by Lily White
Not all of his victims had been as easy to manipulate as he’d believed. At least one puppet had escaped their strings.
Giving in to the need for sleep, Meadow was flustered to wake with only an hour to get ready and begin the last day of the interview. Not taking the usual care with her appearance as she had before, she quickly grabbed a new set of tapes, her recorder and darted out. Having made the drive faster than what would be considered safe or legal, she was practically running as she approached the gates of Faiville Prison. The same guard from the previous two mornings stood waiting.
“Damn, looks like I just lost fifty bucks. I bet the guys you wouldn’t show today.”
Ignoring his jab, she tucked her recorder beneath her arm. “I’m only a few minutes late.”
Leaning inside the small booth, he tapped in the code on the electronic panel before pulling the heavy key from his belt. “Doesn’t matter, you’ll have to wait for a few minutes anyway. Mercier’s finishing up with another visitor.”
Fury arced through her. “What do you mean another visitor? This interview was supposed to be exclusive.”
The guard shrugged and opened the gate, the hiss a sharp noise against the tension in the air. “Man’s dying tomorrow. His attorney is in there with him squaring up his final wishes.” Eyeing her as she passed him, he laughed. “No offense, but it looks like you didn’t get much sleep last night. You’re not as put together as usual.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, she kept from snapping at him again. Smiling sweetly instead, she asked, “How would you sleep after hearing the sordid details of the life of a man who killed four people?”
He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I hate to say it, Ms. Graham, but it wouldn’t bother me much. I’ve worked on death row for thirteen years. I’ve heard stories that would make your skin crawl. Once these assholes are about to walk the final line, they just love to brag.”
Her shoulders sagged, and realizing she was taking out her anxiety on a man who didn’t deserve it, she forced herself to relax. “How much longer will his attorney be here?”
They’d reached the interior waiting room by the time he answered. “There’s no telling. Usually it’s a matter of deciding what will be done with the body following death, but in Mercier’s case, I assume there’s more to deal with, considering he’s rich and all. Just take a seat on the bench and they’ll walk you back once he’s done.”
Dropping her weight onto the uncomfortable bench, Meadow ground her teeth. She had only a few hours left to discover how Penny died, to determine whether it was actually Vincent that killed her sister. Memories raced back, sharp and jagged, the truth of the tragedy unfolding in her mind’s eye. She knew more than she was letting on, felt guilt for her role in it, wanted to stab a knife so deep in Vincent’s heart that the secret she revealed would be the last thought across his mind as he took his last breath.
And she wanted to cry.
While Vincent worked out the terms of his death and estate with some high-power attorney, Meadow fought tears of rage, of sorrow, of frustration. She had nothing left after this interview. Her sister was gone, her mother was gone, and except for the journalism career she didn’t love, she was without direction in her new life.
The tears fell despite her hatred of them. For her sister. For Maurice. For all the people who were caught in the web that Vincent had so expertly weaved.
A noise drew her attention to the gate, a man being allowed through in his slate grey suit, his pressed white shirt and red tie. A file folder was held loosely in his hand, plain durable paper in brown. Approaching her, he dared to meet her eyes with his own, the blue like a clear lake beneath the salt and pepper color of his hair.
Extending a hand, he introduced himself, not that Meadow hadn’t already deduced who he was. “You must be Meadow Graham. I’m Stephen Chase, Mr. Mercier’s attorney. It is Meadow, correct?”
Nodding, Meadow didn’t miss the odd expression on his face. “Of course. Are you finished with Vincent? I need to start the interview if I hope to finish today.”
Behind the attorney, two guards waited patiently by the gate, their eyes darting about as if they weren’t listening. Meadow knew they were.
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to stop and talk to you before leaving.”
“Is he cancelling the interview? I have one day left!”
“No,” he answered, shifting the folder in his grip. “But Mr. Mercier explained to me that there are items at the Wishing Well he’d had stored that he would like given to you.”
“What kind of items?”
“Odds and ends. I believe some of the items were from Penelope’s room. I’m not sure what exactly. He explained there’s a list at the hotel. I’m hoping you’ll agree to meet me at the Wishing Well tomorrow morning following Mr. Mercier’s execution.”
Although the last place Meadow wanted to go was the Wishing Well, she couldn’t find it within herself to decline the invitation. Seeing the hotel, walking the halls would be the same as confronting a ghost, the same as confronting a nightmare she feared she could never escape. Perhaps looking the monster in the eye would be the only way to dispel it.
“Fine. I’ll meet you there once the execution is over.”
Standing from her seat, she gathered her recorder and blank tapes, a hand landing gently on her shoulder. Turning, she backed out of reach of Mr. Chase.
“There is one other matter we need to discuss.”
Staring at him, she waited for whatever bomb he would drop. The expression on his face was too apologetic for good news.
Taking a breath, he explained, “Although Mr. Mercier has agreed to conclude the interview with you today, he wishes to do so without the use of recording devices-“
“What?” Her voice echoed, the one question repeating through the halls. The volume of it had attracted the attention of the two waiting guards and they no longer kept up the appearance of not paying attention.
