“You know, no one told you to keep her alive for nine years . . .” I sigh. While I’ll never admit it out loud, I blame myself for allowing it. Luca has demons. I’ve known that since several months into our relationship, when I stumbled across his collection of torture porn and the Polaroids of disfigured animals.
Most women would’ve run screaming in the other direction, but I’d already made progress with the man, and our plan was in motion. If I left him, he could’ve turned me in for plotting Lydia’s kidnapping and murder. I had too much to lose by leaving and the entire world to gain by staying.
It was easier to move forward with my plan, to continue molding Luca into his ideal self. He could have his drowned-rat plaything if it meant I got the best parts of him. And if it hadn’t been her, it would’ve been some other girl. Or girls. Plural. At least this way, we minimized his risk of getting caught.
Regardless, what’s done is done. We can’t change what he did or didn’t do.
“We had a plan.” I lift a hand to my head, forming the nozzle of a gun. We were three months along with Everett when I told him he needed to end it. It was time for him to bury his darkness and be a full-time family man. No more weekly visits to the cabin. No more pretending that side of him didn’t exist—we needed to burn that part of him to the ground. “All you had to do was stick to it.”
Everett cries in the next room, and my swollen breasts throb.
“Go get the groceries.” I walk away.
I’ll deal with him later.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LYDIA
The Coletto house is dark Tuesday evening when Jolie and I pull up. I went into the restaurant today to keep up with appearances—and to ensure no one called the bastard to let him know I didn’t show up. Didn’t want him to think I was up to anything. At the end of the dinner rush, I asked the chef to make Luca and Merritt’s favorite meals, and then I caught a ride from Jolie on the way out.
“You think they’re home?” I ask when she shifts into park.
She shrugs. “I don’t know where else they’d be. They just had a baby . . . you want me to go with?”
“No, wait here. I’ll be right back.”
With bags of food in tow, I head to the front door and give it a light knock, then a second, slightly louder knock. There are no footsteps on the other side. No screaming baby or overzealous toddler. No humming TV or droning vacuum.
Heading around to the back of their house, I climb the stairs leading up to a set of sliding doors. Hands pressed against the glass; I stare into a dim and lifeless house. An empty sippy cup rests on the kitchen island, and the only light glowing is the one above the range. Heart ricocheting in my chest, I knock on this door.
“Merritt?” I call. “You home?”
Pressing my ear against the door, I listen—but even if there were something on the other side, the sound of the crashing ocean behind me would drown it out.
“Merritt.” I pound on the glass, then move to the window beside it, trying to steal a better glimpse of what’s inside.
A shadowy family room. Messy blankets piled on the sofa. A black TV screen. A remote control lying on the floor, as if someone dropped it but didn’t have the need to pick it up.
Did they leave in a hurry?
And where the hell would they go with a newborn baby in tow?
The back deck spans the entire length of the Coletto house, and I move from window to window, cataloging every detail as if I’m inspecting a crime scene. The mess in the family room could be explained—but the scene in the master suite is concerning. Opened dresser drawers with clothes dripping down the sides. An unzipped toiletry bag on the foot of the bed. The light in the closet, left on and forgotten.
I peel my hands from the glass, leaving two perfect handprints that evaporate into thin air.
If something has happened to Merritt or the kids, the police will find my handprints all over these windows . . . and the motive will practically write itself.
She’s crazy . . .
She wanted revenge . . .
She wanted it all . . .
Even if Luca goes down in the end, he’ll make damned sure to take me with him.
Sucking in salty, shallow breaths, I carry the cold food back to Jolie’s idling car.
“They aren’t home.” I buckle in and stare at the two perfect circles her headlights make on their wooden garage doors.
“That’s weird.” Jolie shifts into reverse, and when we’re on the main road, she fusses with the music before settling on some Calexico. She doesn’t think twice about any of it.
But I do.
All I can think about are those insurance policies on Merritt and Elsie.
If the man would kill me for two mil and a fresh start, who’s to say he wouldn’t do it to his new family? He has no conscience. No remorse. It’d be another Tuesday in his world.
Jolie drops me off in front of The Blessed Alchemist fifteen minutes later. Sprinting inside, I find Delphine at the kitchen table picking at a frozen dinner.
“Can you give me a ride to the police station?” I ask, breathless from climbing the stairs two at a time. “I’ll explain on the way there.”
Without saying a word, she pushes her chair out and grabs her car keys.
This—whatever it is, whatever it isn’t, whatever it’s going to be—is bigger than me.
I realize now . . . I can’t do this alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MERRITT
I stare at my useless credit cards Tuesday evening. I have half a mind to cut them up with kitchen scissors, to destroy them the way Lydia’s destroying my family. The nerve of that woman to extort us like that.
A thousand dollars a day?
Who does she think she is?
And after I was so kind to her with the lunches and shopping, opening up to her as if she were a trusted friend.
I toss the cards back into my purse, not bothering to slide them into their wallet slots. And I head to the sink to rinse a head of cauliflower for the soup I’m making for dinner. I barely have the energy to feed my baby, but if I don’t eat, neither will he.
With a razor-sharp butcher knife in hand, I chop the rinsed head into tiny pieces and dump them into a stock pot on this godforsaken electric range. I pour in a carton of bone stock and measure out a handful of spices before heading to the fridge for the butter, cream, and parmesan.
My first mistake was underestimating that woman. I was so convinced I could stay one step ahead of her by feigning ignorance, by rolling over like a submissive puppy and showing my vulnerable side. She could hate Luca all she wanted, but no one in their right mind would hurt a kind, generous, helpless pregnant mother.
Guess she wanted to get us where it counted—our pockets.
The conniving bitch played me like a fiddle . . . no easy feat.
I should have dealt with her myself when I had the chance. I easily could have invited her to lunch, slipped a little something into her drink—eye drops maybe—waited for her to pass out on the way home, then taken her out to a remote section of the woods to dispose of her. A quick slit to the jugular would’ve done it. No need to complicate it. But every time I played the scene out in my head, it always ended with that psychic lady she lives with giving interviews on TV, pointing fingers at Luca. Those types will do whatever they can to hog the spotlight, and free publicity is priceless. Not to mention, it’s always the husband.