The Marriage Lie: Shockingly twisty, destined to become the most talked about psychological thriller in 2018!

Everyone has secrets...

Iris and Will have been married for seven years, and life is as close to perfect as it can be. But on the morning Will flies out for a business trip to Florida, Iris’s happy world comes to an abrupt halt: another plane headed for Seattle has crashed into a field, killing everyone on board and, according to the airline, Will was one of the passengers.

Grief stricken and confused, Iris is convinced it all must be a huge misunderstanding. Why did Will lie about where he was going? And what else has he lied about? As Iris sets off on a desperate quest to uncover what her husband was keeping from her, the answers she finds shock her to her very core.

Praise for the novels of Kimberly Belle

“Taut and briskly told, The Marriage Lie is a smart mystery that takes readers on a wild ride. Fans of domestic suspense will adore Kimberly Belle.”

—Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl and Don’t You Cry

“The Marriage Lie is the definition of a page-turner. Every chapter ends perfectly hooked, every emotion is laid bare to experience along with Iris. We feelevery one of Will’s carefully crafted lies. We don’t know who to trust, who to root for, who is dangerous, and the effect is dizzying. A pulse-pounding good book.”

—Kate Moretti, New York Times bestselling author of The Vanishing Year

“Unimaginable loss leads to shocking revelations in this suspenseful, layered and emotionally gripping novel. Belle steers a twisting course that will have readers breathlessly turning the pages.”

—Sophie Littlefield, bestselling author of The Guilty One

“Mesmerizing. . .An excellent study of human nature that explores what makes people ‘tick,’ squints at the blurring of lines between good and bad, crime and human nature. A beautifully written, perfectly populated, edge-of-your-seat story, The Marriage Lie is not to be missed!”

—Susan Crawford, author of The Pocket Wife

“The Last Breath will leave you breathless. This edgy and emotional thriller will keep you guessing until the very end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Heather Gudenkauf

“Powerful and complex with an intensity drawn out through each page, The Last Breath is a story of forgiveness and betrayal and one I couldn’t put down!”

—New York Times bestselling author Steena Holmes

“Belle’s a smooth writer whose characters are vibrant and truly reflect the area where the novel is set.”

—Kirkus Reviews on The Last Breath

“Belle’s engaging debut brings the reader into [an] emotionally tangled world.”

—Booklist on The Last Breath

KIMBERLY BELLE is the author of The Last Breath, The Ones We Trust and The Marriage Lie. She holds a bachelor of arts degree from Agnes Scott College and has worked in fund-raising for nonprofits at home and abroad. She divides her time between Atlanta and Amsterdam.

This one’s for Kristy Barrett, bee-autiful inside and out.

Acknowledgments

Writing is a solitary venture, but this book wouldn’t exist without the following folks.

My literary agent, Nikki Terpilowski, who never sugarcoats what needs to be fixed in the manuscript but says it in words that make me smile. Thank you for always being in my corner.

My editor, Liz Stein, for loving this story and taking it on as your own. Your brilliance and tenacity helped shape The Marriage Lie into what it is today. And to all the hardworking and dedicated people behind the scenes at MIRA Books, I’m blessed to be on your team.

Laura Drake, critique partner extraordinaire, and early readers Koreen Myers, Colleen Oakley and Alexandra Ratcliff. Andrea Peskind Katz, you were right. You are an excellent beta reader, and you volunteered yourself right to the top of my list.

Scott Masterson, whose voice I heard in my head whenever Evan spoke. Thanks for answering my silly questions and for feeding me one of Evan’s best lines.

The fabulous ladies of Altitude, my early readers and cheerleaders: Nancy Davis, Marquette Dreesch, Angelique Kilkelly, Jen Robinson, Amanda Sapra and Tracy Willoughby. Seeing you girls is the best day of the month.

My parents, Diane and Bob Maleski, for their never-ending encouragement and thoughtful feedback. I hope this one makes you proud.

And lastly, my very favorite people on the planet. Isabella, you are a master at coming up with plot twists. Are you sure you don’t want to be a writer? Ewoud and Evan, thank you for your patience and encouragement, and sorry about all the takeout. You three have my heart.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Reader’s Guide

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with the Author

Extract

Copyright

1

I awaken when a hand winds around my waist, pulling me head to heel against skin heated from sleep. I sigh and settle into my husband’s familiar form, fitting my backside into his front, soaking in his warmth. Will is a furnace when he sleeps, and I’ve always got some place on me that’s cold. This morning it’s my feet, and I wedge them between two warm calves.

“Your toes are freezing.” His voice rumbles in the darkened room, the sounds vibrating through me. On the other side of our bedroom curtains it’s not quite morning, that violet-tinged moment between night and day, still a good half hour or so before the alarm. “Were they hanging off the side of the bed or something?”

