The Ex Files by Victoria Christopher Murray Page A

word from Bobby, anger switched to fear. But seventeen days later, Bobby returned with proof of his love.
    It wasn’t the ring that she’d schemed for, but the Wilshire Boulevard condo wasn’t a bad consolation prize. It’s an investment , she’d told herself as Bobby dashed through the two-level, three-thousand-square-foot space, showing her every room. She’d shared his enthusiasm and convinced herself, this is for our future .
    That four-bedroom real estate investment had appreciated, but somehow her value had dropped. It was time to make her stock rise again.
    Bed tricks, pregnancy, none of that would suffice. This time, she had to get to the root of this evil.
    This time she had to get rid of Bobby’s wife.

    Asia was sure of it now; she was going to get her man. Noon had called with not only Bobby’s address but his telephone number and directions to his home.
    She slipped into the silk pantsuit she’d chosen the night before and in less than thirty minutes she was dressed to kill. Dressed to meet her man’s wife.
    In the elevator, her thoughts turned from the wife to Bobby. She tried not to think about the rage that would erupt once he found out what she’d done. But he’d get over it—just as he had when he found out about their baby.
    “I’m doing the right thing,” she said, as she slipped into her car. That mantra accompanied her through the streets of Los Angeles, into the rolling hills of Bel-Air. As she turned onto Salon Drive, she peered at the curb for the house numbers, and realized why this neighborhood housed multimillion-dollar homes. The house numbers were not painted on the street like the rest of the county.
    “Thank you, Noon,” she whispered as she glanced at the directions, then slowed in front of the third driveway. She peered through the massive gathering of trees, but she could see nothing through the thick evergreen foliage.
    Slowly, she edged onto the driveway and said another “Thank you” that Bobby’s palace was one of the few homes in Bel-Air that wasn’t perched behind a gate.
    Still, it took minutes for Asia to steer her car from the city street until she faced the immense brick structure. She parked in front of the six-car garage.
    When she stepped from the car, the massive home towered over her, foreboding, almost bowing, offering her a warning. But thoughts of Angel, thoughts of Compton gave her courage.
    She centered the four-carat diamond pendant on her neck, and then did the same with the matching diamond that graced her left hand’s ring finger.
    She pushed the bell and breathed in calm as chimes rang behind the ten-foot stained-glass door. A whirring sound above made her turn, and she took in the camera twisting high in the corner.
    Her hope had been to have surprise on her side. But with the camera, that was gone. Although they’d never met, Asia was sure Bobby’s wife had seen pictures in magazines of her and Bobby cavorting around the city.
    She had no doubt the wife would recognize the mistress.
    But with the camera, she might be afraid to open the door .
    Almost instantly, Asia heard the click of the lock.
    She took a breath.
    The door swung open.
    She steadied, readied for the confrontation.
    A petite Asian woman peered at her over wire-rimmed glasses that were too large for her face.
    “May I help you?”
    Asia exhaled. Of course, Bobby’s wife wouldn’t answer the door herself. “I’m here to see”—she paused—“Caroline Johnson.” She stepped past the woman before she had an invitation, and it took all that was within her not to gasp. The palatial entryway was almost as large as her living room. Marble pedestals held vases of various sizes, filled with multihued flowers that brought the fragrance of the outdoors inside. But it was the two winding staircases framing the space that made Asia catch her breath.
    “Mrs. Fitzgerald-Johnson was not expecting anyone,” the woman said, making Asia face her.
    Asia pushed back her shoulders.