The Perfect Ruin

by Shanora Williams

  You deserved more.

  I deserved more.

  Unfortunately, only one of us could come out on top, and for what I did to you, I do apologize. But, I mean, you silly girl! You fell for that idiotic husband of hers. You fell for his stupid charm like a fool, thought you’d run off into the sunset with him, take his money with you, and live a new, wonderful life. I couldn’t have that happen. It would have thwarted my plan.

  I liked you because you weren’t that materialistic at first, but then you got hooked on the finer things, had a little taste of luxury and a stroke of rich dick, and thought you were invincible. I thought you were smarter than that.

  What I did needed to be done, though, so this demise would have happened regardless. It had taken me years. I couldn’t let it all just go down the drain.

  I had to pin the blame on someone, and who looked more like the perfect suspect than the girl whose parents tragically died because of Lola Maxwell? They would investigate, you know? After such a tragedy. Two rich people dead. A huge scandal that would be talked about for weeks—months.

  There were witnesses who could testify against you too. Faith and Arabel. Keke. Me.

  We were all suspicious of you, and we loved Lola like a sister, right? You were weird and came out of nowhere, and we didn’t like you. That was your own fault. You needed to enhance your people skills. I should have worked on that with you, but it’s fine. The weirder you seemed to the others, the better it was going to work out for me in the end.

  No one was going to suspect me, a woman who had dedicated her life to the Maxwells.

  Wouldn’t it look strange to the police that you’d only come around four and a half months ago, yet you became Lola’s best friend practically overnight? You moved from St. Petersburg to Miami just to get closer to her. You visited her house every day, most times when Lola wasn’t even around—and yes, that’s all on tape. Security records everything at the gates.

  You slept with her husband, which I could attest to after watching you hump him by the pool on one occasion, and leave his man cave on another, and you got jealous that he still loved her, so you poisoned her with the crushed antidepressants found in your purse.

  You didn’t put the pills there. Of course not, but the cops would never know that. They’d just put two and two together. A girl with mental issues shows up on the day the Maxwells die. Pills in your bag with your name on the prescription bottle—the five-hundred-dollar bag Lola gave you, but they’d think you stole. Security cameras perfectly angled with views of the pool and sitting area, watching your every move.

  The text message from Lola? She’d been arguing with Dr. Maxwell all day long while also trying to drink her stress away. She’d left her phone on the kitchen counter, and somehow a text was sent in the midst of the chaos.

  Lola was getting hostile. Corey was being pathetic and demanding drinks too. Things were getting out of hand, and all the while I had your own pills in my hand. They were already crushed. I’d chopped them up weeks before, waiting for the perfect opportunity to use them.

  You’d stopped taking the pills. My investigator confiscated them from your apartment while you were in New York and you never even noticed. It would work. I’d done my research. I knew what I wanted to do, I just needed the supplies to do it—something with your name written all over it.

  I mean, it was the perfect plan, don’t you think? It took some time and a lot of patience, but in the end, I’d say it all worked out in my favor.

  It was the perfect ruin.

  And I bet all this time you thought you were the one doing the ruining, didn’t you? The heartbreaking? The sabotaging?

  This was never your plan, Ivy. All of the events that led up to this very moment happened because of me.

  You were never the one in control, no matter how sure you were of yourself. I only made you think you were. It was better for you to think you were taking Lola down yourself, ruining her friendships and her marriage and her life. Let you feel powerful, invincible.

  You carried out a plan, and though I was worried at first and did feel a little bad, you handled it so much better than I ever could have imagined. I knew you were smart, desperate, and a little bit crazy. All the things one would need you to be in a situation like this. But if you were just a tad bit smarter, you would have left it alone and moved on, like your therapist begged you to do.

  Lola and Corey are dead. Everyone thinks you did it.

  Meanwhile, because she is gone now, I have ten million dollars in my bank account, and it’s all thanks to you, sweet Ivy.

  I am sorry about the situation you’re in now, but you should know that I truly, truly couldn’t have done any of this without you.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  IVY

  Breathe . . . breathe . . . breathe.

