The Last Party

by A.R. Torre

Genres: Domestic Thrillers; Thrillers

Synopsis

A loving mother. A notorious murderer. They both have reasons to hide their secrets in a novel of escalating shock and suspense by New York Times bestselling author A. R. Torre.

Perla Wultz lives with her husband, Grant, and their precious daughter, Sophie, in a gated Pasadena community. Affluent, sociable, and accomplished, Perla plays the part of loving wife and mother to perfection. It seems an ideal life, if not for a decades-old crime that has become Perla’s dark and consuming secret obsession.

Twenty-three years ago, Leewood Folcrum confessed to murdering two young girls during a birthday party. Though he’s been condemned to a life sentence, his crime is not forgotten. Not by Perla, nor by an inquisitive doctoral student interviewing Folcrum for his dissertation. He’s getting the killer to open up—about his motives, his confession, and the truth of what really happened on that horrible night.

As the past and the present entwine, the deceptions behind the infamous murder begin to surface. But who’s deceiving who now? And why? And as an ingeniously twisted plan is set in motion, who will be the next to die?

 

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Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Thomas & Mercer

Print pages: 349

Sample

# # Chapter ONE # #

"That family stuck out, right from the start. We were all looking at them, even before it happened." Cheryl Higgins, Tony's Truck Stop Diner waitress

PERLA

The women’s face changed right before she fell. She was chewing, her eyes slightly glazed, bored with the conversation at her table, her mind on other things. I watched her because I felt her. I felt that disconnect. Also, watching her was more interesting than listening to my husband talk about birds.

“...what’s crazy is that their migratory patterns aren’t based on...”

I swear my husband intentionally set out to pick a passion hobby that would bore me to death. The other night, he stopped mid-thrust, his head rising, ear cocked to one side, because he thought he heard a red-bearded woodpecker.

The woman could use some fillers in the deep crevices that ran from her nose to the corners of her mouth. It’d make her look ten years younger. I glanced at Grant, making eye contact long enough to prove that I was taking studious mental notes on the fascinating increase in short-tailed swallows this time of year, then I flicked my gaze down to my plate—a sad display of rubbery grilled chicken, wilted spinach and a few blueberries—then back to the woman, two booths over, facing me.

She would never be able to afford fillers, so I’d keep that brilliant insight to myself, despite its potential impact on her face. No one in this diner was stepping anywhere near a plastic surgeon’s scalpel unless it was for a boob job. My Range Rover stuck out like a tick in this parking lot, and we should have just waited until we got back into town to eat. Instead, we had a truck stop view and three plates of food that would likely give us all diarrhea.

The woman’s eyes locked with mine, and I started to look away, but then noticed her fingers, clawing at the neck of her Ozzy Osbourne T-shirt, her mouth gaping open like a bass out of water. I watched, fascinated, as her eyes rolled toward the ceiling and then she tilted to her left, a chubby bowling pin slowly tipping over.

Her arms didn’t move, her body was limp, and she fell to the tile without doing anything to catch herself.

It was quick hard hit, and she didn’t bounce or roll, she stayed stuck on her side, one arm pinned underneath her, the other hefty appendage suspended in the air like a forgotten bicycle kick stand.

A hush fell in a tight circle around her body, then it spread, like a growing blood pool, infecting each table in an outward circle until everyone in the diner was craning their neck toward the sight, their hands covering their faces in alarm, reactions ricocheting like ping pong balls around the rectangular room. I pierced a charred shrimp with my fork and placed it in my mouth, chewing quietly.

A delayed scream came from the woman’s tattooed seatmate, who launched her rail-thin body out of the booth and onto her knees beside the body. Looking frantically around the restaurant, she shrieked, “Someone call 9-1-1! Is anyone here a doctor?”

The room fell silent as heads swiveled, right, left, right. I sighed and set down my fork, then raised my hand.

“Perla,” Grant warned, and I shot him a hard look, then scooted out of the booth and stood.

A wave of murmurs swelled at my reveal. I snagged a napkin from a dispenser on the next table and wiped my hands clean as I approached the prone woman.

“You’re a doctor?” her friend panted as she fisted the woman’s shirt.

“Step back,” I snapped. “Does she have any food allergies?”

“I—I don’t know,” the woman looked to the couple beside her for help. “Maggie? Frank? Do you know if Bev had any allergies?”

Bev. She looked like a Bev. I knelt on the sticky tile and rolled the woman onto her back. Running my fingers quickly over the back of her head, there was a knot where she collided with the floor, but no blood or split skin. I bent forward and put my ear close to her mouth, waiting for the feel and sound of breathing.

