The Bitter Truth

by Shanora Williams

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

An upstanding political candidate. A determined stalker. A shattering lost weekend. Now, when his worst secret comes calling, how far will one man’s elegant, all-too-devoted wife go to uncover the truth . . . or bury it?

For Jolene “Jo” Baker, the least she can do for her adoring husband, Dominic, is give unwavering support for his North Carolina gubernatorial run. He is not only the love of her life, he's also helping her prove that she's far more than just a pampered trophy wife. With huge crowds showing up at Dominic’s speeches and the polls consistently in his favor, she's never been happier to stand proudly by his side . . .

Until she and Dominic start seeing the same, strangely ominous woman turning up all along the campaign trail. Until their tour starts becoming a nightmare of botched events, crucial missed information, and increasingly dangerous “accidents.” Suddenly Jo can't get any answers from Dominic—or understand why he is acting so paranoid and terrified . . .

What Jo can do is start digging into his past—one she's never really questioned beyond his perfect image and dazzling accomplishments. What results is an alarming series of events that leave her baffled: Good friends turn into enemies, truths are revealed to be lies, and all clues lead back to one secret, shattering weekend that changes Jo’s entire life. With her world splintering into pieces, can Jo risk trying to set things right? Or will hiding the bitter truth by any means necessary destroy her as well?

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Many things can change the course of someone’s life.

A new job.

An eviction notice.

Being diagnosed with a terminal disease.

Life is never as simple as humans believe. We coast along, adapting to new environments, clinging to hope, but we all have our faults that trigger those changes. Our flaws are, ultimately, our downfall, and they are what weigh heavily on Dominic Baker’s mind as he sits in his office.

He listens to his wife Jolene move about in the kitchen, causing dishes to clink and pots to clatter. Prior to him entering his office, the kitchen had been vacant, which meant Jolene must’ve gone for a jog. He should’ve gone with her, but with the campaign for his second term as governor going and elections fast approaching, he was drowning in stress.

They’re due in uptown Raleigh so he can speak to a collective in the park. According to Jim Pilton, his campaign manager, over six hundred people will be attending today. Everyone is anticipating his presence—the well-known, forty-year-old candidate with the brown skin and perfect smile. Everyone has high hopes for Dominic Baker, the man uplifting North Carolina. That’s his slogan, anyway. Uplift North Carolina.

Now, he wishes the campaign wasn’t happening at all. He wishes that four years ago, he hadn’t been selfish and taken the role as governor. He’d have more privacy and much less to lose.

Dominic has always wanted to be in politics, though. It was his dream since high school, and he wasn’t going to let a minor mishap mess that up. He’d gone to college, run for school boards, the Raleigh city council, and was even lieutenant governor of the state prior to becoming official governor. He’d worked hard to build his status, networked with professionals, and the hard work had paid off. But, as with any successful career, there are mistakes that shape us and secrets we long to bury, and Dominic realizes this as he studies the letter on top of his desk.

Written in permanent marker that bleeds through the thin sheet of notebook paper are the words: I KNOW WHAT U DID. WHERE’S BRYNN?

Reading them again causes his heart to slam repeatedly against his ribcage, but not as hard as it had when he’d found the letter wedged between the stack of mail in his mailbox. He’d gone out to check the mail, sifted through the junk and bills, until the folded sheet of paper fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and as he’d read the words, all the loose envelopes scattered from his hands. He felt his chest cave in on itself, his throat coated with something thick and heavy.

He turned rapidly, taking a sweep of the neighborhood, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Suburban houses were off in the distance, fir and elm trees providing privacy . . . and places for anyone to hide. The only car parked on the street was the police cruiser on the other side. One of the officers started to get out of the cruiser and help him with the scattered mail but with a wave, Dominic told him he was fine and proceeded to collect the papers whilst hiding the note.

