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Marguerite Hill: Thank you.
Defense: But I found it interesting, reading your work under the current circumstances—specifically, the murder trial happening as we speak. Are there not several themes in your work about women taking what’s theirs, especially when it comes to men in a position of power?
Marguerite Hill: I suppose. But how does that relate to killing someone?
Defense: Let me read an excerpt to you, Ms. Hill. This comes from page 48 of Take Charge: “Ladies, I urge you to take what is yours, no matter the cost. It’s your right—your duty—to stand up for yourselves. By whatever means necessary.”
Marguerite Hill: So? I stand by my words.
Defense: So what if a woman read this and took it a little too literally? What if she thought that when you said “by whatever means necessary,” it included murder?
Marguerite Hill: That’s her problem, because that’s preposterous. That’s not how I intended it in the slightest. I don’t even have a clue how one might interpret it in that light.
Defense: What if that is what you meant, Ms. Hill? I’m not convinced you’re telling us the truth. Is your name Marguerite Hill?
Marguerite Hill: Of course it is.
Defense: Has it always been Marguerite Hill?
Marguerite Hill: I changed my last name to Hill when I got married. I kept the name after we divorced because I’d already used it on my work. My ex-husband and I are on friendly terms, so I didn’t care about changing it back.
Defense: What about before that?
Marguerite Hill: Before what?
Defense: Ms. Hill, as it turns out, your name was Katherine Bonaparte on your birth certificate.
Marguerite Hill: But how did you…
Defense: Look, Ms. Hill. I’m sorry for what happened to you as a child. The crimes against you were unspeakable and awful. But it’s time to be honest with the court. Please explain to the jury who you are, where you come from, and why you changed your name.
NINETEEN
Six Months Before
August 2018
Penny watched as Marguerite Hill flitted around the elaborate ballroom, a small posse flocking along beside her. Among her troupe walked Roman Tate.
It hadn’t been difficult to Google the event list for the Pelican Hotel and find out that Roman’s wife was throwing a party for Marguerite’s new book. Penny was still trying to puzzle out Roman’s reason for inviting her here. If he’d wanted to explain why he’d kissed her—among other things—wouldn’t it have been more prudent to go somewhere alone, just the two of them? Somewhere—anywhere—his wife wasn’t?
To Penny, it felt like she was a carrot being dangled just under Eliza’s nose. Was this all a big game to Roman? Was Penny his midlife crisis—a back-alley affair that would flash-bang bright, then fizzle to blackness when he returned to his wife and groveled for an apology?
Penny wasn’t going to stick around for any of that. She refused to be the other woman. So why had she come at all? Why hadn’t she ignored Roman’s email or sent him a giant fuck-you message back?
Because she was curious, and everyone knew that curiosity killed the cat. Penny wanted to know more; she wanted to know everything. She wanted to see Eliza with her own eyes, know the woman whose husband she had kissed. She wanted to see Marguerite Hill in person, her beloved guru, and hear from her lips that everything would be okay. That Penny’s life wasn’t over, that she could still take charge and move on from the messy trails she’d left behind.
And lastly, she was curious to hear Roman’s explanation. Would he be up-front with her? Would he lie? Would he tell her it had all been a mistake, and could she please keep their little interludes secret?
Nursing a vodka martini and chomping on one of the blue cheese– stuffed olives that came speared as decorative flair, Penny watched the smartly dressed group arrive at the party and slowly disperse. A few members of the group made their way over to the bar while others spread throughout the room in search of conversation with other attendees.
Penny fingered her H&M steal, biting her lip as Roman helped Marguerite out of her coat. The jacket was a shimmery pink thing that was entirely unnecessary in southern California temperatures, but it was stylish nonetheless and likely expensive. The guest of honor deserved to dress with a little pizzazz.
Penny was fascinated by Marguerite Hill and everything she stood for. Her last book had hit the New York Times list at number ten. She’d been a nobody before her unexpected success, much like Penny herself. Almost overnight, Marguerite had become the newest self-help guru on the continent. And now Penny was standing a stone’s throw from her idol.
There was something about Marguerite—something about the look in her eyes or the way she spoke. Maybe the way she moved or the way her words galloped across the page. Something about her that made Penny shiver. The woman was not to be taken lightly.
As Penny continued to stare over her martini glass, she couldn’t help but observe Roman as he inched closer to Marguerite. Was it Penny’s imagination, or were the two positioned a hair too close together? Maybe it was the little touches that threw Penny off or the way Roman tossed Marguerite’s jacket over his shoulder after she’d shrugged it off.
