He was always a heavy sleeper—but on the off chance he woke up in the middle of this, I’d have been screwed. Two against one is never ideal, especially when one of the two has been brainwashed into rooting for the wrong team.
Luca yanks on the ties, the ones I’ve tightened so close to his flesh he’ll probably have marks for days. I hop off the bed and move for the door, twisting the old-fashioned lock. Who knows if it’ll hold by the time Merritt figures out something’s going on up here, but it’ll at least buy time.
I don’t want to hurt that poor woman, and I certainly don’t want to traumatize her, but she needs to hear me out. She needs to know who her husband is, what he’s capable of, and what he’s going to do to her and her children. If restraint is the only way to get her to listen, so be it.
“Lydia.” He yell-whispers my name, spittle flying from his mouth. “The hell are you thinking?”
He doesn’t plead for me to cut him loose. He doesn’t try to reason with me with some psychobabble bullshit.
“What am I thinking?” I grab the knife, climb on their bed, and straddle him at the hips. “I’m thinking I’m the one who should do the talking here . . .”
I didn’t secure his ankles—he was starting to stir, and his wrists were the priority.
He bucks beneath me, his legs kicking, trapped under a mountain of blankets and a heavy quilt.
If only there were time to appreciate the poetic justice of this moment—restraining the very hands that once restrained me.
“Don’t.” I press the tip of the knife against his neck, pointing it into the pulsating spot several inches below his jaw.
“Lydia, listen to me.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but his eyes hold no fear. Not sure what I expected, though. I’ve known from the start that this man’s incapable of feeling or showing genuine emotion. He may not be pissing his pants, but he knows he’s at my mercy, and that’s satisfying just the same. “If you kill me, that means no more cash. And that identity you wanted, I have it. The papers are in my suitcase. If you—”
“I don’t want someone else’s identity. I want mine.” I press the blade flush against his hot skin. A superhuman rush of adrenaline floods my veins. I’ve never felt so powerful, so in control. This must have been what he felt all those times . . .
“Then why’d you come out here?” His dark brows gather below his worry-lined forehead. “Why didn’t you just go to the police?”
Ha. If he only knew . . .
I don’t answer him because a little wondering won’t kill him—though I wish it could.
“I know all about your life insurance scheme.” I nod toward the dresser, where I’ve placed the envelope containing the declaration pages. My original plan was to secure both Colettos with the ties, silence them with duct tape so I’d have their ears, and once I had Merritt calmed down, I was going to present my proof. Even if she didn’t want to hear it, she wouldn’t be able to argue with hard evidence. “You left in a hurry the other day, forgot to lock your office. It’s amazing what a person can find if they look hard enough.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I ignore his feeble attempt at gaslighting. It doesn’t work on me anymore. Not only is he an inhuman monster, he’s a liar and a con. Nothing that leaves his mouth is to be trusted.
“You shouldn’t have done this.” He emphasizes every syllable, his eyes widening in a silent urge to read between the lines. Another pathetic attempt to manipulate me. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing here, but trust me—you don’t know the half of what you think you know.”
I fight an incredulous chuckle. “Oh, yeah? Is that so? Please. Enlighten me.”
Hours ago, I was sitting on the edge of my bed in Delphine’s spare room, going through my plans for the evening for the millionth time. After she went to bed, I waited until I heard her faint snores, and then I sneaked out to the kitchen, plucked her phone off the charger, and ordered a ride to the farmhouse for $112—which I’ll pay back with interest. For an extra twenty bucks, I got the driver to stop at a local twenty-four-hour Wal-Mart so I could grab a few things. And two hours later, we were pulling into the long gravel drive leading up to the chocolate-box farmhouse that matched the real estate listing photos.
“Luca?” Merritt’s voice pushes through the wooden door, and the handle jiggles. “Luca, why’s the door locked? Let me in . . .”
She raps on the door, loud enough to be heard but low enough that it wouldn’t wake a sleeping child in the next room.
Our eyes lock. His lips press thin and his nostrils flare, but when he tries to respond, I flatten my palm over his mouth.
I was surprised to find their back door unlocked when I arrived. I mean, technically it was locked. The bolt had been shifted into the proper position. But a few hardy pushes were enough to jimmy it open. That’s the thing with these old houses . . . they can’t always be trusted. Something is always in disrepair, and you never realize it until the moment you actually need it.
“Luca,” she says, louder this time. “Open the door.”
He makes a face beneath my hand, a silent urge for me to do something. But the door stops jiggling and the floor creaks in the hall, as if she’s walking away.
I lift my hand from his thin mouth.
“She’s going to get a key,” he whispers.
Shrugging, I say, “Then I guess we’ll have some explaining to do in a minute, won’t we?”
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I find this entire thing amusing . . . even more amusing than the expression on his face when he walked into his house last month and saw me sitting at his kitchen table.
It was a precious little moment—one for the books.
But this is priceless.
“So what’s your plan?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know . . .”
“You’ve already destroyed my marriage. I’ve given you everything you need to get back on your feet. What are you going to gain from this?” He tugs at his restraints.
I remove the knife tip from his throat and climb off the bed to stretch.
“I want justice. And I want you to come clean to your wife about what you did,” I say, adding, “and what you are.”
“You want to know what I am?” He spits his words at me. “I knew you weren’t dead when I left you there. I never wanted to kill you. You’re only alive because I saved you.”
“You’re pathetic.” And delusional if he thinks I’m believing a word out of his ugly mouth.
“You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true. I might be a lot of things, Lydia. I’m fucked up and I know it. But I’m not a murderer.”
“You left me to die . . . I don’t see how that redeems you.”
I’d been captive for several years the night he choked on a handful of Marcona almonds. With a red face and blue lips, he gasped for air, mouthing directives for me to help him while I backed myself into the corner, praying for him to die.
In an unfortunate turn of events, he was able to clear the blockage himself.
But that moment has haunted me for years, that teasing proximity to freedom.