“What do you mean he won’t let me record this last part? I have no other way to take notes. I’m not allowed to take so much as a pen inside that room. Am I supposed to write stuff down with a fucking crayon?”
Anger was a pulse beneath her skin. How dare he? How fucking dare Vincent do this to her? He knew she needed these tapes, knew she was approaching the portion of his confession that mattered the most. All the rest of it was a method for him to brag, but this part - THIS admission - was what she needed to finally move on from the heartbreak of what her life had become.
The attorney didn’t react to her anger, his expression blank, his posture firm. “I apologize, Ms. Graham, but those are his wishes. He’s under no order compelling him to discuss this matter with you. He’s doing so voluntarily, but he no longer wants your recorder in the room. I can take it off your hands if you like, and return it when we see each other tomorrow. I assume the tapes you’ve brought with you are blank, and you won’t have to worry about losing the work you’ve already accomplished by entrusting the recorder with me.”
“That son of a bitch,” she cursed beneath her breath. But time was running out, the clock ticking forward, stealing the precious minutes she had to pick Vincent’s brain, to extract the truth she needed.
“Fine,” she said, handing over the recorder and tapes. “But this doesn’t mean what he tells me is private. I still have an article to write.”
The attorney nodded. “I understand. You’ll just have to do so from memory rather than having his words documented on tape.”
Without a recording, Meadow wouldn’t be able to prove that what she wrote was fact, she wouldn’t be able to verify Vincent’s words if someone were to question their accuracy. And perhaps that’s exactly what Vincent wanted.
Maybe it was a good thing they wouldn’t allow her to enter the room with a pen. She wasn’t sure she could resist jumping across the table and stabbing him in the eye.
“Thank you, Ms. Graham. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow.”
The attorney sauntered off in one direction while Meadow walked in the other, the guards shaking their heads as she approached. One followed her toward interview room three, his voice low when he commented, “Mercier really is a bastard, isn’t he? Asshole’s dying tomorrow but still feels the need to screw with people.”
Meadow didn’t bother to respond, her focus on one man alone, a man who sat grinning on his side of the table as the guard let her into the room. Ignoring the quiet click of the door closing, Meadow took her seat, her arms crossing over her chest in defiance of Vincent’s amusement.
“That’s a really pretty smile you have for a dead man.”
Laughter burst from his lips, actual joy beaming behind his glittering green eyes. “Ah, Meadow. Don’t be mad,” he finally said once he had calmed enough to speak. “There are reasons for everything I do. You’ll learn that eventually.”
When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Have you decided what questions you’d like to ask today? Seeing as I’m dead tomorrow, I certainly hope you’ve determined which ones are the most important.”
Unclenching her teeth, she glared across the table at him. “I think you already know what my first question will be. I asked it twice yesterday, both times wherein you refused to answer.”
Shaking his head, he grinned. “You’ll have to excuse me for my forgetfulness. With death on the horizon, I can’t seem to think of much else. Please remind me, what is it you would like to know?”
Her fingers curled into her palms, her nails cutting crescent shaped gouges into her skin. “Did you kill Penny? Or was it Maurice?”
Sighing, Vincent relaxed back into his seat, his eyes locking to hers. “I find it funny that you keep asking a question to which you already know the answer. Or, at least you think you know.”
He was silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if he’d returned to the years his memories took him. With a voice far more somber than anything she’d heard in the past few days, he said, “When I was a child, I used to adore the hours I spent with Maman reading fairytales-“
“Oh, cut the shit,” Meadow burst out. “I don’t have time for your musings about pretty stories.”
“I think you do, Meadow. At least if you truly want to know this last part. But, I’m actually glad you interrupted me, I was skipping ahead. Tell me, what details do you know about the day your sister died?”
“Are you asking me that so you can formulate a better lie?”
He grinned. “No. In this, I will be honest. I just find it funny that you seem to think it wasn’t me who killed your sister. Now, how would you know that? It’s not like Penny could record the events of her own death in the diary I sent you. So why do you think the details are any different than what the police know?”
Vincent was edging too close to the secret Meadow had kept close to her chest, the only weapon she had left to use against him. “The police report claimed that two people died that night, that it was due to a lover’s spat the deaths occurred. You didn’t love Penny, not according to the diary-“
“The diary ,” he repeated, soft laughter shaking his shoulders. “Right. Obviously that’s the only way you could possibly know this.”
“Two people died,” she argued, “one quite viciously from what I recall reading. But viciousness isn’t your style, Vincent. You are far more controlled than to lose yourself to that type of violence. And if what the reports say is true, than it wouldn’t have been you to kill both Penny and your friend, Barron. However, a man who was jealous, a man such as Maurice, would be able to tear another man apart so cruelly. He had no control over his instincts.”
Breathing deeply, Vincent held the air in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling. “Yes,” he agreed, “Maurice was quite capable of that.”
“So,” Meadow continued, “I believe Maurice killed her because he thought she was with another man. He killed her because she was the only woman he loved, she was his damn obsession, and he mistook seeing her with someone else and slaughtered not just her, but the other man. Perhaps that is why he was so devastated that he took his own life.”
