Wishing Well

by Lily White

  Sending the email, I felt slightly better about my situation and I returned to the hotel to think about what I wanted to do given the direction my job had taken.

  Lying in bed, I couldn’t silence my anger toward Vincent, but even more unsettling was that I couldn’t stop thinking about how broken I’d felt to look at Maurice. There was something so deeply sad about him that it kept drawing my attention back to thoughts of him. And I wouldn’t even try to lie and claim that what we’d done together hadn’t been amazing. A nagging whisper kept filtering through my head, a familiarity that I couldn’t quite pinpoint no matter how I focused on it.

  Perhaps it was that mysterious thought that helped me make the decision to stay. I needed to know why I felt what I did around Maurice. Not the fear. Not the sorrow. Not the understanding that there was something broken in him that may never be fixed.

  No. I wanted to know why I felt so attached to him every time our eyes met.

  I would go to Vincent in the morning and let him know I was keeping the job, and I would spend enough time with Maurice to unravel the mystery of why he was affecting me in such an indelible way.

  . . .

  The next morning found me standing in Vincent’s office, the new distance between us palpable.

  “I’ll keep the job,” I informed him, careful to hide what I was feeling. I knew him well enough to know that he could pick apart a person’s thoughts through body language or the tone of their voice. He’d always seemed psychic to me at first, but it wasn’t that Vincent could hear what was screaming in a person’s head, it was simply that he studied the people around him and paid close attention.

  The leather of his chair creaked as he relaxed back to stare at me. “It’s good to see you’ve calmed down. And here I was thinking we’d find your room empty this morning. Why the change of heart?”

  “I need the money. And since you’ve made it perfectly clear where my job security stands, I’ve decided having a roof over my head is better than life on the streets.”

  “You’ve grown since coming here. The girl I remember meeting on the streets would have left, despite shooting herself in the foot for doing so.” A grin stretched his full lips. “And what of our arrangement?”

  “That’s off.”

  The light streaming in through the window must have flared funny, because for a moment I could have sworn I saw regret flicker across his face. He didn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to let my statement linger much longer than it should. “We’ll discuss that decision later.”

  Eyes darting to the screen of his computer, he tapped a few keys. “You should go, Penelope. Maurice will be expecting his breakfast. He gets moody if he’s kept waiting.”

  Unable to contain my anger at his simple brush off, his arrogant response that my decision could be discussed, I crossed my arms over my chest. “I mean it, Vincent. If I take this new job, our other arrangement is off.”

  He didn’t bother to look at me. “That’s funny, because just yesterday you were on your knees sucking my cock. Women are fickle creatures, but their hearts don’t change so easily.”

  If I’d been in reach of him, I would have slapped his handsome face. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll talk to you at another time. For now, you have a job to do. I suggest you do it.”

  Dismissed, I left his office, angry at him but not angry for having an excuse to leave. Vincent thought he was waving off an annoying fly without understanding that the fly wanted nothing to do with him. Any discussions he thought we might have were off limits to the fly.

  For the first time since coming to Wishing Well, the fly had pulled out her pretty silver scissors and snipped herself free of his tangled web.

  Damn, it felt good to be a fly.

  After grabbing Maurice’s breakfast from the kitchen, I slipped the elevator key from my pocket, tapped in the code and was on my way down to the basement. The doors slid open revealing the small entry lobby I remembered from the day before, except instead of fire sconces lighting my way, the small crystal chandeliers above my head were casting brilliant light, the black on black texture of the walls coming into focus. Turning left, I returned to the room where I’d found Maurice, only to discover it empty.

  Not knowing what to do, I set the covered dish on the table, a jagged pulse beneath my skin to remember what had occurred there. Shaking off the memory, I left the room calling Maurice’s name as I explored.

  Except for that one room, the rest of the basement was dark: the walls, the floors, the furniture, even the flowers. Dracula’s tomb would have been considered more festive in comparison to this depressing place. But for unrelenting darkness, there was also an odd tranquility, a respite from the bright opulence of Wishing Well, a taste of truth hidden beneath the ground.