With shaking hands, he made his way toward the house, gripped the doorknob, and clicked it shut behind him. He waited by the door a moment, out of Jolene’s view, and took several breaths before stuffing the letter into his front pocket. He dropped the rest of the mail on the coffee table and bustled toward his office. That was nearly ten minutes ago, and still, he can’t stop his hands from shaking.

Who sent this? Who would do this? And how the hell do they know about Brynn? His eyes flicker up, and he listens harder for his wife who is still in the kitchen rummaging around and oblivious to his fear.

He snatches open the bottom drawer of his desk, pushing loose papers, packets of gum, mints, and loose cords out of the way until he collects a clunky Nokia flip phone. The phone is dead, so he snatches one of the cords out and plugs it into the nearest outlet. When there is one notch of battery and it powers to life, he calls the only number stored in the contacts, but not before closing his office door as quietly as he can. The last thing he wants is Jolene hearing his conversation.

Dominic clings to the phone, his ear flush against the receiver as it rings and rings until finally, an answer.

“Boaz,” a gravelly voice answers.

“Someone knows,” Dominic whispers.

“Knows what?” Boaz snaps.

“About that night. The girl. The rug.” He tries speaking vaguely—no names, no locations.

“How would someone know?” Boaz counters.

“I got a letter in my mailbox. Handwritten. They know where I live, Boaz. You said you took care of it! Why the hell am I getting anonymous letters?”

“Look, just calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Dominic snaps. “The only people who know about this are you, me, and that cleaner. I know you aren’t stupid enough to tamper with this, and you said you’ve worked with that cleaner for years. Why would he be doing this?”

“It isn’t us, boy. Are you crazy? Look, it’s probably just someone trying to mess with you.”

“You said no one saw us that night.”

“They didn’t.” Boaz pauses. “They couldn’t have.”

“So how . . .” Dominic trails off, drawing in a long breath. He isn’t sure what to say. There are so many questions running through his head, and none of what’s going on right now makes any sense.

“Look, no one can know a thing. I was careful,” Boaz goes on. “I wouldn’t put my life at risk by leaving loose ends.”

Dominic wants to find relief in that, but he can’t. Boaz is meticulous and safe, but that doesn’t mean someone wasn’t watching. The house he was in with Brynn was on a private property and there were so many trees and places for someone to hide. But who could it have been? No one knew where he would be except John, the owner of the house, and he damn sure wasn’t behind this. John had his own secrets that Dominic knew all about, and if he wanted to keep them contained, he was guaranteed to keep his mouth shut.

“I have to go,” Boaz grumbles. “Don’t call this phone again unless it’s life threatening.” With that, Boaz hangs up, and Dominic lowers the phone, hunching against the door.

A lump forms in his throat as he racks his mind for possibilities. Only Dominic and Boaz were there that night. No one else. Not even Jolene knows. He told her he was staying at the Ritz Carlton. He thought he was careful, but clearly, someone was watching. He doesn’t know who, or when, or how. But they were.

I KNOW WHAT U DID. WHERE’S BRYNN?

The words taunt him and suddenly he can’t breathe. He clutches his chest, stumbling toward his chair and slumping in it. He drags in breath after breath, stomach coiling into knots.

In this moment, as the burner phone slips into his lap, Dominic is certain of one thing: the life he built is over if he doesn’t find out who’s doing this.

Red juice spills on the cutting board as I slice the grapefruit with a hum. Turkey sausage sizzles in the pan, and four eggs are boiling. I slice again, locked on the glint of the knife, the handle stiff in my grasp. I relax my grip and sigh.

I have no idea why I’m preparing a meal for my husband. He likely won’t sit down and share it with me. I suppose it has come to this—a loveless marriage where our actions are only a performance. I never wanted it to be this way, and it should show considering I’ve devoted the last eleven years of my life to him. I give him stability. I give him drive. I give him every single part of me, some of which he doesn’t even deserve.

I hear the door of his office click shut and know he’s hiding something. Again. I stop humming and start listening. I hear the murmurs, the mumbling. He has secrets. We all do.