  Count to ten. Breathe. Hum your favorite song. Think of a happy moment.

  The water park. Fruity freeze pops. Sticky fingers wrapped around a warm, soft hand . . .

  No.

  Blood on my hands. A white dress soiled in the same blood. Broken glass on the floor beside the body, a single raspberry next to glass shards.

  Not my blood. Not my fault.

  Breathing wasn’t going to save me. In fact, I would rather have been doing anything other than breathing.

  Apparently, I had killed Lola and Corey Maxwell. The evidence was so stacked against me that not even my court-appointed lawyer believed my story. He gave me a look and told me to accept a plea bargain. Confess to the crimes, do the time, and hope for parole. But I didn’t kill them. I wasn’t going to confess to something I didn’t do!

  “For the last time, I didn’t kill them!” I said as Detective Hughes glared at me from across the table. He was a lanky man, with long, skinny fingers and a bald head. His suit hung from his bony shoulders like he’d lost a lot of weight recently and hadn’t gotten around to getting new clothes. “You have to believe me. I didn’t do it!” I was on the verge of tears. I didn’t want to go to prison. That wasn’t me. I never would have done something like this.

  “The security camera footage at the Maxwells’ home says otherwise, Miss Hill. We also ran toxicology on the Maxwells. Turns out they overdosed on antidepressants and traces of rat poison were found in their blood. A witness said they saw you dumping something into the Maxwells’ drinks while they were arguing.”

  “A witness? Who?” I snapped. “The only person who was there other than me and Lola and Corey was the household manager, Georgia. Why aren’t you questioning her?” I demanded. “She’s the one who did this! S-she had to have sent me the text to come to Lola’s house! She set me up!”

  I’d been questioned for hours, going back and forth with Detective Hughes with a lawyer at my side. Though the lawyer told me I didn’t have to answer some of the questions if I didn’t want to, some of them I couldn’t help but speak up on, especially when they mentioned Georgia.

  “Georgia McNeil gave a full confession. She told us everything. She told us that you’d been coming by the Maxwells’ home, even when Mrs. Maxwell wasn’t there, and that you were having an affair with Dr. Maxwell. Lola was your friend, was she not? Why would you sleep with your friend’s husband? What were you going to get out of it?”

  “She was never my fucking friend,” I seethed.

  “So, you admit to killing her because she didn’t want to be your friend?”

  “No—I didn’t kill her!” I shouted.

  “But you wanted to.”

  “No!”

  Detective Hughes let off an irritated sighed and sat forward, opening a maroon folder. “We received the Maxwells’ home security footage an hour ago. Can you tell me what you see in this picture?”

  I blinked away my tears and looked down as he slid a photo across the silver table. It was an image of me in the pool, my curly hair wet and sticking to my face, my hand gripped around the back of Corey’s neck. Corey was facedown in the pool, his arms stretched out wide, as if he’d drowned long a
go. It looked as if I’d drowned him. But I hadn’t. I couldn’t have. There was no way he could have drowned that fast.

  The pills—the antidepressants. They were in his drink too. Georgia had to have made those drinks. She always made the drinks, always served them, always asked if we wanted more. She’d even asked me if I wanted a drink. He was probably dead as soon as his body hit the water.

  “Tell me what you see, Miss Hill,” Detective Hughes said, his voice harsher than it was a moment ago.

  “It’s a . . . it’s a picture of me with my hand around Corey’s neck.” A tear slipped down my cheek.

  “And what were you doing to him in this photo?”

  “I was—I was angry with him. I was mad because he’d used me, but he wasn’t even in the water that long,” I pleaded, looking into the detective’s gray eyes. “I swear I didn’t kill them! I was framed for this! You have to believe me! G-go ask Detective Jack Shaw in St. Petersburg! Lola bribed him, and then there’s Georgia, who went to Marriott to tell her to give me Lola’s name!”

  “Ivy,” my lawyer whispered, laying a hand on my arm.