It’s barely April, and March hasn’t quite loosened its icy hold. For the past three days, leaden skies have been dumping rain, and a frigid wind has plummeted temperatures far below average. Meteorologists predict at least another week of this shivering, and Will is the only soul in Atlanta who welcomes the cold by throwing the windows wide. His internal thermostat is always set to blazing.

“It’s because you insist on sleeping in an igloo. I think all my extremities have frostbite.”

“Come here.” His fingers glide up my side, his hand pulling me even closer. “Let’s get you warm, then.”

We lie here for a while in comfortable silence, his arm snug around my middle, his chin in the crook of my shoulder. Will is sticky and damp from sleep, but I don’t care. These are the moments that I cherish the most, moments when our hearts and breaths are in sync. Moments as intimate as making love.

“You are my very favorite person on the planet,” he murmurs in my ear, and I smile. These are the words we’ve chosen instead of the more standard I love you, and to me they mean so much more. Every time they roll off his tongue they hit me like a promise. I like you the most, and I always will.

“You’re my very favorite person, too.”

My girlfriends assure me this won’t last forever, this connection I feel with my own husband. Any day now, they tell me, familiarity will fizzle my fire, and I will suddenly start noticing other men. I will stain my cheeks and gloss my lips for nameless, faceless strangers who are not my husband, and I will imagine them touching me in places only a husband should have access to. The seven-year itch, my girlfriends call it, and I can barely imagine such a thing, because today—seven years and a day—Will’s hand glides across my skin, and the only itch I feel is for him.

My eyelids flutter closed, his touch stirring up a tingling that says I’ll likely be late for work.

“Iris?” he whispers.

“Hmm?”

“I forgot to change the filters on the air conditioner.”

I open my eyes. “What?”

“I said, I forgot to change the filters on the air conditioner.”

I laugh. “That’s what I thought you said.” Will is a brilliant computer scientist with ADD tendencies, and his brain is so crammed with facts and information that he’s always forgetting the little things...just usually not during sex. I attribute it to an unusually busy time at work combined with the fact he’s leaving for a three-day conference in Florida, so his to-do list today is longer than usual. “You can do it this weekend when you’re back.”

“What if it gets warm before then?”

“It’s not supposed to. And even if it does, surely the filters can wait a couple of days.”

“And your car could probably use an oil change. When’s the last time you took it in?”

“I don’t know.”

Will and I split our household duties neatly down gender lines. The cars and house upkeep are his department, the cooking and cleaning are mine. Neither of us much minds the division of labor. College taught me to be a feminist, but marriage has taught me to be practical. Making lasagna is so much more pleasant than cleaning the gutters.

“Check the maintenance receipts, will you? They’re in the glove box.”

“Fine. But what’s with all the sudden chores? Are you bored with me already?”

I feel what I know is Will’s grin sliding up the back of my head. “Maybe this is what all the pregnancy books mean by nesting.”

Joy flares in my chest at the reminder of what we are doing—what we’ve maybe already done—and I twist around to face him. “I can’t be pregnant yet. We’ve only officially been trying for less than twenty-four hours.”

Once last night before dinner, and twice after. Maybe we went a bit overboard in our first official baby-making session, but in our defense, it was our anniversary, and Will’s a classic overachiever.

His eyes gleam with self-satisfaction. If there were space between our bodies for him to beat himself on the chest, he’d probably do it. “I’m pretty sure my guys are strong swimmers. You’re probably pregnant already.”

“Doubtful,” I say, even though his words make me more than a little giddy. Will is the practical one in this relationship, the one who keeps a steady head in the face of my Labrador-like optimism. I don’t tell him I’ve already done the math. I’ve already made a study of my cycle, counting out the days since my last period, charting it on an app on my phone, and Will is right. I could very well be pregnant already. “Most people give wool or copper for their seventh anniversary. You gave me sperm.”

He smiles but in a nervous way, that look he gets when he did something he maybe shouldn’t have. “It’s not the only thing.”

“Will...”

Last year, at his insistence, we sank all our savings and a significant chunk of our monthly income into a mortgage that would essentially make us house poor. But, oh, what a house it is. Our dream house, a three-bedroom Victorian on a quiet street in Inman Park, with a wide front porch and original woodwork throughout. We walked through the door, and Will had to have it, even if it meant half the rooms would be empty for the foreseeable future. This was to be a no-present anniversary.

“I know, I know, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to buy you something special. Something so you’ll always remember this moment, when we were still just us two.” He twists around, flicks on the lamp, pulls a small, red box from the drawer in the bedside table and offers it to me with a shy grin. “Happy anniversary.”