A flicker of remorse flashed across his expression, there and then gone, human and then cold, unfeeling monster. “Back to what I was saying,” he finally replied, his smile stretching again. “The reason I always loved fairytales was because of their perfect timing, despite how unrealistic that timing might be. And this story is a fairytale, I hope you know that.”
Rolling her eyes, Meadow knew shoving Vincent along would only make him dig his heels deeper in refusal to budge. Lounging back in her seat, she glared at him, waiting for whatever point it was that he wanted to make.
“Except, in fairytales, the perfect timing has more to do with the prince sweeping in to save the fair maiden, his actions allowing just enough time for the reader to think she’ll perish, but then there he is on his white horse, slaying the villain. And as you know the prince and the maiden kiss, their bodies disappearing as they ride off into the sunset. The perfect timing of fairy tales are intricately tied to the happy ending. However, in this particular fable - although there is a prince, there is a maiden, there is a villain, there is a kiss, and there is a sunset - the perfect timing is tied to its tragedy.”
A shiver coursed down her spine, pain and sorrow shredding her heart, images flashing through her thoughts. “Just tell me what happened, Vincent. I’ve lost enough time due to your meeting with your attorney. I don’t have much more to go before you die.”
Weaving his fingers together over the surface of the table, Vincent leaned forward to close some of the distance between them. “And so it happened, on a night that should have been pure joy for the prince and his maiden, the villain swept in to steal that happiness for himself, if only to exact revenge...”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Vincent
“I mean it, Maurice, stop trying to shove food in my mouth in front of Vincent. Your jerk of a brother will get ideas and pretend to try it himself while actually just stabbing me with a fork!”
Penelope’s laughter was an infectious joy lighting the face of my brother, my eyes locked on his expression with utter disbelief. In a matter of weeks, Penelope had been able to accomplish what everybody else had not: She’d shown a man who was trapped by his own emotional turmoil how to come out from beneath the weight of it and learn how to live again. The counselors, the doctors, not even my mother, had been able to accomplish that. And for what Penelope had done, I would forever be in her debt.
Not that I would admit that debt. Not to her, at least. Lord knows she would wait for the most inopportune moment to demand her pound of flesh. Although Maurice loved her more than he could even love himself, I still saw her for the rebellious, Dirty Girl I’d discovered on the streets. But that didn’t mean I could ignore the gratitude I had for her ability to return a member of my family to me.
Lips pulled into a smile, Maurice shoved the fork at her once again, the food spilling over to dribble down her chin. “I’ll kill him if he stabs you. He knows that.” Turning to flash me a fake snarl, Maurice asked, “Right, Vincent?”
“C’est vrai, mon frère .”
It was in moments like this, I wondered if I was dreaming. This change in him wasn’t possible.
Two weeks had passed since I’d agreed to taking Maurice out into the garden at sunset, fourteen days wherein Penelope hunted me down demanding that I make good on my promise. I’ll admit nervousness had kept me from finally relenting, and for those two weeks, I found excuses for why it couldn’t happen that night. However, I’d run out of excuses, and tonight, while the sun was still partially in the sky and was busy lowering itself over the horizon to become a web of brilliant, beaming color, Penelope and I would walk Maurice out while there were still people lingering around the gardens to see how he reacted to the attention.
In truth, my brother was a good-looking man, not quite as tall as me, but broader, his physique better defined. His hair was just as dark and wild, curled at the ends
where it dusted his shoulders. And his eyes, like mine, were the color of emeralds that could lure a saintly woman into the bowels of Hell. He would attract attention whether he liked it or not, but hopefully with Penelope at his side, he could ignore the idle glances and the curious stares.
Penelope took the bite he was offering, her lips sliding slowly along the tines of the fork as he pulled it away, their focus locked on each other. To see him so happy, to feel his contentment from across the room, I had a moment of jealousy for my brother. In all my years, in the freedom I’d had to explore the world, never had I looked at a woman like that.
But, that’s fine. I would still fuck them, and that would just have to be good enough for me.
“Well,” I said, clearing my throat, “I should probably get going before you two strip down and start mating with each other right in front of me. By the looks you’re throwing across the table, I just envisioned a reverse cowgirl occurring on top of your lunch.”
Penelope turned her head and glared. “Not funny, Vincent.”
Maurice grinned. I was giving him ideas apparently.
Laughing as I left, I returned to my office with a skip to my step. Life had just become less irritating at the Wishing Well, a bit of light added to the secret hidden in the basement. I’d been at my desk for a few hours when a familiar face walked through the door.
“Hello, Vincent. Long time no see. Has your newest toy been keeping you busy and out of touch?”
Glancing up from my computer, I watched Barron stroll in to take a seat. As usual, his blond hair was perfectly styled, his suit impeccable, his eyes focused on me with the arrogance only a man like him could have. As rich as me, as powerful in this city, he walked as if he owned everything within sight, and had he not been currently in my hotel, that would have been true. Barron was a entrepreneur with his name on most of the nightclubs, restaurants and bars around town.
“Barron, it has been quite a while. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you for lunch the last several times you asked. I’ve had my hands full with the hotel and my brother.”