NEENA

NEENA

Now

“Blackmail, Dr. Ryder, is a felony. Are you aware of that?”

“I wasn’t blackmailing anyone.” I took a sip of the coffee, then struggled to swallow the burned liquid.

“According to Ned Plymouth, you were. This is a copy of the check that Ned gave to you, and here are text-message transcripts that prove his case.” Detective Cullen slid the pages toward me, rearranging them as if they were place settings on a table. Satisfied with the layout, she pulled her short-bitten nails back.

The damn text messages. I’d always preached at Ned to delete all evidence, advice that he had obviously ignored. Had he also kept the naked photos I’d sent him? The salacious texts detailing my so-called fantasies? I flipped through the pages, half expecting to see them there.

But no, these printouts were all about my leaving. The text where he called me psychotic. The one where I told him I’d slit his throat while he slept. My demand for him to rewrite my recommendation letter and make it better.

The woman tapped on one text message. “I must say, Neena—I think a jury would find these very interesting. These texts paint a different picture than your polished exterior.”

Well, Ned could push a girl into violent territory. I’d like to see this woman fake arousal with Ned’s flabby body on top of her, his sweat dripping onto her face, his ugly mug grinning down at her. It had been exhausting, all my moaning and praise. Exhaustion that had needed compensation, and naive Ned had thought a new salary and an Hermès handbag would be enough.

He’d never even planned on leaving his wife. That’s what he told me, his voice dismissive, his attention back on his computer, our meeting already done in his mind. But I hadn’t seduced Ned Plymouth for an extra six figures a year, and being a long-term mistress had never been part of that plan. I deserved more, and the seven-figure check he’d given me at termination had proved it.

“And then there’s this.” She rearranged her collection of photos until the check with Ned’s angry scrawl glared up at me.

Ah. There it was. A million dollars. Could I have gotten more? Probably. Ten years ago, I would have taken it and run. Left Matt and used that money to start a new life with a wealthy husband. Ten years ago, a million dollars would have been all I needed. Now, it wasn’t enough. William Winthorpe would have given me more. William Winthorpe would have made me queen of Atherton or paid ten times that amount to make me go away.

William Winthorpe had been the right mark, targeted with a well-oiled execution, but I had made the horrible assumption that I was the smartest person in this game.