Even I know Cartier when I see it. There’s not a speck of dust in that store that doesn’t cost more than we can afford. When I don’t move to open it, Will flips the snap with a thumb and pulls the lid open to reveal three linked bands, one of them glittering with rows and rows of tiny diamonds.

“It’s a trinity ring. Pink for love, yellow for fidelity and white for friendship. I liked the symbolism of three—you, me and baby-to-be.” I blink back tears, and Will lifts my chin with a finger, bringing my gaze to his. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”

I run a finger over the bright white stones, sparkling against red leather. The truth is, Will couldn’t have chosen a better piece. The ring is simple, sophisticated, stunning. Exactly what I would pick out for myself, if we had all the money in the world to spend, which we don’t.

And yet I want this ring so much more than I should—not because it’s beautiful or expensive, but because Will put so much thought into picking it out for me.

“I love it, but...” I shake my head. “It’s too much. We can’t afford it.”

“It’s not too much. Not for the mother of my future baby.” He tugs the ring from the box, slides it up my finger. It’s cool and heavy and fits perfectly, hugging the skin below my knuckle like it was made for my hand. “Give me a little girl who looks just like you.”

My gaze roams over the planes and angles of my husband’s face, picking out all my favorite parts. The thin scar that slashes through his left eyebrow. That bump at the bridge of his nose. His broad, square jaw and thick, kissable lips. His eyes are sleepy and his hair is mussed and his chin is scratchy with stubble. Of all his habits and moods, of all the sides of him I’ve come to know, I love him most when he’s like he is now: sweet, softhearted, rumpled.

I smile at him through my tears. “What if it’s a boy?”

“Then we’ll keep going until I get my girl.” He follows this up with a kiss, a long, lingering press of his lips to mine. “Do you like the ring?”

“I love it.” I wind my arm up and around his neck, the diamonds winking above his shoulder. “It’s perfect, and so are you.”

He grins. “Maybe we should get in one more practice run before I go, just in case.”

“Your flight leaves in three hours.”

But his lips are already kissing a trail down my neck, his hand already sliding lower and lower still. “So?”

“So it’s raining. Traffic’s going to be a bitch.”

He rolls me onto my back, pinning my body to the bed with his. “Then we better hurry.”

2

Tuition at Lake Forrest Academy, the exclusive K–12 in a leafy suburb of Atlanta where I work as school counselor, is a whopping $24,435 per year. Assuming for a five percent inflation, thirteen years in these hallowed halls will cost you more than four hundred grand per child, and that’s before they step even one foot on a college campus. Our students are the sons and daughters of surgeons and CEOs, of bankers and entrepreneurs, of syndicated news anchors and professional athletes. They are a privileged and elite tribe, and the most fucked-up group of kids you could ever imagine.

I push through the double doors at a little past ten—a good two hours late, thanks to Will’s not-so-quickie and a nail in my tire on the way—and head down the carpeted hallway. The building is quiet, the kind of quiet it can be only when the students are in class huddled behind their brand-new MacBooks. I’ve arrived in the middle of third period, so no need to rush.

When I come around the corner, I’m not all that surprised to find a couple of juniors gathered in the hallway outside my office door, their heads bent over their electronics. The students know I have an open-door policy, and they use it often.

And then more come out of the classroom across the hall, their voices rising in excitement, and the alarm I hear in them sticks my soles to the carpet. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you guys in class?”

Ben Wheeler looks up from his iPhone. “A plane just crashed. They’re saying it took off from Hartsfield.”

Terror clutches my chest, and my heart stops. I steady myself on a locker. “What plane? Where?”

He lifts a scrawny shoulder. “Details are sketchy.”

I shove through the cluster of students and leap behind my desk, reaching with shaking hands for my mouse. “Come on, come on,” I whisper, jiggling my computer out of its deep-sleep hibernation. My mind spins with what I can remember of Will’s flight details. He’s been in the air for over thirty minutes by now, likely roaring somewhere near the Florida border. Surely—surely—the crashed plane can’t be the one with him on it. I mean, what are the odds? Thousands of planes take off from the Atlanta airport every day, and they don’t just fall from the sky. Surely everybody got off safely.

“Mrs. Griffith, are you okay?” Ava, a wispy sophomore, says from my doorway, and her words barely cleave through the roaring in my ears.

After an eternity, my internet browser loads, and I type the address for CNN with stiff and clumsy fingers. And then I pray. Please, God, please, don’t let it be Will’s.

The images that fill my screen a few seconds later are horrifying. Jagged chunks of a plane ripped apart by explosion, a charred field dotted with smoking debris. The worst kind of crash, the kind where no one survives.

“Those poor people,” Ava whispers from right above my head.

Nausea rises, burning the back of my throat, and I scroll down until I see the flight details. Liberty Airlines Flight 23. Air bursts out of me in a loud whoosh, and relief turns my bones to slush.

