Never Trust the Husband is out today!
... whether my husband likes the title or not. Also, my daughter adores the title and has stated she will be writing the sequel: "Never Trust the Wife" 🤣
I can hardly believe it! My book is out TODAY! (scroll down for a sneak peek of the first couple chapters!!!)
You can get it in ebook (instantly accessible!), paperback (either from Amazon or signed copies from my local indie), as well as an amazingly done audiobook!
(this photo happened with the help of bribes in the form of salmon dog treats, please don’t be fooled—my dogs are adorable, but they also know how to get what they want in exchange for cuteness)
This is a book inspired by lonely, dark runs in San Antonio in the midst of Covid. The only time I escaped mom-duties was to run early in the morning, before the sun came up . There was a rather posh neighborhood I loved most--the streets were smooth, and the houses were unique, fun to look at as I passed the miles.
But I also realized lots of people were up early, their lights blazing. The human eye is drawn to light, and though I tried not to, I couldn't help but glance inside. It was amazing (and disturbing) how much people "put on display" by leaving their curtains open, their blinds up, then turning their lights on brightly. It made me wonder about a character who would do this purposefully. Wander those dark streets and stare in another's home. And why, why would she do that?
Here’s the blurb for what the book ended up being about:
Benjamin and Gwyn look like the perfect couple. But I know all of Benjamin’s secrets. I know what he did to his first wife…
Sitting at the granite counter cradling my wine, I gaze around the sprawling kitchen of Benjamin and Gwyn’s beautiful Seattle home. I watch as Benjamin crosses the room and enfolds Gwyn in his strong arms. They share a gentle kiss. What a genius actor he is—even better than me.
She wears a simple ruby-red dress, her large, too-flashy engagement ring catching the light. She’s totally at home here, but I know another woman used to live in this house.
Madeline chose that wallpaper, she used to hang her silk dresses in the huge closet down the hall. The official story is that she disappeared, but I know the truth. They killed her.
Her husband and her best friend. Benjamin always wanted her money. Gwyn always wanted to be her. They’re both such good liars. But so am I.
I wonder what they’re thinking. I bet I’m the only one thinking of revenge…
Madeline didn’t get her happily ever after. And neither will they.
And finally, here is a sneak peek!
Prologue
Madeline
Four Years Ago
The sky is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. Darker than it is in the city, darker than any destination I’ve visited on vacation. Our little group is utterly isolated so far from civilization.
Any other time in my life, I’d find that frightening. But crawling from the tent—taking one last look back at Benji—my husband, my gosh, I have a husband—I don’t mind. It’s romantic. And besides, I trust everyone here. Well, mostly.
Grass and rocks crunch beneath my shoes as I step out into the cold night, and my gaze catches on two other tents pitched not far from ours. I’m here with the people who matter most. The people who love me—my husband, Benji. My best friend, Gwyn. All of our close friends.
So why was I so sure one of them had it out for me? That secrets tore their way through these precious relationships.
Bracing mountain air rushes up the side of the nearby cliff, and I hug my jacket tighter, trying to push away the thoughts.
It’s paranoia, that’s all. And out here, what’s there to fear?
Though the sky is dark, a sliver of a moon and a smattering of stars mean I can see where the tree line is.
Bears are out there. Mountain lions, too.
I hesitate—maybe I shouldn’t leave the tent. Maybe I should stay safe beside Benji, safe within our little camp. But my camera strap weighs heavy over one shoulder. I have something I want to do.
I turn away from the tent and back to the cliff, climbing the rocky surface toward the edge. I’m going to capture the perfect image to surprise Benji. I’ll blow it up, frame it, and it can go on the wall above the hearth in our front room. It’ll take some time to get the photo—a time-lapse image does—but the result will be incredible.
Behind me, a noise like scurrying, and I glance back, but it must be the wind, the trees. Maybe the marmot we saw earlier. I try to let go of my nerves and enjoy the Milky Way overhead.
I go about setting up my tripod, my camera, selecting the settings for the time lapse. When it’s ready, I hit the button and step away to gaze out at Seattle, far beyond the mountains—a mirage of golden lights glowing in the distance.
I’ll get this photo then return to my tent. I’ll snuggle back into my sleeping bag beside Benji, and in the morning, my best friends will emerge from their tents, and we’ll eat breakfast and drink coffee together and reminisce. I twirl the two rings on my left hand, and a smile grows on my face, staring out at the universe. I’m a lucky girl.
Another breeze sweeps my hair over my shoulders and rustles the branches of the trees. In the midst of it, a footstep—the crunch of rock under boot, and I swing around, adrenaline soaring, heart thumping, not sure whether Benji followed me out here or it’s a mountain lion—
But before I can see anything, a hand lands between my shoulder blades. Suddenly, I’m not on solid ground. I’m flying—flying forward, over the cliff, and before I can do anything to save myself, grim realization cuts through the panicked gasp wrenched from my throat.
One of them did have it out for me. I’m not so lucky.
And now, I’m going to die.
Chapter One
Rebecca
Now
I prefer not to be called a voyeur, and definitely not a peeping tom. Call me an observer, a regular woman who happens to enjoy running after the sun has set, leaving my Seattle neighborhood in the cover of dark.
It’s not as though I get off on what I see. I can’t help that the human eye is drawn to light, that my neighbors leave their curtains wide open, their lights on, practically turning their home into a stage for passersby to watch the show.
A bracing wind flutters my ponytail, and I hold back a shiver as I lock my front door. Clouds roll in overhead, making the night darker if possible, insulating the Puget Sound against cooler temperatures. It will rain, which is hardly surprising given it’s Seattle, but that’s fine—the rain means fewer people out to see me.
Besides, I like the rain. I’ve missed it.
