by Lily White
Nodding, I mentioned, “It’s only ten feet deep, the city wouldn’t allow it to be dug any lower, and it’s supplied by city water rather than a natural aquifer or spring, but it’s as close as I could have it. We had a well just like it on a farm my family owned. I used to toss coins inside much to my mother’s dismay. She would always tell me that the well was intended as a water source for drinking, and that I shouldn’t pollute it, but how else was I supposed to make a wish?”
Her laughter was snatched away by the wind, the current of air as greedy for a part of her as I was. “What would you wish for?” she asked as she moved on hurried steps to the well, peering down once she reached it to see the myriad of glimmering coins other guests had tossed inside. I crept up to stand beside her, my eyes locked on her profile as she watched the dancing display of light over water. There was something far too innocent about this girl despite the time she’d spent on her own. Something so simple and youthful that it wouldn’t be difficult to grasp it with skilled hands and rearrange it to suit what I wanted.
“I wished to control my life. To own everything I could ever imagine. To have the world at my fingertips and an existence that was never boring.”
Glancing up, she grinned. “Looks like your wish came true.”
“Not entirely,” I answered, studying her. “There is still one area that has yet to come true. Perhaps I could toss you in the well and make that final wish happen.”
Her brows pulled together in confusion. Stepping closer, I leaned over to bring my mouth dangerously close to her ear. “I’m talking about your name. It is traditionally pennies that get tossed in, isn’t it?”
“Oh!” Her laughter was like a siren’s song. “Yeah,” she said, placing distance between us again. I didn’t miss the goosebumps that dotted her flesh. She was affected by me already, even if she, herself, didn’t recognize it. “Very funny. For a second there, I thought you were going to snatch me up and dunk me just for the fun of it.”
“Vincent!”
Right on time...
Penelope’s head turned toward the sound, a woman’s voice thick with a French accent. Calling out again, Émilie was drawing closer with each second, giving me just enough time to snatch Penelope at the hips, ignoring her surprised squeal as I dragged her backwards into a small, private niche that was bordered by tall camellia hedges, their red flowers still in full bloom. A small swing hung just inside, the chain rattling softly against the breeze, and just before Penelope could ask why I’d stolen her away, I pressed my hand over her mouth, brought my lips to her ear, and whispered, “Shush. I don’t want her to find me.”
Penelope attempted to turn her head to look in my direction, but I gripped my free hand over her hip, tugging her back against my chest and squeezing just hard enough to force a tiny sound in protest from her lips. My fingers tightened over her cheeks, and before she could panic and struggle, I explained on a voice only she could hear. “Émilie and I had a small falling out last night. I would appreciate it greatly if you’d endure hiding just long enough for her to go away.”
I allowed her head to turn just enough so our eyes could meet, one word falling from my mouth that helped her relax against me. “Please.”
A single tense second led to some decision in her head. Her body relaxed more in response to my one word of placation. It would be the last time she would hear that particular syllable fall from my lips. But for this moment it was a means to an end, a moment I briefly wondered if Penelope would remember as the beginning of her fall.
From grace.
From independence.
From a life lived with her own thoughts and desires leading her way.
A moment when the heat of our bodies was in opposition to the cold wind. A moment when our shared silence cemented us together, letting her believe that we could be one unbreakable union at odds against the world.
I’d planted a seed that would one day flower, the roots driving deep into the soil as we stared at one another, listening and silently laughing as Émilie continued calling, her voice carrying over the distance as Penelope pressed tighter to my chest. My fingers gripped down on her hip, our shared breath mingling as this interlude took a turn toward the type of heat I was sure she’d never encountered.
The flower budded, Penelope’s trust its scent. It was too bad the stem was firmly rooted in a soil of dishonesty and ill-intent.
Where she touched me, I’d become stone, and as my fingers brushed over the curve of her hip, she trembled. Émilie’s voice was lost and forgotten, her search for me over, but still I stood in the private space holding a girl I wouldn’t allow to run from me much longer.
“Thank you,” I breathed out, my breath hot against her skin, the tip of my nose trailing against her hair as I breathed in the scent. Amused by the way she didn’t immediately move away, I slipped my hand from her mouth after taking one last second to feel her rasps of breath against my skin. “That was a meeting I wasn’t quite prepared for. You saved me.”
“That makes us even,” she answered, her voice husky with a hint of sex. “You saved me. I saved you.” Unmoving, we stood back to chest, a delicate blossom wrapped within the cruel hand that would pluck it from its stem.
When I didn’t move, she finally stepped forward, disappointment seeping in to caress the places were her body no longer touched mine. Turning, she asked, “What was the falling out? From what I saw yesterday, Émilie was more than happy to see you.”
“It seems I didn’t share the same enthusiasm, at least not to her liking. I had quite the evening yesterday and I was tired.”
Penelope chuckled. “What happened to that endurance you’d bragged about? A man like you should be able to go all night.”
Sucking in a breath, I had to grip the leg of my pants to keep from reaching out and dragging her back to me. Kicking and screaming, if need be. “Perhaps it takes the right woman to draw the endurance out of me. And Émilie has lost my interest.”
