“You’re right,” she said. “It would. But you don’t know why it would be a sight. Would you like to know?”
“Sure.”
“I have the runs, I can’t hold it in any longer and I don’t plan to. It’s either coming out in front of you or somewhere private. You better choose fast or you’re going to have one shitty mess on your hands.”
And that changed everything.
He got up from his chair, grabbed the rifle and walked over to where she was standing, which was near the staircase that led to the first floor. He wasn’t so much taller than she, but physically, he was all muscle. His chest strained against his T-shirt. His arms were pumped and thick with veins. Now that she could see his face, she guessed he was somewhere in his thirties.
“Get in front of me,” he said.
She looked down the length of the work bench and saw the prize as well as the complications that came with getting to it. The basement was too wide. The natural inclination would be to walk down the center of the room. But that wouldn’t work for her needs. She needed to stay as far to the right as possible when he took her to the bathroom.
Wherever that was.
She assumed it was at the opposite end of the basement, though it was difficult to be sure because back there, it was too dark to see clearly. Still, regardless of the darkness, she thought she could make out a door at the very back of the room. It must be painted a lighter color because she could see an almost ethereal shape of a vertical rectangle.
She had a gut feeling she was right about this. In fact, she was betting everything that she was right.
She stood in front of him and positioned herself so she was closer to the bench. He put his hand on her left shoulder and called up the stairs. “I need backup,” he said.
“And I really need to go.”
“You’re going to have to wait.”
She buckled her knees a bit. “I’m not sure that’s an option.”
“I need backup,” he said louder. “Move!”
She listened for the floor to creak above them. She waited for footsteps to come racing, but they didn’t. She was prepared for someone to take his place—she was planning on it, in fact—but if they didn’t come, she’d need to plan on something else. And fast.
“What the hell do you think we’re going to do?” Gloria said behind him. “Leave here without her? Go upstairs and be ambushed by one of your men? Just take her to the damned bathroom. I’m not about to leave here without my daughter.”
“I’ve got to go,” Beth said, unfastening the button on her pants. “I’m sorry, but I can’t wait.”
He shoved her forward, past the staircase and toward the bench. “Keep your fucking pants on.” He lifted his head up the staircase. “I said I need backup! Where is everyone?”
“I’m going now.”
No footsteps on the floor.
“If you shit in this basement, I will kill you. You got that?”
“What’s the difference? You’re going to do it anyway.”
No movement above.
He turned and pointed the rifle at her mother, then at the Moores and Jack while Katie rocked. “If any of you move, you’re dead.”
Beth took several steps back. Behind her, just beyond the stairs on the work bench, was the butt of a hammer. Or at least what she hoped was a hammer. If it was, she’d grab it. If it wasn’t, then she’d just go to the bathroom and use it, her hopes for a way out dashed.
He faced her. “Turn around and move.”
“I can’t see. It’s too dark. Please, just let me go here.”
“The bathroom’s behind you. Turn around and walk to the door. Do you see it? It’s right in front of you. There’s a light inside. Move.”
She turned and saw the hammer. It was five feet away from her. It was there and it was real. There were other tools, but she focused on the hammer. It was bigger. It would do the most damage. She needed to get to the right. She’d never get it otherwise.
“Move!”
She faked a cramp and took a sidestep forward. “I can’t hold it in. I can barely walk. Why didn’t you just let me go earlier?”
“Move.”
She cramped again, staggered forward in the darkness and then tripped. When she went down, she made a startled sound as she struck the bench, grabbed the hammer, slid it between her breasts, and hit the dirt hard.
She waited for the worst.
She was lying on her stomach. The hammer was beneath her. Did he see her take it? Did he hear her take it? Her heart pounded against her chest with a ferocity that didn’t seem human to her. She could hear him coming behind her. She sensed him stopping. Then the tip of his rifle whacked against the bottom of her shoe.
“That was slick,” he said.
She closed her eyes. He saw her take it. Her hand tightened around the hammer. She wasn’t sure what to do.
“Get up. Real slow.”
Why had she been so stupid? He was going to shoot her. This was it for her. Why had she taken such a risk?
Again, the rifle against her shoe, this time harder. “Unless you’ve shit your pants, get up and use the bathroom.”
Unbelieving, Beth’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t seen her. She gripped the hammer with everything she had. “I can’t see,” she said. “It’s too dark. I think I can make it, but I need help getting up.”
“So, now you’re a cripple? Get up.”
“I can’t. The cramping hurts. Please. I promise I’ll go in there and get this over with. I’ll be quick. I won’t waste your time. I’ll—”
“Christ.”
She felt his free hand on her shoulder. She could smell tobacco in the air where there was no hint of tobacco before. His head was right there. His breath was on her neck. She listened for the sound of footsteps above, but there was no time to hear them. He started to turn her over and when he did, Beth Spellman acted.
She swung the hammer in a violent arc and slammed it so hard against what she hoped was the side of his head, she felt something crack, she felt something give and then she felt the hammer hammering through. But hammering through what? His brain? His face? She didn’t know. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t be sure.
