Chapter 1

On my sixtieth birthday, I discovered my husband, Norman Riley, and his first love, Alison Barry, dead, naked in a car.

They had died of carbon monoxide poisoning, having forgotten to turn off the engine while having sex.

I called my son, Simon Riley, in tears, but he snapped at me for making a fuss. "Dad and Alison were just old friends, Mom. Can you please stop?"

I clutched the phone, staring at the two naked bodies in the car, as tears streamed down my face.

Simon hung up and went to attend to his delicate wife, who claimed she had "heart discomfort."

Everyone assumed I was just a wealthy wife who could do nothing but cry.

Then the will was read: Norman had left me all his shares in the billion-dollar conglomerate.

Simon only got seven percent, and he flew into a rage on the spot. "You're an old lady who can't even read a financial report. What makes you deserve this?"

I wiped away my tears, sat down in the chairman's seat that had once belonged to Norman, and smiled at Simon.

I said, "Simon, let this be your first lesson: never underestimate a woman."

*****

I clutched my phone, my fingertips numb with cold, my voice shaking like the last leaf barely clinging to a branch in late autumn.

"Simon, your dad and Alison got poisoned in the car. Can you come right now? I'm really scared," I said.

Tears slid down my cheeks, soaking into my expensive cashmere shawl and leaving dark stains behind.

The night was as thick as ink, and the garage lights were dim and hazy. Through the half-open window of the black Bentley, I could see two naked bodies entwined together.

Simon's voice came through the phone, full of undisguised annoyance. "Mom, are you starting this again?

"Dad and Alison are just old friends reminiscing. Do you have to be so suspicious all the time?"

I choked back sobs, my vision blurred with tears as I peered into the car. Norman's face was pressed against the steering wheel; Alison slumped over him.

Both of them were naked, their skin appearing ghostly pale and bluish in the dim light.

I said, "But they're not moving. The engine's still—"

"Celeste's heart was acting up, so I just dropped her off at the hospital," Simon cut me off, his tone impatient.

He said, "Mom, if you're really worried, call an ambulance. Stop calling me back just to put on your melodrama."

The line went dead.

The busy signal echoed in the silent garage, harsh and piercing.

I slowly put down my phone, wiped the tears from my face, and felt my expression turn icy.

I walked over to the car, bent down, and took a closer look. Norman's lips were turning blue, and Alison was still breathing, her breaths shallow and faint.

They had had carbon monoxide poisoning.

It was a garage in winter, a sealed space, with the engine left running and the heating cranked all the way up.

What a textbook accident.

I pulled out my phone and called the ambulance. My voice was still trembling. I even stammered a couple of times on purpose when giving the address.

After hanging up, I didn't leave right away. Instead, I stood by the car, quietly watching the two childhood sweethearts.

Norman was sixty-two, kept himself in good shape, and still stood tall. Alison was sixty and still carried herself with grace.

There were fine lines at the corners of her eyes, but her skin was flawless. There was a haunting beauty to her nakedness.

They sure picked the perfect place.

Of all days, they chose my birthday.

On the day, my son gave me a three-minute birthday call, then rushed off to his wife.

I leaned in close to the window, my voice soft as a sigh.

I said, "Norman, if you really die like this...

"With our billion-dollar fortune, how long would it take for someone like me, a spoiled lady who just drinks coffee, arranges flowers, and does charity, to spend it all?

"I'm really worried I won't ever finish spending it all."

Not surprisingly, there was no response from inside the car. Norman's fingers gave a slight twitch, then fell utterly still.

The ambulance arrived quickly.

I composed myself, and by the time the paramedics burst in, I was sprawled on the cold garage floor. My shawl was a mess, my makeup half ruined, and I was crying so hard.

I wailed, "Please, save my husband... save him..."

Forty years of practice, and I could act like this in my sleep.