  “I didn’t do this!” I sobbed, turning my head and looking him the eye. “I didn’t.”

  Detective Hughes was clearly fed up. “We contacted Detective Shaw, as you suggested last night, and he said there is no file of any kind with Lola Maxwell’s name in it.”

  I wanted to die right then and there. Take Detective Hughes’s gun out of the holster and blow out my own damned brains.

  “Back to this image.” Detective Hughes stabbed a finger on the black-and-white picture. “You’re telling me that you had an affair with Dr. Maxwell, found out he’d used you, and suddenly he was facedown in the pool the same day? Please tell me how this adds up, Miss Hill? Lola was found facedown on her kitchen floor. A witness stated that you seemed unbothered by Lola’s blood on your hands, that you were sitting in it until she screamed that she was calling the police.”

  I groaned. A witness. Georgia.

  I know what this looked like, Marriott. It looked like I killed them. But I didn’t. You believe me, don’t you? I guess this was what I deserved. You told me not to obsess over Lola and I did anyway. Now look at me. Set up. Framed for two murders I didn’t commit.

  There was no way they were going to believe me at this point. I couldn’t quite explain why I drove by Lola’s house so many times before really getting to know her. I couldn’t explain the testimony against me, and why Lola’s friends thought it was strange that she had suddenly just taken me under her wing. I couldn’t explain why I’d moved nearly four hours away from my hometown to live in Lola’s and then become her friend two months later. I couldn’t explain getting the boob job from Corey. No, if anything, I looked obsessed to the detective.

  I couldn’t explain the footage of me running from the pool in a panic, running away from Corey’s dead body, only to run into another, although they didn’t see that part. I couldn’t explain any of it. All I could do was say I wasn’t guilty, that it wasn’t me, even as things progressed to trial. But do you think the jury would believe me? The judge?

  A man named Henry Thatcher, a prosecutor representing the state, laid it all out for the jury. Apparently, because Lola had gotten into a wreck while suffering a miscarriage, per Dr. Gilbert’s testimony—and Detective Jack Shaw confessed that Lola paid him off, but that wasn’t enough to help me—she’d caused a domino effect. She killed my parents and I grew up into an angry girl.

  Thatcher reported the fights I’d gotten into, and how I’d run away from home. That I’d stabbed my ex-boyfriend, but that was only because he attacked me first. He didn’t die anyway, and I got off with self-defense.

  According to Thatcher, I blamed Lola for my horrible upbringing and thought to take advantage of Lola and her elitist life. He made his case about jealousy, hatred, rage, and greed. He made Lola look like the victim, despite everyone knowing about the wreck she’d caused—which only made people sympathize with her more and donate even more money to her charity—and I was the bloodthirsty, obsessed murderer who wanted to steal Lola’s life. Corey had rejected me and I was angry, so I drugged and killed him too. Lola trusted me, Thatcher stated, and I broke her trust by having an affair with her husband and then murdered them.

  But they had it all wrong—well, some of it. Yes, I hated Lola, but it was never my plan to kill her. I didn’t want to kill anyone.

  But you want to know what sold the jury?

  Fucking Keke.

  Keke went to the stand with a limp and told them how she had a feeling I would be dangerous to Lola—that she was sure I had pushed her off the cliff at camp, and that I’d admitted to doing it when I went to the hospital with Lola after they’d had their little fight.

  The prosecutor showed them photos of Keke’s broken shin, arm, and the stitches on her head while she was in a coma. She couldn’t prove it, but she always had this hunch that I wanted her out of my way so I could be closer to Lola. According to Keke, I envied her friendship with Lola and even ruined it in the end. Faith and Arabel reported that I wasn’t in the cabin when they woke up the morning Keke fell.

  Keke had no proof, but the media ate up her testimony like a decadent chocolate cake. I was a threat to society . . . and I was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of parole.

  I was set up, Marriott. It was Georgia who did all of this—who created this destruction and ruin in my life.