The rifle dropped to the dirt floor.
He started to go down.
She tried to jerk the hammer free, but it was stuck. She gave it a hard yank, felt something break and then she pulled it loose.
He collapsed next to the gun and started to convulse.
She felt something warm and thick and wet spray across her face and knew it was his blood.
It got into her eyes. She could taste it in her mouth. She kicked herself back toward the bathroom and heard movement from the other side of the basement. Was someone coming down the stairs? She couldn’t tell. He started to cough a clotted cough. His legs twitched against her own. She couldn’t see clearly because of the blood in her eyes and because it was so dark, but she could hear him just fine. And what she heard next paralyzed her.
“Fucking bitch,” he said. “You dead fucking bitch.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If Emma ever had been inside her uncle’s house, it must have been when she was a child, because she had no memory of it when she stepped into the foyer, which was just as grand as she expected it to be.
She looked around the cavernous space and wished she could say she was surprised by how elaborately it was furnished, but she wasn’t. She knew from her mother and her grandfather that her uncle was all about show. She knew he traveled the world collecting what she saw now. From the paintings on the walls to the Tiffany lamps on the tables, she felt as if she was standing in the middle of an installation at the Louvre or at the d’Orsay.
“Let me take your coat,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“But it’s so warm.”
“In here, it’s cool.”
“You always were a funny girl,” he said. “But suit yourself. Would you like something to drink? A martini?”
&nb
sp; “Uncle Scott, I’m sixteen.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “Just sixteen? Is that all? I thought you were at least eighteen, which is a fine time to start deciding which cocktail will become your cocktail.”
He put his hand on her shoulder and she couldn’t help notice the ridiculously large diamond on his pinky. She looked at his hair and thought it certainly was dark for a man in his mid-fifties. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Let’s have a martini together. We’ve never shared a drink.”
That’s because I’m a minor and we’ve rarely been in the same room together. “If you have iced tea or something, that would be great.”
The music that was playing when she arrived stopped. She caught movement on the wall ahead of her and watched the shadow she saw earlier retreat. She could hear footsteps moving into another part of the house.
“Am I interrupting something?”
“No, no.”
“But there’s someone else here. I just heard them walk away.”
His eyes seemed to harden for a moment, but then they relaxed. He smiled at her. “It’s your aunt Grace. She came for dinner tonight. She probably overheard us and is waiting in the parlor for me to announce you. You know how those artist types are. Flighty.”
Announce me? Who the hell are you? Noël Coward?
She smiled back. “It would be great to see Aunt Grace. Maybe she can give me some insight into my mother, as well.”
“That might be a challenge for each of us, dear. Especially for Grace, who was in university when your mother left the country to have her B-movie adventures in Paris. They were never close, but let’s give it a try. You never know. Come, come.”
She followed him down a warmly lit hallway paneled in dark wood. He was tan and overweight, just under six feet and carried himself as if he had a rod shoved up his ass. In spite of his gut, his posture was perfect. He moved lightly, as if on air, through this magical kingdom built by her grandmother’s generosity by way of her grandfather’s wealth. She looked up at the high ceilings and down at the polished parquet floors, and decided that keeping this joint afloat must cost him a fortune. With no job and none of his mother’s money coming in since her death two years ago, she could only imagine the pressure he was under to keep it above water now.
“Grace,” he called as he stepped into the parlor. “We have a visitor. Where are you? Grace? Grace?”
When they were talking a moment ago, she felt he possessed one of the ugliest faces she’d ever seen. His nose was too narrow and refined for a man with such broad features—he obviously had it sliced and carved into something he hoped would look more Anglophile. But it didn’t. Instead, it just looked feminine and out of place against the broad map of his overly tanned, pockmarked skin.
And then there were his lips, which were weirdly puffy, probably due to some kind of filler. She thought his small eyes resembled a rat’s. But nothing came close to the genetic disasters that were his ears. They were nature’s most egregious strikes against him. They were thick and large and didn’t lay against the sides of his head. Instead, they stuck out like fleshy dried apricots but were hardly as inviting.
She entered the parlor, casually slipped her right hand behind her back and pressed it against the gun. Getting to it would be easy. She looked around the room and wondered how thick the walls were and if they were well-insulated. Outside, the street was busy, but she couldn’t hear a thing, not even a hint of noise. His place appeared virtually soundproof, which made sense. It was an old house. Back then, they built them like fortresses.
Still, she was wary. When she used the gun, someone would hear it. It’s how they interpreted the muffled sound that would be key for how well the rest of the evening went for her.
When Grace appeared from the open doorway at the far end of the parlor, she was just as pretty as she was when Emma last saw her in court, when she and the rest of them contested the will. She was blonde and slender, a year older than her mother, but she didn’t look it. She was stylish without being pretentious. She came briskly across the room in her white silk blouse and brown silk pants—not with open arms, but with an outstretched hand.
“This is a surprise,” she said.