  Passing the entryway and the elevators I continued down the hall, my fingertips dragging along the textured walls, my voice becoming softer to enter an area I hadn’t seen before.

  “Maurice?”

  “Derrière toi .”

  My heart leapt into my throat as I spun toward the low voice, Maurice’s palm slamming against my chest, pinning me to the hallway wall. Remaining still, I didn’t dare breathe as he leaned down, the tip of his nose sliding up the side of my neck. While my pulse was frenetic beneath my skin, his beat slow and sure, the sound of it a whisper against my ear from where my head reached his chest. I let several seconds pass before swallowing down my surprise and fear to speak to him as calmly as possible.

  “It’s me, Maurice. Penny. From yesterday.”

  His voice was smooth and deep. “I know who you are.” Fingers curling, he clutched my shirt.

  “I-“ Breathe, Penny...just breathe. “I brought you breakfast.”

  Maurice didn’t answer, the slide of his teeth sharp against the line of my jaw. It was impossible not to tremble, not to part my lips in an attempt to breathe deeper, to calm my racing heart. “It’s in the other room,” I whispered, “on the table where you had me leave it yesterday.”

  His voice a honed blade beneath the softest of satin, he said, “You didn’t bring me dinner.”

  “No,” I admitted, “I didn’t. I was angry and I left the hotel.”

  His fingers eased their grip on my shirt, a tremor in his body obvious against mine. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Closing my eyes, I counted in my head, gathering whatever strength I could find in an overwhelming crush of emotion. “I wasn’t angry at you.”

  Letting me go entirely, he backed away, his eyes meeting mine. Confusion muddied the beautiful green, sorrow, and regret. “I hurt you,” he said simply, accusing himself of being a monster.

  Unable to bear adding to the self-hatred that was so obvious inside him, I shook my head, careful for the movement not to be too fast or too sudden. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t force me.”

  “I would have. I’m a -“ His jaw ticked as he cut the sentence off.

  A monster...

  A beast...

  A man too dangerous for the world...

  I could clearly see all those labels rush behind his pained gaze. It only made me angrier. I didn’t know Maurice’s problems, but I knew trapping any person in a basement by themselves wouldn’t help them. You make animals of people when keeping them caged, much like this man was. But I couldn’t show that anger, not when he’d assume it was meant toward him. The eggshells beneath my feet cracked with every thought, every decision, every step I took to discover why Vincent treated his own brother so poorly.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked.

  Without answering, he stormed off in the direction of the room where I’d left his food. I didn’t follow him immediately, not with my legs feeling like rubber. Sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, I held my face in my hands. We were going to have to come up with a new way of greeting one another. The sneak attack would stop my heart eventually. Once my vitals felt like they could sustain life again, I pushed to my feet and crept down th
e hall to the oddly cheerful room hidden within a dreary, dark basement.

  I’d expected to find Maurice eating, but instead he was sitting at his computer busily typing. Not knowing whether he wanted me there or not, I stepped in, wringing my hands as I approached his desk.

  “Should I leave?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

  There was no reason for me to stay. I’d done my job of delivering his meal and I didn’t have to do another thing until noon when I brought him lunch.

  His eyes tipped up to meet mine. “The counselor will be here in an hour. If I don’t talk to her, Vincent won’t take me outside.”

  Fuck Vincent , I thought. Maurice wasn’t so bad that he had to be trapped. Remembering back to the night I first met Maurice, I realized that Vincent had spoken of him like he was out of control, but I wasn’t seeing it. To me, Maurice wasn’t definitely odd, he was unsettling, but it was more that he lacked social skills than being a monster.

  “I could take you outside,” I suggested. “We wouldn’t have to tell Vincent.”