I dump the flesh of the grapefruit into the juicer and watch it blend into a beautiful, pink-red concoction. It isn’t until I’ve poured the juice into two slim glasses that I hear his office door open and Dominic’s footsteps drifting down the hallway. He enters the kitchen, impeccably dressed in a navy-blue suit with an American flag pendant attached to the lapel. The suit is creaseless and clean, courtesy of our local dry cleaner, and the suit is tailored to perfection, molding to his body perfectly.

It was always my father who said for anyone to take you seriously, you must dress the part. When I met Dominic, he wandered around in plain T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. Once he was mine, I invested in his style. I started slowly, with button-down shirts and jeans. I allowed him to keep the sneakers but only to show him that the people we surrounded ourselves with do not wear sneakers every single day, and if there’s one thing I know about my husband, he does not like to be the outcast. Together, we’ve progressed to full suits and designer dress shoes.

I almost sigh. Look at him. So handsome. Sometimes I miss the old us. His hair is cut army short and wavy at the top, his tie neat, as if he’s recently adjusted it. His skin is golden-brown and satiny smooth. In the light of the kitchen, his skin glows and the sun reflects off his light-brown eyes.

There was a time when he’d greet me in the kitchen with that full, perfect smile. He doesn’t smile anymore. Instead, he steps toward the counter to pick up one of the glasses of juice along with three sausage links.

“Rally is today. Will you be there?” he asks after guzzling down some of the juice.

“Of course I will,” I say. “Appearances are everything to you, right?”

He gives me a look, one mixed with confusion and aggravation. He gulps down the remainder of juice then collects his keys from the hook attached to the wall, as well as the folder he’d left on the counter last night containing his speech. I’d written the speech for him several weeks ago. Does he thank me? No.

“Don’t be late, Jo,” he says, leaving the kitchen. When he’s out the front door, I watch him through the kitchen window above the sink. If things are going well today, I know that state troopers are parked at the curb of our house, waiting for the governor’s departure. In the driveway is a running black Tahoe. Dominic climbs in the backseat of the Tahoe and it pulls out of the driveway. Our driveway is built at an arch, so from the kitchen, I can’t see the main road. At the end of the driveway, the land is lined with a knee-height brick wall, green hedges, and a gate that closes us in.

When I can no longer see the truck, I rush out of the kitchen and into Dominic’s office. My husband is hiding something. I don’t know what it is, but it has to be here.

I check the desk for anything new, but it’s all the same. Printed speeches and loose papers. Paperclips, pens, a stapler. I grip the handle of the top right drawer, and nothing is inside but loose stationary. On the top left drawer, it’s crammed with chewing gum and sunflower seeds, his vice when he wants to avoid drinking. When he has events, he aims not to drink liquor the night before.

I check the bottom drawers and it’s no surprise they’re locked. Ever since we moved into this house, he’s kept them locked. I thought nothing of it at first. After all, we all need our privacy. I have a secret treat stash that I keep in a chest on my side of the closet. I keep the chest locked too, so Dominic can never see exactly what I’m stashing there. I sit for a moment, trying to think of where he’d have the key.

Normally, I don’t pry in my husband’s things, but ever since his campaign has started, he’s been more on edge, more secretive. He leaves early and comes home late. He’s not the Dominic Baker I married all those years ago. He’s someone else—a stranger residing in his body. Or perhaps this is the real him, tried and true.

A chiming noise blares in the room, causing me to gasp. I relax when I realize it’s my phone ringing in my pants pocket. I snatch it out to see the reminder alarm: Coffee @ Daphne’s.

I can’t be late, and as badly as I want to find the keys to those drawers, I let it be for now and tuck the chair beneath the desk.

I hurry to the kitchen to drink some of the juice, collect my purse and keys, and leave the house. On the way to my best friend’s house, I find my mind sinking deeper into a bad place and all I can think are the same words: He’s hiding something. He’s lying. Figure it out.