Penelope’s eyes rounded, my comment too close. “I should go,” she said quickly, her walls erecting once again in an effort to shove me out. It didn’t matter whether she used cement or stone, iron or titanium, I would find the weakness to breach her stronghold, one way or another.
“It’s getting late,” I agreed. “Your shift will begin soon.”
I watched her run off, un papillon dans le vent. A smile tugged at my lips as she turned right, taking a path that would lead her farther into the gardens. Noticing her mistake, she paused, turned left and ran off in the opposite direction toward the hotel’s entrance.
Her mind was addled, that much was obvious. And I had been the one to swirl my fingers through her calm waters to create that confusion, to disturb the surface just enough that truth was disguised beneath the ripples.
It would have been nice to focus on her entirely, but other matters required my attention, a certain problem that had followed me from home and remained hidden from easy view. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I both loved and regretted that problem. It was my burden to bear.
C’est la vie , I muttered to myself.
Taking the first steps toward a life that chained me, I tilted my face into the sun before pulling a coin from my pocket to toss into the well, a penny that sank as it jostled and turned to land among hundreds of others.
Only time would tell if that wish would come true.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Faiville Prison, 1:27 pm
Unable to meet Vincent’s cold, cruel eyes, Meadow watched her fingertips tap slowly against the surface of the table. She knew he studied her, knew that behind his brilliant green gaze, satisfaction lurked, the truth of his games bubbling to the surface, the victory of surrender he’d so easily pulled from Penny on a beautiful spring day.
Meadow wanted to believe that Penny had known all the moments that had been staged, that she’d somehow intuited the manipulation Vincent had so easily mastered. But the diary contained no question of his intent, no nascent thought that, pe
rhaps, her encounter with Barron had been intended, that Émilie’s arrival in the garden had been planned rather than just mere coincidence. The diary made it clear that Penny had, in truth, been deceived into believing that a man such as Vincent Mercier could see the value of a dirty girl when the grime had been wiped away.
“What if Barron had hurt her?” Meadow asked after clearing her throat. “What if you hadn’t returned in time?”
“There was no concern of that.” He answered, his voice careful, soft in a way that was unlike him.
“But he was going to hurt her eventually, wasn’t he? You shouldn’t have believed he could restrain himself then.”
Silence, and then, “You’re skipping ahead, Ma belle . We are not at that point yet. I am simply pointing out what it was in the beginning. Time begins to move quickly now, a few weeks wherein I allowed the seed to germinate, allowed the beginning of her love to push up from the soil.” Vincent paused, considering. His voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, he asked, “Will you not look at me as we talk?”
“I’m angry with you,” Meadow admitted. “So angry I can barely remain sitting across this table from you, can barely remain in the room.”
“I have done nothing to you. Not in that sense, at least. Why do you take on the anger, the betrayal, of your sister? It is not worth your time.”
Lifting her eyes, she glared across the table. “Maybe because she’s not here to feel those emotions. She died before knowing the truth.”
“Did she?” he asked, a curious grin tilting the corners of his perfect lips.
“According to her diary, she did. But you’re right. We’re skipping ahead.” Gathering her thoughts, Meadow leaned back in her chair, her gaze dodging about the room, Vincent’s presence too much for her to bear. She wouldn’t leave. She’d return for the next two days to complete the interview.
And she’d return one day after that to watch this man die for his crimes. A piece of her dying with him to watch the spectacle.
“Let’s talk about Émilie. You mentioned her appearance was perfect timing, so you’d intended to have an excuse to drag Penny into that alcove. You’d wanted the excuse to touch her in that way. Was Émilie aware of what you were doing? How many people knew of the game you were playing?”
Mirroring her posture, Vincent relaxed in his seat, his long legs stretching out beneath the table until his foot tapped hers. She pulled her legs tighter to her chair, knowing that even that minimal touch was meant to distract her.
“Émilie did not know what I was doing. Nobody except Barron knew. Every day around that time, Émilie had a habit of coming to my office, sneaking an hour or two with me while I took my time with her on my desk. She’d fallen hard despite my warnings, had believed she could bring to life the heart of a man that had turned cold. Most women want to believe they can change a man, that there is some magic inside them, some trait, that will make him alter his ways. But people don’t change, not unless they want to.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
Vincent blinked. “I hadn’t finished speaking. You should exercise patience. All good things come with time.”
Meadow had a visceral reaction to the words. He’d said them many times. Perhaps such a phrase should be chiseled onto his tombstone.
“Knowing that Émilie would arrive around the same time I was giving Penelope the tour of the grounds, I’d emailed my assistant prior to leaving my office asking her to send Émilie to the gardens when she arrived. Her presence was an excuse to drag Penelope into that alcove, but it was also a catalyst to something else. Women, despite their objections and statements to the contrary, enjoy winning what they perceive to be competition. It makes them feel special, preferred, if you will. And by my rejection of Émilie, a woman Penelope had seen and knew was quite beautiful, it made Penelope feel uniquely desirable. It was a boost to her self-esteem.”
Leaning forward, he asked, “If something makes you feel good about yourself, especially in a moment where you had been doubting, wouldn’t you want to gravitate close to its orbit so you could continue feeling good?”