  I swear, I’m not capable of killing anyone. How stupid would I be to do all of that, just so it could all come back to me being the primary suspect? You know I’m much smarter than that, and you know my mind better than anyone else. I didn’t murder Lola and Corey.

  But, alas, I’ve been in prison for two months now and I haven’t heard a peep from you. I guess I need to send this to you, just to show you my side of the story, even if it is a little ugly.

  I’ll be honest with you. Now that I’ve had time to think, I wish you’d never given me Lola’s name. After all this shit, I’d much rather be the clueless, hopeless girl I was before than a woman rotting in prison for the rest of her life.

  Lola would still be alive and nameless to me and I’d still have my freedom.

  I’ve made up my mind. I’m sending this to you, and I’m begging you, please come visit me, Marriott. I know you’re ashamed of me, and I never thought I’d say this, but I need you.

  Please don’t leave me like everyone else has.

  Please help me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Three months, six days, and fourteen hours.

  That’s how long it’s been since I was sentenced and shoved into prison, convicted of a crime I didn’t commit.

  Time is slow in prison. So goddamn slow, and no one trusts me here. I’m always hungry. My cell partner attacked me the first week I was here to assert her dominance, and I promised her my meals for a month in exchange for my life.

  I don’t deserve any of this shit. I should be on a boat, drinking fruity drinks and dancing under the stars at night.

  Out of all the close encounters in my life and all the trouble I’ve caused, I didn’t ever think I’d end up here. I’m not perfect, but I know where I stand, and I’m not a killer.

  I’ve thought about appealing, but where would that get me? Lola was the beloved beauty of Florida. People adored her, many came out to her funeral to show respect, and I’d killed her. Not many were going to risk dipping their toe in this case again to save a lowlife girl like me, even if they had plenty of evidence.

  Something hard clanged on my cell door and I looked up at the guard behind it. “Get your ass up, Hill. You’ve got a visitor.”

  A visitor? I haven’t had a visitor before. Maybe it’s Marriott. Yes! I knew she’d come to see me one day. She was most likely waiting for all of this to blow over. I wrote to her all those times. She always said she’d be there for me no matter what.

  I hurry to stand, shoving my hands through the small space between the cells so she can
cuff me. She opens the door, tugging on the chain so I can step out and then slamming the door shut behind her and locking it.

  “Don’t know who the hell is visiting your crazy ass,” she grumbles, walking ahead of me. That’s the thing around here. I’m the dumb psycho bitch to everyone, from the inmates to the guards. There’s shouting and screaming. My fellow inmates aren’t pleased that the dumb psycho bitch has a visitor and they don’t.

  I ignore them all, keeping my eyes ahead, trudging along in my brown prison uniform. It feels strange entering the visitors’ block—I’ve never been here before, but I’ve always envied the girls who can go here every week to speak to someone they care about.

  There are two sections. One where you speak over the two-way phones, one where you can sit at a table, right in front of your visitor if you want. It’s the visitor’s choice of course. All about safety.

  I’m sent to the two-way phones, and that’s how I know it’s not Marriott who’s visiting me today. Marriott would want to be in my face, pleading with me, telling me everything is going to be okay. I get the feeling she’s never coming to see me.

  “Number three,” the guard says as I look at the phones separated by thin, scratchy glass and black blocks between each booth. “Warden doesn’t want you out for long.” Yeah. Because the Warden admired Lola and hates me for what everyone thinks I’ve done. “You’ve got twenty minutes.”

  I glance over my shoulder at her before moving ahead. As I do, I can see someone sitting on the other side of number three. They’re wearing black. Their skin is brown.

  I stop in front of three . . . and I can’t believe my eyes. You have to be fucking kidding me!

  I look back at the guard, who isn’t paying me any attention. Instead she’s chomping on her gum, glancing at the clock. I sit, and feel my weight sink onto the stool as I stare through the glass, right at Georgia.

  She smiles from the other side of the glass, that same weird-as-fuck smile she gave me when she tended to Lola’s home and when she answered the door and greeted me.