Emma shook her hand, the very act of which underscored the chill in their relationship. “A good one, I hope.”
“It’s always good to see you, Emma, especially since we rarely are given the chance. Your mother has hidden you away for years.”
“Not really. We do come to New York.”
“But never to see us. That’s my point, I guess. Never to see us.” She stood back and appraised her niece. “You look like your grandfather,” she said. “And a bit like your mother. As for your father, I have no idea if you resemble him or not because none of us knows who he was. Or is. Nobody knows if he’s even alive. Still, as usual, it’s your grandfather and mother competing for attention, only this time, the competition is taking place on your face.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“But it’s true. And in the best sense. You’re beautiful, Emma. I wish I had your skin. So pretty. So young, so bright. Did your uncle offer you a drink?”
“He offered me a martini.”
“Of course, he did. But that’s your uncle Scott for you. He started drinking when he was eight. Or was it seven, Scott?”
“Four.”
“Doesn’t matter. What would you really like?”
“An iced tea?”
“That I can do.”
She watched her aunt leave the room and then turned her attention to her uncle, who was sitting in one of two leather chairs separated by a gleaming yet ancient-looking table. A window was behind him, but the shade was drawn.
“Would you like a fag?” he asked.
“Would I like a what?”
“A fag. You know. A cigarette.” He furrowed his brow at her. “But you don’t know. Apparently, we need to get you up to snuff if you’re going to bear the Miller name. Come and have a fag with me. A Sobranie Cocktail ciggy. They’re the best and the most elegant. If you’re going to smoke, which I hope you will, you must smoke these. They come in all sorts of cheerful colors, with a gold foil filter so you know that you’re being taken care of properly. I could smoke them all day if my doctor would allow it, but he won’t, the son of a bitch. So tonight is a welcome exception. I’m making it for you.”
How kind.
He reached for the iridescent box on the table and removed three cigarettes from it—one bright yellow, one lavender, one pink. “Here,” he said, offering her the yellow one. “It’ll calm your nerves while you tell us what’s bothering you about your mother. I can’t imagine what it is, but naturally I’m curious. She’s an enigma, that one.”
“I don’t smoke, Uncle Scott.”
“Well, you’ve got to start sometime, Emma. You live in Paris, for God’s sake. Their lungs are smoke stacks over there. And smoking is part of a Mediterranean diet—it has to be. They eat bread, wine and cheese all day and yet they’re all so slim, which I used to be when I could smoke all day. Surely, you’ve had a cigarette by now.”
“One or two.”
“Sounds like a few packs to me. Here, take this. I’ve already given up on the martini. You need to meet me halfway at some point.”
He held out his hand, which was trembling. She watched it for a moment before she studied his face and then looked at what had to be the most ridiculous-looking cigarette she’d ever seen. It was as yellow as a canary, but looked hearty enough to survive the mine. She wanted to keep her hands free, but when the time came for her to use the gun, she’d be finished with the cigarette, so she took it from him to shut him up.
“Why is your hand shaking?”
He pulled it back. “Is it?”
“It was.”
“I don’t know. Too much caffeine? I drink pots of coffee. Pots.”
When she put the cigarette between her lips, he leaned forward with a crystal lighter and gave it a flick. �
�Here. Lean into the flame. You’ll thank me later.”
“You’re giving her a cigarette?”
Each turned as Grace Miller entered the room with a tray of two martinis and a glass of iced tea. She put the tray down on the table beside her brother and Emma noted that her aunt also had brought water crackers and some sort of blue cheese. Knowing them, it probably was expensive, but it looked processed and inedible, nothing like the cheese she was used to in Paris.
“She needs a cigarette. Look at her. She’s obviously upset about something.”
“Not enough to make my hands shake.”
“Are we on that again? Caffeine. Age. Who knows why they shake? They just do. You’ll see what happens when you get to be my age.”
“I wonder if I will.”
“What a strange thing to say,” Grace said. She looked down at the cigarettes her brother was holding. “I suppose you’re taking the pink one?”
“Is that even a question?”
They smirked at each other and both lit up. Emma went to the sofa that was nearest to them and sat down with her back tilted away from them. The cigarette made her feel loopy—too loopy. She thought she could handle one, but obviously she couldn’t. She decided to hold it longer between puffs and not inhale when she did. It was the only way she was going to keep her mind sharp.
“So, what is Camille up to now?” her uncle said. “What has she done that’s laid you bare and driven you to us, of all people? She’s already got all of our father’s money. You’d think she’d be celebrating with it in Paris. Rolling around on her bed with it. Tossing it from balconies as if she was Evita, which I secretly think she believes she is, by the way. She always was fighting for the poor, which I never understood and don’t admire. Let them fend for themselves, I say.” He took a drag on his fag. “I’m actually surprised you’re still in the city.”
Sure you are.
“I thought you’d be gone by now, too,” Grace said.
Sure you did.
“We’re here for a few more days. It’s not often that we’re in New York.”
“You should come more often. New York is a fantastic city,” Scott said.
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