  He was out of his seat and practically on top of me before I could take a breath, my heart screeching to a stop for just a second. “We need to set rules, Maurice. The first one being that you need to stop sneaking up on me or rushing toward me. I don’t like it.”

  He must have taken my words as a type of rejection. Between one second and the next, he was calm and he was violent. By the time he’d broken several objects in the room, he backed me against a wall again, his chest beating with furious breath. Vincent had warned me of this this, but I hadn’t listened, and despite being terrified, I wouldn’t listen now.

  “I still like you,” I whispered, his face so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. “I just don’t like being scared by you.”

  Trying and failing to break through the wall around his thoughts, I flinched when he palmed my breast, a possessive hold over my shirt, his grip painful. Snatching my wrist with his other hand, he pulled me away from the wall and used my arm to force me over his desk. Bent over me, he breathed against my ear. My first instinct was to fight, to thrash, to scream, but I knew it was the wrong way to handle this man.

  His excitement was a hard ridge against my ass. Ignoring the shiver that coursed over my body, I kept my voice calm. “Maurice, please. You’re hurting me.”

  It surprised me again when he released me as suddenly as he’d pinned me down. Behind me a race of words - all in French - were spoken, and as I slowly straightened my body, I turned to see a very agitated, confused man.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Get out!” he roared.

  He didn’t have to tell me twice. Slowly, and with absolutely zero sudden movements, I crept past him, knowing his head turned so that his eyes could follow me, hearing his heavy steps behind me as I forced myself to walk calmly down the hall. And with the feeling of a stalking tiger at my back, I extracted the elevator key from my pocket, waited for the doors to open, and stepped inside.

  Maurice stood staring at me as the doors closed, self-loathing and sorrow obvious in his eyes.

  Like last time, Vincent stood waiting for me when I reached the lobby floor, but before he could speak, I barked, “I’m not hurt,” as I turned left and stormed down the hall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Faiville Prison, 12:03 pm

  “It’s noon,” a guard said as he walked through the interview room door. “We’ll need you to wait outside the room while the guards change shifts.”

  Despite the guard’s words, Meadow and Vincent stared at each other, both locked in a moment where truth had been revealed, where secrets were beginning to emerge.

  Before Meadow could respond to the guard, and while she sat confident that she knew more to this story than even Vincent knew, Vincent shook his head and laughed.

  “You should listen to the guard, Meadow. There’s no telling what could happen if we’re left together, alone , for a shift change.”

  Regardless of the idle threat, Meadow smiled, believing she’d cornered Vincent with details from Penny’s diary she was certain Vincent had no way of knowing. There had been moments when his expression shifted, surprise drawing lines across his brow. Anger drawing a line between his eyes.

  Reluctant to leave, she convinced herself that it was as good a moment as any to take a break. Letting Vincent absorb his part in the destruction of several lives would weaken him, she hoped.

  Or, it would give him time to strengthen his lies.

  In the end, it didn’t much matter. Penny was dead. Maurice was dead. Émilie was dead, together with several other women who’d had the misfortune of meeting the monster Vincent created.

  Because, what Meadow knew that even the police and prosecutors hadn’t, was that although Vincent had been responsible for all the lives lost, he hadn’t been the one to kill them. Some, perhaps. But not all. And that fact drew Meadow’s notice more than she’d yet had a chance to admit.

  The question now became: Why hadn’t Vincent told the truth and thrown his brother behind bars?

  “I’ll see you when I get back,” Meadow said, standing from her seat and enjoying the metallic screech of the chair legs against the floor. Vincent merely watched her stand, ignoring the jarring noise as he held his expression carefully in place.

  Allowing the guard to lead her out, Meadow spent the half hour she had to wait worrying her fingernails between her teeth, gnawing at the edges while considering her next step. A day and a half remained, and there was still more to this story she hadn’t revealed.

  More importantly, there was more that Vincent hadn’t yet confessed. Wanting to save the best parts for the last day of the interview, Meadow formulated questions she would ask, prepared herself for answers she wasn’t sure she could bear to hear.

