Best Friends Forever: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you hooked in 2018. Margot Hunt

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      Todd pulled our Volvo wagon into the crushed-stone driveway, the tires crunching on the gray gravel. We got out of the car and stared up at the building in front of us. The house, which would more accurately be called a mansion, was certainly impressive. It was white stone and built in a U shape around a neatly manicured front courtyard featuring elaborate topiaries. It had casement-style tile windows and a red Spanish tile roof. A detached garage, which looked more like a stable and was large enough to store five cars, was set off to the right of the driveway.

      “Holy cow,” Todd said, staring up at the house.

      “Is that your professional assessment of the architecture?” I teased.

      “I think the whole point of that house is for people to look at it and say ‘Holy cow.’ It isn’t exactly subtle. I wonder who designed it.”

      “You don’t know whose work it is?” Todd had an encyclopedic knowledge of the architects behind much of the real estate throughout South Florida.

      “No, but it’s a fantastic example of the Spanish Colonial Revival style,” Todd said. “It’s really very nicely done. Look at the detailing around the windows.”

      We walked up to the front door, an enormous wood-and-glass affair surrounded by a decorative casing nearly two stories tall. I rang the bell and realized suddenly that I was nervous. Why? I wondered. Was it about meeting Howard? Or were my nerves jangling because I wasn’t sure Kat and Todd would like one another? But then I heard footsteps echoing against a hard floor and the front door opened.

      Howard Grant wasn’t at all what I had pictured. For some reason, I had envisioned Kat’s husband as a tall, fair man with broad shoulders and a cleft chin. I had no idea where I’d gotten this mental picture, since as far as I could remember, Kat had never described her husband to me.

      The real Howard was of average height and very slim. He had thick dark hair speckled with gray, an aquiline nose and deep-set brown eyes. He wore a black T-shirt and slim-fitting dark blue jeans with soft, expensive-looking brown loafers. When he smiled at us, the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

      “Howard Grant,” he said, holding out his hand to Todd.

      “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Todd Campbell.”

      Howard looked at me but did not offer his hand.

      “I’m Alice,” I said. “Kat’s friend.”

      “Right. The author.” Howard spoke the word ironically, as though I didn’t quite qualify to be called one. I had been predisposed not to like Howard, and so far, he wasn’t doing anything to change my mind. But before I could respond, he had turned. Walking away, he called back over one shoulder, “Come on in and let me know what you like to drink.”

      Todd and I exchanged a look. Todd mouthed, What the fuck? which made me laugh and feel a surge of affection for my husband. We did not always have an easy marriage, it was true, but these moments of connection were our saving grace.

      We followed Howard through the airy, expansive foyer with marble floors and soaring ceilings. The exterior of the house had been over-the-top, but the interior was austere and curated—more like the K-Gallery. This was especially true when we reached the living room, which featured two black chesterfield sofas, a pair of low-slung white leather chairs and a few tall sculptural potted green plants. It was clear that the furnishings, while lovely, had been left intentionally understated so that the art was the star of the room. I was still not well versed in modern art, but even I could appreciate the visual impact of the large colorful canvases that hung on every wall.

      Howard headed for a large and well-stocked glass-and-chrome bar cart set behind one of the chesterfields.

      “What can I get you, Todd?” Howard asked. “I have a fantastic twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie whiskey.”

      Todd did not drink whiskey. His drink of choice was almost always beer, with an occasional glass of red wine with dinner. But he smiled, squared his shoulders and said, “That sounds great. Thank you.”

      I had a feeling there was some sort of a man-test at work, where whiskey was a line that had been drawn in the sea grass rug.

      Howard had poured them each a glass of whiskey but hadn’t yet asked me for my drink order when Kat strolled into the room. As always, Kat was impeccably dressed, tonight in a long red strapless sundress that set off her smooth shoulders and pale arms.

      “Alice!” she cried, folding me into a hug. Then she turned to Todd and smiled. “And you must be Todd. Unless, of course, Alice decided to pick up a date for the evening.”

      I could tell that Todd was charmed by Kat, and also that he hadn’t expected to be. I suspected that he wanted to categorize Kat as a “bad influence,” a snake charmer who seduced his wife away from her domestic life into wasting time and money over long, gossipy lunches. But if there was one word that could entirely sum up Kat’s character, it was that she was, more than anything else, charming.

      “Don’t tell me you started pouring whiskeys for you and Todd before you got Alice a drink,” Kat exclaimed, turning to her husband.

      Howard winced and said, “Oops,” while Kat turned to me with an exasperated sigh.

      “He always does this. He makes sure the men have drinks and leaves us women to fend for ourselves,” Kat complained.

      Howard gave a theatrical eye roll. “Women,” he said in a mock-withering tone. “Can’t please them.”

      I knew we were supposed to take the exchange as witty banter, a cocktail-hour performance for our benefit. But I sensed a real simmering antagonism behind their words.

      Howard and Todd found some common ground over a discussion of professional tennis, of which Howard was also a fan. While they debated the merits of Nadal versus Federer, Kat and I slipped off to the kitchen, which was another huge space featuring dark cabinets and a dramatic marble island with gold stools lining one side. A wonderful aroma of cooking food mingled with the smell of exotic-scented candles burning on the counter.

      “Your house is amazing,” I said, looking around in wonder.

      “Thank you.”

      An older woman wearing a tan uniform came into the kitchen. She was small and plump and wore her short gray hair feathered back from her face. I shouldn’t have been surprised—of course, anyone who lived in a house like this would have domestic help—but Kat had never mentioned having staff.

      “Excuse me, Mrs. Kat,” the woman said in accented English.

      “Marguerite, this is my friend Alice Campbell,” Kat said. “Alice, this is Marguerite Sampson, our housekeeper.”

      Marguerite smiled and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

      “You, too.”

      “If you don’t need anything else, Mrs. Kat, I’m going home.”

      “No, thank you, Marguerite. Good night.”

      “Have a good night, Mrs. Kat.”

      Once the housekeeper had left, Kat smiled at me.

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