Chapter 5
Obviously Deb didn’t kill herself. Under that beautiful, shiny exterior, Deb was the strongest, fiercest person I knew. And I couldn’t get her last words to me out of my mind. He scares me. I’m really scared.
Over the last few weeks of my incarceration, I read everything online I could find about her death.
It was an obsession. I learned that Roy had an alibi—he was with a client at his office at the time of her death—and that Marie, the housekeeper, had found her dead at the bottom of the stairs.
Deb had shot herself, and she’d been dead for hours.
Marie had also been excluded from the list of suspects because it had been her day off and she was with her brother all day.
The security cameras—front and back—hadn’t recorded any activity until Marie came home, hours after the time of death. The case had been ruled as a suicide.
He did it. Dr. Roy Davies had killed my sister. I knew it in every fiber of my being. And the thought that he was living his life, that he’d gotten away with it, filled me with a rage so pure, I felt like I was possessed.
The first thing I did after I got out was change my name legally from Joanne Adams to Jodie Smith. I liked the name Jodie, and it was close enough to Joanne that I figured if I ran into someone from my past—as unlikely as that would be—they’d assume Jodie was a nickname.
The second thing I did was dye my hair blond.
And then, I moved to LA.
I knew what Roy looked like from the wedding photos Deb had sent me, and also because he had been on the Sophia Sanchez Morning Show a handful of times, talking about relationships, which incredibly, and without irony, was his specialty.
I’d wait outside his office, dressed in shabby clothes and a beanie.
I knew where he got his clothes dry-cleaned and that they would deliver his laundry back to him.
I went there, pretending to be his assistant, and managed to wangle his home address out of the nice woman behind the counter.
I went to his house and checked it out from the outside.
It took me five seconds to figure out I’d never get inside without help.
I found out that he would attend the gala for orphaned children at the Hilton because his publisher kept an Instagram page for him, and Roy was going to make a large donation in memory of Deborah.
I found out who was catering for the event and applied for a job as a waitress—servers, they called it.
I’d been doing some waitressing to earn some money so I knew what to do.
Armed with my fake, glowing résumé, I applied for and got the job.
I didn’t spill my tray of oysters Mornay on Roy’s tuxedo accidentally.
I wanted an excuse to give him my number, and all I could think of was to offer to pay for the dry cleaning.
Then I was going to tell him that I was new in town, I was looking for work, and I was an excellent cook and also an excellent cleaner, lawn-mowing person, pool-cleaning person, and dog-walking person, and while my waitressing skills might seem, at first glance, unsatisfactory, I was actually very cheap and would gladly offer my services at half the going rate for those lavish parties Dr. Davies hosted at his incredible house.
It should go without saying that I never entertained the possibility of walking through the front door as Mrs. Roy Davies.
In fact, for a split second that day when we were both crouched on the floor picking up bits of oysters Mornay, I thought I’d messed up.
The way he looked at me, like he couldn’t take his eyes off me…
I was sure he’d recognized me, that Deb had shown him my photo.
“Truly, I’m so very sorry,” I’d said. “Please email or text me the amount and how to reimburse you, and I’ll take care of it immediately.” Then I turned on my heels and went back to the kitchen where I changed out of my uniform into my own clothes and walked out of the building.
I didn’t hear anything from Roy for the next few days. After two weeks had passed, I knew he wouldn’t contact me, and I was trying to figure out my next move when he called and asked me out for a drink that very evening.
That made no sense. Did he want me to reimburse him over a drink?
“But what for?” I blurted.
He sighed into the phone. “Because I want your recipe for oysters Mornay.”
“Really?” And I was about to say, It’s not mine, I was just carrying the tray, when he laughed.
“No. That was a joke.”
“Oh.” I didn’t get the joke but I laughed anyway.
Then he said, “I want to get to know you, and I’m asking you for a drink, on a date if you will, which is something people do when they want to get to know someone better.”
At first, I thought it was a trap, that he’d recognized me. He was setting me up and the police would be there to arrest me, but for what? Spilling oysters Mornay on a tuxedo? Being his dead wife’s sister?
Don’t be silly, I told myself. This was my chance! We’d have a drink, I’d pay him back and convince him to give me a job.
I had to get into that house.
So I said yes. He took me to a French restaurant in West Hollywood where we sipped champagne in a courtyard that looked like the set of a fairy tale.
The Grimms kind, obviously, with a really horrible ending.
Garlands of tiny lights sparkled above our heads, the autumn breeze drifted across the bougainvilleas…
I told him later that was the night I fell in love with him, and I’ll always remember his face in the candlelight, the way his eyes twinkled, the way I had the urge to stab them out with my fork so badly I had to sit on my hands.
I didn’t tell him that part. That should go without saying.
I stayed at his house often, but it was hard to search when he was right there all the time.
I had to find a way to be there alone. He seemed smitten but let’s face it.
He was a famous psychologist, he was rich, he had no children, and he was a widower.
I was poor, more or less homeless, and an ex-con.
Meanwhile, he had hordes of beautiful women pounding on his door.
I had no idea how long our affair would last, but I didn’t have high expectations. So, six weeks after our first date, I told him I was pregnant. He was shocked, but not unhappy.
Another six weeks after that, I became Mrs. Roy Davies.
And I’ve been searching that house ever since, trying to figure out how he killed Deb, and why. There has to be some proof, some shred of evidence that the police missed.
There has to be something to bring him to justice.
Otherwise, I’ll just have to kill him.