  Her heart shattered each time she thought about the man Penny had written about in her diary, the confused, sorrowful creature that hadn’t been given a chance. Meadow wanted to hate Maurice for killing Penny, wanted to curse his soul after discovering he’d died after Vincent went to jail. But the images in her head that Penny had painted of him, the whispers and memories that came to Meadow in dreams, made it impossible not to feel pity for the man.

  Vincent was one thing entirely. A scoundrel that enjoyed the games he played. But Maurice? Wasn’t he just another victim, another pawn caught in Vincent’s tangled web?

  “You ready?”

  Meadow’s head snapped up to see a new guard waiting at the gates. Forcing a polite smile, she pushed herself to her feet and followed him to interview room three where Vincent sat waiting.

  Patient as ever, Vincent said nothing while Meadow readied her recorder and turned to take her seat. “So, about Maurice, I think you owe me an explanation as to how he died.”

  “Not just yet,” Vincent responded, the note of humor she’d always heard in his voice absent. “I want to ask you about what Penny wrote regarding her first meeting with my brother. Not that night in the garden, but when I sent her down with his lunch. No...” his voice trailed off, his eyes refusing to meet hers as he studied a scratch that ran across the table where they sat. “Not then, either. I want to talk about when she brought him breakfast the next morning.”

  Gaze lifting, he asked, “Did she write anything beyond what you told me? Beyond being frightened? Beyond feeling sorry for Maurice?”

  Straightening her posture, Meadow gave the question some thought. Revealing too much would betray the secret she’d been guarding, and she wanted to save the sting of that for the last day of the interview. “I’m not sure what else she would have written. Your brother was a frightening man, but Penny saw him differently. She saw a man unaccustomed to social graces, to the rules of interaction between two people.”

  “So, she didn’t view him as a monster?”

  “No,” Meadow answered confidently, “she never did.”

  Vincent nodded his head, his throat working to swallow down the
acrid flavor of Meadow’s admission. It must have burned him to know that his attempt at torturing Penny by forcing her to serve Maurice hadn’t scarred her as deeply as he’d assumed.

  “How did Maurice die, Vincent?”

  Trailing a fingertip across the scratch he’d studied earlier, Vincent answered, true remorse in his tone. “After I was arrested, I hired a management company to maintain my properties, including Wishing Well. I also hired an attorney I believed I could trust to look after Maurice’s continued care. The company and attorney were intended to work together to see that nothing changed for Maurice.”

  “Why did that matter?”

  “I was saving lives,” Vincent admitted, his voice hollow, empty. “After Penny’s death, Maurice was devastated-“

  “Because he killed the woman he loved?”

  Meeting her stare once again, Vincent grinned, the expression tight. Meadow believed he’d forced the stretch of his lips, that it was a poor attempt to disguise his true feelings. “Why would you say he killed her when I’m the one being put to death for it?” The corner of his mouth crooked, a challenge issued in the slight grin.

  Cornered by the question, Meadow dropped the subject, “So, you had an attorney seeing to Maurice’s care. What happened? He was young. Healthy in a physical sense. Was it an illness that killed him?”

  A flash of guilt, of secrets and regrets, his eyes shadowing over before he admitted, “Maurice killed himself. He was found swinging from a noose he’d fashioned and hung in the room he’d demanded be designed to look like our childhood home.”

  True pain shot through Meadow’s chest, the heart-wrenching impact of it stunning her into silence. Vincent watched her reaction with curious eyes before clearing his throat and changing the subject. “We should get back to the story. Time continues to tick by.”

  Shaking herself of the agony she felt to learn Maurice’s fate, fighting the tears that threatened her eyes, she could barely speak with a steady voice. “Yes, we should. I guess at this point I’d like you to explain why, even after tossing Penny to Maurice, you continued to pursue her. I’ve given it some thought since what you admitted to me yesterday and the only reason I can fathom is that it had to do with the bet.”