Ava drapes a tentative hand across my shoulder blades. “Mrs. Griffith, what’s wrong? What can I do?”

“I’m fine.” The words come out half formed and breathless, like my lungs still haven’t gotten the memo. I know I should feel sick for Flight 23’s passengers and their families, for those poor people blown to bits above a Missouri cornfield, for their families and friends who are finding out like I did, on social media and these awful pictures on their screens, but instead I feel only relief. Relief rushes through me like a Valium, strong and swift and sublime. “It wasn’t Will’s plane.”

“Who’s Will?”

I brush both hands over my cheeks and try to breathe away the panic, but it fights to stay close. “My husband.” My fingers are still shaking, my heart still racing, no matter how many times I tell myself it wasn’t Will’s plane. “He’s on his way to Orlando.”

Her eyes go wide. “You thought your husband was on that plane? Jeez, no wonder you just melted down.”

“I didn’t melt down, I just...” I press a palm to my chest, haul a deep, cleansing breath. “For the record, my reaction was not out of proportion to the situation. Tremendous fear like the kind I experienced produces a sharp spike in adrenaline, and the body responds. But I’m fine now. I’ll be fine.”

Talking about it out loud, putting my physiological response into scientific terms, loosens something in my chest, and the throbbing in my head slows to an occasional thud. Thank God, it wasn’t Will’s plane.

“Hey, I’m not judging. I’ve seen your husband. Totally smoking.” She tosses her backpack onto the floor, sinks into the corner chair and crosses legs that are far too bare for uniform regulations. Like every other girl in this school, Ava rolls her skirt waistband until the hemline reaches hooker heights. Her gaze dips to my right hand, still pressed to my pounding chest. “Nice ring, by the way. New?”

I drop my hand onto my lap. Of course Ava would notice the ring. She probably knows exactly what it costs, too. I ignore the compliment, focusing instead on the first half of her reply. “When have you seen my husband?”

“On your Facebook page.” She grins. “If I woke up next to him every morning, I’d be late to work, too.”

I give her a reprimanding look. “As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, shouldn’t you be getting back to class?”

Her pretty pink lips curl into a grimace. Even frowning, Ava is a gorgeous girl. Painfully, hauntingly beautiful. Big blue eyes. Peaches-and-cream skin. Long, shiny auburn curls. She’s smart, too, and wickedly funny when she wants to be. She could have any boy in this school...and she has. Ava is not picky, and if I’m to believe Twitter, she’s an easy conquest.

“I’m skipping lit,” she says, spitting out the words in a tone usually reserved for toddlers.

I give her my psychologist’s smile, friendly and nonjudgmental. “Why?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Because I’m avoiding any enclosed spaces where Charlotte Wilbanks and I have to breathe the same air. She hates me, and let me assure you, the feeling is mutual.”

“Why do you think she hates you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. Former best friends, Charlotte and Ava’s feud is long and well documented. Whatever sparked their hatred all those years ago is by now long forgotten, buried under a million offensive and tasteless Tweets that take “mean girl” to a whole new level. According to what I saw fly by in yesterday’s feed, their latest tiff revolves around their classmate Adam Nightingale, son of country music legend Toby Nightingale. This past weekend, pictures surfaced of Ava and Adam canoodling at a neighborhood juice bar.

“Who the hell knows? Because I’m prettier, I guess.” She picks at her perfect nail polish, a bright yellow gel that looks like it was painted on yesterday.

Like most of the kids in this school, Ava’s parents give her everything her heart could ever desire. A brand-new convertible, first-class trips to exotic locations, a Platinum Amex card and their blessing. But showering their daughter with gifts is not the same as giving her attention, and if they were the ones sitting across from me, I’d encourage them to set a better example. Ava’s mother is an Atlanta socialite with the remarkable ability to look the other way every time Ava’s father, a plastic surgeon touted around town as “The Breast Guy,” is caught groping a girl half his age, which is often.

My education has taught me to see nature and nurture as equal propositions, but my job has taught me nurture wins out every time. Especially when it’s lacking. The more messed up the parents, the more messed up the kid. It’s really that simple.

But I also believe that everyone, even the worst parents and the most maladjusted kids, has a redeeming quality. Ava’s is because she can’t help herself. Her parents have made her to be this way.

“I’m sure if you give it a bit more thought, you could come up with a better reason why Charlotte might be—”

“Knock, knock.” The head of the upper school, Ted Rawlings, fills up my doorway. Long and lanky and with a crown of tight, dark curls, Ted reminds me of a standard poodle, one who’s serious about pretty much everything except his ties. He must have hundreds of the hideous things, always school-themed and always ridiculous, but on him somehow they only look charming. Today’s version is a bright yellow polyester covered in physics equations. “I take it you’ve heard about the plane crash.”