“What made you think she was doubting herself? You hardly knew anything about her by that point.”
He grinned, contentment written into the lazy curve of full lips. “I’ve spent a lifetime studying women. Their behaviors and mannerisms. Their body language that reveals their secrets without ever having to say a word. Penelope didn’t need to tell me why she felt insecure for me to know she did.” Flaring his fingers as if this were simple knowledge any person should have, he said, “I gave her a reason to find pride within herself. It was her fault for her inability to let go of the need to continue experiencing the feeling.”
When Meadow didn’t respond, Vincent canted his head. “Oh, come now, you can’t tell me you don’t know that men have been doing this for centuries? It’s all part of the game.”
Clenching her teeth, Meadow asked, “What happened to Émilie?”
His brow wrinkled. “How should I know?”
Proud that she’d cornered him with the question, Meadow thought back on the diary, on the night Penny had first seen the dangers that lurked around Wishing Well. For once, Meadow felt like she had the upper hand. “You were there the night she died, weren’t you? According to the diary you were. In addition, you were charged with her death. How do you not know?”
His teasing grin stretched wider, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “Now that, I did not know. Did Penny witness that night?”
Not yet ready to reveal what she knew, Meadow asked, “Is that the reason you had the diary sent to me? For fear that having it sent to you or even read to you over the phone would give the police more charges to pin on you? To give them more evidence to support your crimes?”
Vincent hesitated, drawing a grin from Meadow’s lips. “Oh, come now,” she said, repeating his words, “you’re already scheduled to die. What’s one more lie to admit to? It’s not like they can kill you twice.”
His shackles rattled, his movement minimal. “I’m beginning to like you. It’s a shame I never had the chance to have both you and Penelope at the same time.”
“Oh, please. As if that could ever happen. I’m a little too smart for your games.”
He laughed, the sound dark, deceptive. “Are you calling Penny stupid?” Tsking, he said, “Your own sister. It’s in bad taste to speak ill of the dead.”
“Tell me, Vincent, what happened the night Émilie died?”
Breathing out, he stretched his neck from side to side, his eyelids heavy. Meadow knew he wasn’t tired, it was simply an illusion he wanted to portray.
“We both have information on that night, apparently. And I’m curious as to what Penelope saw. If you’ll tell me what she believed she saw, I’ll tell you what actually happened. Quid pro quo , Meadow.”
“That’s Latin,” Meadow commented, “has the surprise of what I know forced you to change languages?”
A slow shake of his head. “French may be my first language and English my second, but they are not the only ones I know. Would you like me to tell you what I just said?”
“Something for something,” she answered. “You can save your breath, I already know. Fine, I’ll tell you what Penny saw, but once I’m done, it’s your turn. And I want the truth, Vincent. No painting of pretty pictures to disguise your demons. This is your last chance to confess the truth of your crimes so that the world can know just how cunning and monstrous you were.”
His expression was blank, unreadable. “Be careful with the words you choose, Meadow. You may just have to eat them later.” Rolling his shoulders, he resettled in his seat. “Now, please, tell me what Penny remembered of that night, and I will tell you what actually happened.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PENNY
Housekeeping wasn’t so bad, if you didn’t mind the monotonous tasks. Vacuuming, sweeping, emptying every tiny trash can, trying not to think what was on the sheets as you pulled them from
the beds. One would think businessmen would be a tidy bunch, but judging by the mess they left behind in their rooms, you’d be mistaken to believe it. Every room was the same, papers bunched and tossed haphazardly about, some in the trashcan and others on the floor near it, as if they’d been shooting baskets and their aim became worse as the night wore on. It probably had something to do with the alcohol they were drinking, because that was the other trash you found scattered throughout: tiny bottles of various liquors that I was sure cost a fortune to pull from the mini-bars.
But whereas housekeeping was a strenuous labor, especially as you climbed over the beds to tuck in the sheets and ensure the corners were just right, it didn’t do much to occupy the mind. No, that job had been solely Vincent’s, my brain running through everything that had occurred that morning both in his office and garden, every expression he’d given me and every word he’d said.
Lying to myself was a waste of time. Every attempt I’d made to convince myself I wasn’t attracted to him was met with a skip in the beat of my heart, a breath that it took a fraction more effort to inhale when I remembered how it felt to have his hand wrapped over my mouth and the other gripped possessively on my hip. I was a stupid girl to think that he’d meant anything by it, but I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘but what if he had?’
He was the total opposite of what I knew in life, a perfect contrast to Blake. Where Blake had lacked in experience, Vincent was an expert in life. And where Blake had been a light in the darkness, Vincent was a shadow that could consume me whole. Just thinking of him thrilled me, and reacting as I did made me feel like the most ridiculous girl around.
I wasn’t his type. I was just a pathetic wretch who’d ended up on the streets and had somehow managed to gain the attention of a man who wanted to help. I felt bad for assuming he had bad intentions when first he brought me to Wishing Well. If anything, Vincent had been a perfect gentleman, unlike that asshole friend of his. That slimy leech had wasted no time trying to take advantage as soon as Vincent wasn’t around to stop him.