“She’s not breathing,” I announced. The room hummed in response and in my peripheral vision I could see that everyone in the room was turned to me. Waiting to see if I saved this woman or killed her.

I pulled open the woman’s lips and checked her mouth for any food. I quickly worked my fingers down her tongue, trying to see if there was anything there. It felt slimy and warm and I quickly withdrew my hand. “Has someone called 9-1-1?” I asked, sneaking a glance in direction of our booth. My husband stood at the head of it, our daughter in front of him, both of them watching my every move.

I bet a burrowing owl could land on Grant’s shoulder right now and he wouldn’t even turn his head.

“Yes,” the waitress said. “They’re on their way. They said to begin—”

“CPR,” I interrupted, my hands already linked, one hand on top of the other, arms locked, on the center of her chest. I started the compressions, counting them in my head as I went. 30 compressions. Bev had a thin gold chain with a cross on it, the necklace tangled and bunched in her dingy yellow curls. She looked to be my age—but a much harder 35 than me. Her skin was a sea of sun damage, thin lines and wrinkles, with a layer of extra fat that underlined her round chin. I hadn’t gotten much from my mother, but according to photos, I inherited her expressive brown eyes, slightly upturned nose, and oval face. My crooked smile and emotional damage I got from my father.

27, 28, 29, 30. I stopped and pinched the woman’s nostrils shut, noting the chip in my forefinger’s polish. I should call first thing in the morning and make an appointment. The salon booked up fast, especially this time of year. I placed my lips on hers, forcing myself not to recoil at the connection. I inhaled and pushed my breath into her mouth, then repeated the action. 30 compressions, 2 breaths. Easy, yet everyone was gawking at me as if I was performing miracles.

I loved it.

I pulled off and returned my hands to her chest, resuming the compressions. I was on the 17th of the second set when her body shuddered beneath my palms.

“What was that?” Bev’s friend was still kneeling beside me and I glanced over at her while I continued, annoyed at her proximity. I shifted away from her, my pale grey slacks rubbing against the floor. I’d have to throw them away after all of this.

Bev was coming back to life. I could feel it, and the power rush was intoxicating. I smiled and continued my work. 25... 28... 30. I pinched her nose and repeated the breaths, no longer fixating on the fleshy feel of her lips or the emerging zit that was staring at me from the center of her forehead.

“Come on,” I muttered, resuming the compressions, my own heart seeming to sync with the counts as I forced the life back into her.

She coughed and something flew through the air and hit my shoulder. I cursed and stopped the work, rolling her away from me as she coughed again, spittle flying out.

“Bev!” the woman yelped. “Oh my God, Bev!”

Faint sirens sounded and I raised my gaze from the woman to my family. My daughter bounced on her toes, beaming at me with pride as the entire restaurant broke into conversation and applause. Someone offered me their hand and I took it, heaving to my feet. Smiling at the room, I raised a hand in acknowledgment of their recognition. Everyone was beaming—everyone except for my husband, who glared at me, his face dark with anger.

 

# # Chapter TWO # #

Journal of Sophie Wultz

Hi. I’m Sophie Wultz. I’m eleven, soon to be twelve. This is the first entry for my summer writing project. We’re supposed to write every day for at least fifteen minutes. At the first day of school, we’re going to turn in our entries, but that just seems like an attempt for Mr. Alford to spy on the inner thoughts of his 6th grade students. Bridget says Mr. Alford is a pervert, and I’m withholding judgement for now, but this assignment seems to support her opinion.

For that reason, I won’t be turning in these pages. I’ll be writing different, boring entries that will seem like they took fifteen minutes but in actually I’ll whip through them in five. I’m a very fast writer. Or typer. Both. We took typing tests in class, and I was one of the fastest in the class. 67 WPM, that’s how fast I was. At that speed, I could be a stenographer. Those are the people in court that type while people talk. I’d like that job, though I’d be tempted to make up things as I typed. Sometimes people say the stupidest things. When I watch CourtTV, I can immediately spot the liars. Sometimes the lawyers can too, and they trip them up with questions, but a lot of the time, they don’t. They just finish their questions and walk back to their seat, even though the person is clearly hiding something.

Dad says I’d be a good lawyer, but I don’t know if that’s what I want in life. Sitting in a courtroom all day long seems boring. I’d rather be an actress. Flying all over the world to act in movies with famous stars... that seems way better. Plus, you get training in things like martial arts and accents and horseback riding.

