Читать книгу The Last Mrs Parrish: An addictive psychological thriller with a shocking twist! - Liv Constantine, Liv Constantine - Страница 10

Amber opened the bottle of Josh she’d been saving. It was pathetic that she had to ration a twelve-dollar cabernet, but her measly salary at the real estate office barely covered the rent here. Before moving to Connecticut, she’d done her research and chosen her target, Jackson Parrish, and that’s how she ended up in Bishops Harbor. Sure, she could have rented in a neighboring town for much less, but living here meant she had many opportunities to accidentally run into Daphne Parrish, plus access to all the fabulous town amenities. And she loved being so close to New York.

A smile spread across Amber’s face. She thought back to the time she’d researched Jackson Parrish, googling his name for hours after she read an article on the international development company he’d founded. Her breath had caught when his picture filled the screen. With thick black hair, full lips, and cobalt-blue eyes, he could have easily been on the big screen. She’d clicked on an interview in Forbes magazine that featured him and how he built his Fortune 500 company. The next link—an article in Vanity Fair—wrote about his marriage to the beautiful Daphne, ten years younger than he. Amber had gazed at the picture of their two adorable children, taken on the beach in front of a gray-and-white clapboard mansion. She’d looked up everything she could about the Parrishes, and when she read about Julie’s Smile, the foundation founded by Daphne and dedicated to raising money for cystic fibrosis, the idea came to her. The first step in the plan that developed in her mind was to move to Bishops Harbor.

When she thought back to the small-time marriage she’d tried to engineer back in Missouri, it made her want to laugh. That had ended very badly, but she wouldn’t make the same mistakes this time.

Now she picked up her wineglass and lifted it in salute to her reflection in the microwave oven. “To Amber.” Taking a long sip, she rested the glass on the counter.

Opening her laptop, she typed “Meredith Stanton Connecticut” into the search bar and the page filled up with link after link about Meredith’s personal and philanthropic efforts. Meredith Bell Stanton was a daughter of the Bell family, who raised Thoroughbred racehorses. According to the articles, riding was her passion. She rode horses, showed horses, hunted, jumped, and did anything else you could do with horses. Amber wasn’t surprised. Meredith had “horsewoman” written all over her.

Amber stared at a photograph of Meredith and her husband, Randolph H. Stanton III, at a charity event in New York. She decided old Randolph looked like he had a yardstick up his ass. But she guessed banking was a pretty dry business. The only good thing about it was the money, and it looked like the Stantons had piles of it.

Next, she searched for Bunny Nichols, but didn’t find as much. The fourth wife of March Nichols, a prominent New York attorney with a reputation for ruthlessness, Bunny looked eerily similar to the second and third wives. Amber guessed that blond party girls were interchangeable to him. One article described Bunny as a “former model.” That was a laugh. She looked more like a former stripper.

She took a last sip from her glass, corked the bottle, and logged onto Facebook under one of her fake profiles. She pulled up the one profile that she checked every night, scanning for new photos and any status updates. Her eyes narrowed at a picture of a little boy holding a lunch box in one hand and that rich bitch’s hand in the other—“First day at St. Andrew’s Academy” and the insipid comment “Mommy’s not ready,” with a sad-face emoji. St. Andrew’s, the school back home she had yearned to attend. She wanted to type her own comment: Mommy and Daddy are lying skanks. But instead she slammed the laptop shut.