnished with both a dining set
and outdoor sectional couch, and an enormous gas grill capable of cooking
hamburgers by the dozen. A large pergola with a tropical vine trained over it
covered part of the patio. The dining area was shaded by a
black-and-white-striped awning. It was the very picture of suburban domestic
bliss. It could have been the set for a commercial advertising anything from
laundry detergent to allergy medicine.
Again, except for the
dead body.
The area had already
been taped off. The first officers on the scene appeared with an ambulance in
response to a frantic 911 call placed by the woman’s daughter. The paramedics
had assessed the situation, and quickly determined that the woman was dead. The
fact that the back of her head had been bashed in with what looked like a
paving stone, conveniently dropped next to her prone body, made it immediately
clear that it had not been a natural death. The responding officers called the
sheriff, who responded by sending in a full investigative team. The medical examiner
was now doing a preliminary examination of the body, while police officers
combed the area for additional evidence. Two detectives, Mike Monroe and Gavin
Reddick—separated by twenty years and sixty pounds—were overseeing the
operation, standing at the edge of the patio under the shade of the pergola. It
was the third week in April, but this was South Florida and the temperature had
already climbed into the low nineties.
“The paving stone came
from the stack out in the front yard. They were delivered last week by the
company who’s installing the driveway,” Detective Reddick said. He was the
younger of the two men and had a wiry frame and angular face.
“Weapon of convenience.
Suggests it wasn’t premeditated,” Detective Monroe said. He had a ruddy
complexion and a full head of thick dark hair, swept back off his face. A
strand never moved out of place, even in a strong wind.
“Plus he dropped the
weapon, rather than taking it with him. Probably panicked.”
“Could be a she,” Monroe
said mildly.
Reddick shrugged. “Blunt
force trauma to the back of the head? You know the stats. Overwhelming
likelihood that it’s a man, and probably someone the victim was intimately
involved with. Husband, maybe a boyfriend.”
“The husband was with
the daughter when she called it in.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t
do it, and then had her place the call.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
The family had been
sequestered indoors, both to keep them out of the way, and so that the officers
waiting in the house with them could observe anything they did or said. Other
than the husband, there was a daughter in her early twenties and a teenage son.
The daughter was reportedly distraught, while the husband and son had both been
eerily quiet. It was possible they were in shock.
“Do we have an ID on the
victim?” Reddick asked.
“It’s her house,” Monroe
grunted.
“Yeah, but I like doing
things the official way, you know? I’s dotted, t’s crossed, all of that.
Building a case, basic detective work.”
Despite the chilling
scene in front of them—the woman’s body still sprawled on the grass, the back
of her head a pulpy, bloody mess—the corner of Monroe’s mouth quirked up in a
half smile. “Sure, kid, tell me all about basic detective work. I’ve only been
doing this for, what…thirty-two years now? The husband ID’d her. Victim is Gwen
Landon, age forty-nine. Married, mother of two. Husband said she hasn’t had any
recent conflict with anyone.”
“Other than the person
who caved in the back of her head with a paving stone,” Reddick pointed out.
“Wouldn’t be the first
time a husband didn’t know his wife as well as he thought he did.”
“Possible. But there’s
another possibility, too.”
“What’s that?”
Reddick turned to look
at his partner. His eyes were small and dark, and he had a habit of squinting
when he concentrated intently on something.
“The husband is a liar,”
Reddick said.
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