Four years ago—New Orleans

I hated everything about New Orleans. Of course, it wasn’t always like that. I’d moved to New Orleans when I started college, but that was nearly ten years ago. After being cheer captain in high school and being the most popular girl, might I add, I was offered only one scholarship to college, at Loyola University of New Orleans.

At first, I was ecstatic because I’d never been outside of North Carolina, and it was better that I had some interest from a college than none at all. I’d seen many girls in my cheer squad graduate high school with nothing in their back pockets. In a way, my scholarship was owed to me. I kept the team in tip-top shape. I made sure practice ran as scheduled, and it gave me escape from the awful reality I faced at home. Growing up poor with a verbally abusive father and a spineless mother was for the birds.

When I’d taken a bus to get to New Orleans with two suitcases and one duffel bag full of my belongings, I was pleased to see the live oak trees swarming the land and eccentric people on the streets. We passed marshes and bayous with trees that hung with Spanish moss, colorful houses, and restaurants on the water. It was all so new, so refreshing. It was a fresh start, a new beginning, and I was ready to tackle the opportunity headfirst.

I wish I could go back and slap that happy, naïve version of myself. In the movies, you get a glimpse of New Orleans and the nightlife, the Mardi Gras parades, a bachelorette party celebrating a bride-to-be, or a collection of men looking for a good time at bars or strip clubs. But the low-down dirty truth is New Orleans was filthy and chaotic. I didn’t mind chaos, so long as it was the controlled sort, but New Orleans wasn’t controlled by any means. People ran rampant, women with their breasts out and some men even slinging their dicks around, just to get a reaction. Vomit on every corner of the street, homeless people demanding money, and tourists crowding the areas, making it hard for cars to pass.

I was a victim of the latter, sitting behind the wheel of my car, groaning as a line of elderly people walked along the crosswalk in matching neon pink shirts. Summertime in NOLA was ground zero for tourists, and I couldn’t stand it. As soon as I’d saved up enough money, I would leave this place and find somewhere quieter, a suburban area where I could hear more crickets chirping than car horns beeping.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard of my dingy silver Volkswagen Beetle, tapping my fingers on the wheel. I had six minutes to get to work and my job was twelve minutes away. Once the elderly people moved, I floored it and was glad there weren’t any more red lights or pedestrians to stop me.

When I pulled up to Franco’s Italian Restaurant, I collected my purse and hurried through the back door of the building, apologizing to my manager Trent for being late for the third time this week.

“One mo’ strike, Brynn! I mean ‘nat!” Trent boomed in his Creole accent. I ignored him, throwing on my apron and rushing through the double doors that led out of the kitchen.

It was hard being on time when I worked part time at Nulli’s Mini Mart. As soon as my shift was over at Nulli’s, I would rush to the bathrooms, change, and hustle to Franco’s.

Franco’s was an upscale lakefront restaurant, a hidden gem according to online reviews. It was also the only other job I could get until I found one more suitable. Truth is, I hated my life. What was the point of spending all those years in college learning and studying, just to come out of it with a mountain of debt and still having to work a bare minimum job to pay the bills? I’d majored in Business, yet I didn’t have the time or resources to start my own. I’d dreamed of opening my own restaurant one day, or perhaps something quieter and quainter, like a bed and breakfast. I had dreams of this bed and breakfast existing in New Hampshire, where people would come during the spring and summer, sleep in, then wake up to delicious food from my kitchen. Because that was another thing I was good at, cooking.

The last time I was late on my rent, my roommate fussed for a bit, then told me things would get better, but I couldn’t trust Shavonne’s advice because she was up to her neck in debt too. Both of us struggled monthly to pay our $1250 rent, and I was almost positive Shavonne was selling ass or something on the side because she never came up short.