Dad said I can be anything I want to be, but Mom hates the idea of me being an actress. She wants all of the attention for herself, and I want all of the attention for myself, the only difference is that I’m a kid—and an only child—so I’m supposed to get all of the attention, and she’s supposed to fix my lunches and buy me the right brands of clothes, and take me and my friends to the mall, and if she doesn’t like that—too bad. That was the deal she signed up for when she had a kid.

Plus, if she didn’t want me to act, she shouldn’t put on a show so much. I can see how much she enjoys acting—but it’s not really acting. Like Dad says, it’s lying. She lies and I like to lie too, so why not get paid for it and become famous and marry a movie star while you’re at it?

I’m never going to have kids. I’m never going to have stretch marks, or baby vomit on my clothes, or packs of diapers in my cart at the supermarket. I’m going to be tall and gorgeous and sip champagne in dark bars while handsome men whisper in my ear and tell me that I’m beautiful.

I’m not beautiful now. Or tall. Or anything other than a decent soccer player with above-average typing skills and a flat chest.

That’s me. Sophie Wultz. Normal with a capital N. But not for long. One day, I’ll be famous.

 

# # Chapter THREE # #

PERLA

I flipped down the passenger visor and opened the mirror, studying my makeup and reviewing the damage. My lipstick was shot to hell and I opened the glove box and withdrew the spare tube I keep there for emergencies.

Grant, who hadn’t said a word since we left the diner, gunned the SUV up the highway’s on ramp.

I glanced at his handsome profile. “Okay, what? You just going to punish me with silence? You clearly have something you want to say.”

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“Saved someone’s life? I know, terrible of me.” I twisted the bottom of the tube, protruding the pale mauve color.

“I thought it was super cool,” Sophie chimed in from the backseat. “I’m going to tell all my friends and put it in my journal.”

“You are not going to tell all of your friends,” Grant instructed. “What your mother did was wrong.”

“Oh please.” I rolled the color onto my lips and smacked them together. “It was a necessary evil.”

“It wasn’t. You could have done all of that without telling anyone you were a doctor.”

“I didn’t tell them that. They assumed.”

“You raised your hand when they asked if anyone was a doctor. And then, when the ambulance arrived, you were giving them instructions! You told them you were a neurosurgeon from Green Bay.”

“Whatever. I was having some fun. She was in the clear by then. Why did it matter if I fibbed a little?”

“A little? Perla, you don’t know jack shit about medicine outside of that medical drama you watch.”

I pressed my lips together, setting the color.

“If you want to pretend to be a lawyer and argue with a stranger about constitutional rights, fine—but this is taking your games too far. What if she had died, Perla? Or what if there had been a real health professional there? Someone who had called you on your bullshit?”

“There wasn’t a complete set of teeth in that building,” I said dryly. “You think there were doctors eating at that shithole?”

“Swear jar!” Sophie sang out. “Mom, you owe me a dollar.”

I ignored her. “You’re just mad because they all clapped.”

“I’m mad that you preened. And you let them buy our lunch. We should have bought their lunch—hell, the whole restaurant’s lunch, for having to be pawns in your stupid little game.”

“Swear jar!” Sophie clapped. “Dad, you too!”

“This is so stupid.” I capped the lipstick and tossed it back into the glovebox. “I did something nice for someone. I don’t deserve to be treated like a criminal for it.”

Grant’s jaw worked as he changed lanes to move around a slow car. He stayed silent, and when the minute stretched into two, I reached down and fished my wallet out of my purse. Unzipping the white leather satchel, I withdrew a five-dollar bill and passed it back to Sophie. “Give us a credit for the next few, will you?”

“You got it.” She beamed at me, and folded the bill in half, then quarters, and stuck it in her journal.

“So...” I checked my wristwatch and did a quick calculation of how long it would take us to get home. “What do you guys think about dessert at Café Perla and then a movie night in the theater?”

Sophie let out a whoop of approval and I glanced over at Grant. His stiff jaw sagged a little, and if there was a key to my husband’s heart, it was carved out of labors of love and family time. He had spent a ridiculous amount of money on building out the theater room in the basement and it was an easy shortcut through his anger. His vigor would weaken with a few hours of family time, capped off by a steamy session in between the sheets. I’d pay that penance. It was worth it for that moment when the room had burst into cheers, everyone’s eyes on me.

Saving a life had been thrilling. Too bad it couldn’t compare with the inverse. ...