I scan the road one way, then the other. No neighbors out. No headlight beams flashing my way. Complete darkness. I stroll across, clenching my hands inside my shirtsleeves. Somewhere, a metallic drip-drip-drip as water drops onto steel. A pine tree brushes over my shoulder as I step onto the sidewalk, the needles dampening my shirt, the scent of the tree filling my nose with one thing—home.
It’s the perfect night for a run, and I break into a slow pace.
As I move from one neighborhood to another, televisions flicker over monotonous expressions of the home’s inhabitants. Cell phones are personal spotlights, illuminating smiles and expressions of boredom alike. They watch a screen—and I watch them, creating stories inside my head of who they are, what we might talk about if they were my friends, my family.
But only one house and one person gets me to halt my run.
His voice, husky and warm, carries through the night, and my shivers go away when I hear it. I ease along a fence line and press my face to a hole in the wood—he’s lit up by outdoor hanging bulbs, plus a bonfire licking over the top of logs inside a steel basin. The fire illuminates a stubbled jaw, then flickers over his eyes, which I know are a deep brown, bright with laughter as he holds one end of a thick rope—and his German shepherd mix holds the other end. They’re locked in a game of tug-of-war, the dog setting into her haunches, yanking back, Chris’s laughter booming as he lets the dog win. Despite the cold, that laughter warms me.
I suck cool air into my lungs, and the scent of the wood fire comes with it.
I close my eyes and step into an alternate version of reality. If Chris were truly a part of my life, I’d be there with him. I’d sit on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, drinking a beer around the fire while he threw a ball for the dog—Izzy, I’d heard him call her—and he’d turn and lean in, and we’d kiss, and the dog would be back, jealous for attention. We’d laugh.
I stand here for at least ten minutes, imagining it, watching him.
The problem with Chris is I know that’s his real name, unlike other neighbors I make up stories for. Because I see him regularly in real life, though I make sure he doesn’t see me. Which makes this a far more dangerous game. A game I can’t afford to play.
I step away from the fence and sweep down the alley, not letting myself fantasize about Chris anymore. I have somewhere to be.
My goal is another house, one I’ve yet to observe, but am all too familiar with.
Your house, Madeline.
The familiar streets open before me—the one with new houses and almost no trees, sprinklers hissing on as I pace by, because someone forgot to shut them off in the winter months.
A left turn, then a right, along a trail system that dips into a wooded park. The gentle sweep of my shoes over damp pavement. A murmur of branches overhead with the breeze. The trail detours to another neighborhood, and this one is older, nicer, a mix of Victorians and fancy glass-walled modern homes. A new scent washes over me—the scent of sea, of saltwater and the tang of seaweed and fish. These homes back up to the Puget Sound, facing west, the ideal view for the silky clouds and brilliant colors of sunset. Longing fills my veins, and I pause to soak it all in. To remember how things used to be, back when life was good…
But the past is gone.
This was once your neighborhood, where your husband still resides, where his new fiancée has moved in, where I’m drawn to, like a creature caught on a fishing line, reeled in against her will. But I’m done fighting. Now, I’m swimming with the current.
I may have mixed feelings about the person you were, Maddy. But you didn’t deserve what they did to you. I won’t stop until I find out what happened.
I halt beneath a tree and run a hand over my body, my face, re-memorizing my new features. Your death was no accident. If I’m going to find out who tossed you over the side of a mountain cliff to your death, they need to believe I’m someone they’ve never met. A complete stranger. Someone they can trust.
It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t cheap. But I did what I had to in order to become someone new.
“Rebecca.” I whisper my new name out loud. I touch my new face. My new body, with weight added, some of it muscle. My new hair is straight and sleek instead of wavy down my back. Everything has changed. And yet, returning to Seattle, it feels like nothing has. Will I turn this corner and see your home, and will you appear in the doorway as if nothing ever happened?
No. You won’t.
I’m not delusional. Just… yearning.
Another hundred feet to the corner, and I take it at a slow jog. Not long ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead running. The idea of strapping on a bra to hold my breasts down—putting anti-chafe cream in places I don’t like to think about—but I’ve taken a liking to the exercise. The act of motion. The miles go by fast when something is on your mind.
Plotting revenge is all-consuming like that.
Breathe, Rebecca, breathe.
And then I’m on your street. My stomach rolls, and I slow to walk the last block in the shadow of a fence line. No cars parked on roadsides here—it would be against homeowners’ association rules—and so they are tucked into garages, or second driveways around the back, or even an alleyway. No, the road is wide and clear, and even in the dimness of 9:22 p.m., this neighborhood is perfection. At least, it pretends to be.
Your house appears in front of me. A broad sweep of lawn and a white mansion beyond. A row of tall, rounded windows. Columns supporting an eave. And no Madeline. Because you’re gone. My chest feels heavy as I take breaths and come to a stop. I can’t think of you right now. If I do, I’ll spiral. I’ll think of how you should have known better, how you should have read the signs and left him before the wedding.
And now, your grieving husband has asked your grieving best friend to marry him.
Only three words sufficed: What the fuck?
And I knew then, it was time. The scars had healed. I’d become Rebecca. One—or both of them—are guilty. I suspect your husband. It’s always the husband, after all. But first, I’ll make sure. Gwyn wasn’t such a good friend to you, either.
I can’t change what happened to you, Madeline—but I can do something about it.
Thanks everyone for all your support these past couple of years as I’ve gone from wanna be author to published author! I really appreciate it. I hope you love Never Trust the Husband! - Jessica
PS, don’t forget, I’ll be in Olympia, WA this coming Saturday (3/9/24) at Browsers Bookshop doing a signing/Q&A/enjoying wine! at 4pm.
I am so excited to start this book!! I pre ordered it in Jan!! I love your books. I usually read in one day!! Your fabulous!!