I let the idea and internal rant go, collecting a notepad from the hostess stand as said hostess informed me which tables I’d be serving. There weren’t many people in yet, but within a few hours, once the sun dipped and the golden light spread over the tables, it would be packed. That’s what the couples loved about Franco’s. It allowed a romantic night by the water as they drowned themselves in hot Italian food, wine, and love.

I stopped at my first table where a middle-aged woman was scanning the menu with rectangular glasses low on the bridge of her nose. She requested a water with lemon to start and after I prepared it and set it down on her table, I gave her a few more minutes to peruse the menu. I made my way to the next table. Two men sat there, one of whom had his back to me.

“Hello. Welcome to Franco’s,” I said, focusing on the man I could see. He was older with pasty, greasy-looking skin. He was balding at the crown of his head, and his nose was bulbous and red at the tip as he sniffled a bit. Definitely wasn’t a looker, but it was clear he had money by the way he was dressed in his crisp suit and the gleaming watch on his wrist. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too soon about him leaving a generous tip, though. It was always the rich people who stiffed me on gratuity. “I’m Brynn and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with some drinks?” My eyes turned to the other man to level the attention and I instantly hitched a breath when familiar light-brown eyes locked with mine.

Oh, God.

I couldn’t believe it.

It was him.

Dominic Baker, my high school sweetheart. We’d dated when I was a sophomore, and he was a senior. He took me to prom, and shockingly, we won as prom king and queen. We were so young, so popular. Life felt unreal back then, like we were a famous couple. My chin was practically on the floor and my heart pumped twice as hard as I gawked at him.

Dominic appeared equally surprised to see me and I cursed internally for not putting on more makeup and at least attempting to look prettier that day.

“Brynn Wallace,” Dominic said, and his voice was like brown-sugared honey. It stuck to my insides, hot and sticky, as I got lost in his eyes. “Wow. Look at you. I never thought I’d see your beautiful face again.”

Beautiful face? He still found me beautiful? I’d put on a few pounds since high school—who hadn’t—and my skin was worse, thanks to the terrible fast food I ate. My hair was pulled into a low ponytail and needed a relaxer badly. But that was beside the point. Dominic Baker was sitting in front of me, and I’d never really gotten over this man. I’d tried, even after we drifted apart when he went to college. He’d stayed in North Carolina and attended Duke University with a full-ride academic scholarship, and though it was only a few hours away, the distance was unbearable. It was silly of us to think it would work—that our relationship would last despite it. Our relationship ended because of a slow pull away. Sometimes Dominic would go days without texting or calling me back, then other days we’d be on the phone at night for hours catching up. Eventually, that tapered off too. I can still remember the conversation we had that tore my heart to pieces.

“This isn’t working, is it?” he’d asked with a voice full of sorrow.

“No, it isn’t,” I answered.

I regretted those words, even more so now. I should’ve made it work. I should’ve gotten a damn car sooner than my junior year so I could drive to Duke and visit him. I was so proud to know he was going to that college. He was always so damn smart, so wise beyond his years. And sexy. God, was he sexy. We kept in touch every few weeks after the breakup, but that only lasted a few months.

Now, he looked good, dressed in an expensive gray suit, shiny shoes, with an expensive watch on his right wrist. The man sitting across from him looked between us with a critical eye, waiting for an explanation, or an introduction at the least.

Dominic, realizing his impoliteness, pulled his eyes away from mine and provided one. “John, this is my good friend from high school, Brynn. She was top cheerleader of her class. Went to Loyola University with a full-ride scholarship because she was so good.”

I blushed, and also wanted to throw up a bit. How could he brag about me when I looked like this? Dressed in pants too tight, a white button-down shirt with a monogrammed F on the chest, and a freaking waist apron over it stuffed with straws, loose papers, and pens. I was nothing now—a meager waitress in comparison to . . . whatever he was doing with his life. How could he not see that?

“Nice to meet you, Brynn,” John said. John’s eyes scanned me from head to toe. His tongue ran over his dry lips and there was something about him that made me feel gross beneath his stare. I let the though. . .