“Please,” she begs. “Bennett…”
“Let’s go greet Skip. You first.”
He steps behind her and, when she doesn’t move, digs the gun into her shoulder blade. She rises and walks out of the kitchen, down the hallway toward the study, then stumbles.
She is going to be sick. The thought of leaving her precious little boy is too much. Matthew will be viewed as the heroic, grieving widower. He’ll have full custody of Bennett.
She retches, then starts to cry.
“Get a grip, Marissa,” Matthew barks, jabbing her again with the cold metal until she resumes walking.
At the threshold of Matthew’s office, she sees Skip pulling himself through the broken window. He’s got his coat draped over the bottom to protect himself from the sharp shards, and his upper body is through the jagged hole while his lower body dangles outside the house. Blood drips down from a cut on his forehead. His eyes widen as Marissa and Matthew step into the room. Skip looks frantic.
He’s too late.
Matthew will shoot them both. The final scene he is directing will be complete. He even has witnesses in place who will testify to Skip’s obsession, and to Matthew’s seeming devotion to Marissa: Polly and Avery.
Marissa hears the noise of a distant siren, but if the police are coming, they’ll be too late as well.
“Walk toward the window,” Matthew instructs her. “I’ll shoot you now if you don’t.”
Skip shouts, “I’ll kill you if you hurt her!”
“Actually, it’s going to be the other way around,” Matthew replies.
Marissa keeps her eyes locked on Skip. There’s nowhere to run. She might be able to grab the letter opener from Matthew’s desk, but he will surely fire his gun before she has a chance to wound him.
She takes a step toward Skip, then another, as if she were walking down a gangplank.
Skip stops moving. “Look, Matthew, it was my fault, okay?” Skip’s voice is pleading. “Not hers. You don’t have to do this.”
“Keep walking,” Matthew orders.
Marissa takes another step.
Skip’s words tumble out: “Marissa picked you, not me.”
“Sure she did,” Matthew snaps. “Just like my dad prefers me to you. Just like Tina did, too.”
Marissa freezes; she can’t take another step.
“Things didn’t end up so well for Tina, either,” Matthew continues. “Do you know she thought it was you chasing after her when she was sitting on the pier alone that night? She looked so disappointed when she turned around and saw me. But not for long.”
Three things happen as Matthew speaks those horrible words.
Skip abruptly drops backward through the open window, vanishing.
Matthew shoves Marissa roughly to the floor and runs toward the window.
And a gunshot explodes, the sound so loud and powerful it seems to reverberate through Marissa’s soul.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
AVERY
THE BLUE LEATHER GLOVES aren’t my only clue. But the second I see them on Skip’s hands, everything else clicks into place.
There is no way Skip could have given his gloves to Ray and still be wearing them himself. But someone else could easily have purchased a near-identical pair and passed them to Ray along with the anonymous note. That same person could have ordered the yellow roses from Bloom, made the phone hang-ups, and even orchestrated the attack on Matthew.
I think I know who it is, but I need one question answered to be certain.
Never before has so much hinged on The Test.
“The night you and Marissa slept together—where did it happen?”
Skip looks bewildered.
“Her house, your place, your car—where?”
“Her living room. But listen, I came looking for you because there’s something else I need to talk to you about. It isn’t about Matthew or Marissa. It’s about Matthew’s father.”
I don’t hear anything he says after that. I’m recalling the words of a different man.
Marissa shouldn’t have ever let Skip in that night.
Only a few minutes ago, Matthew told me he hadn’t wanted to hear any details about the night Marissa and Skip slept together. So how did he know that one?
“Matthew has been setting you up,” I tell Skip.
At that moment, Skip’s phone rings with an incoming call. Skip turns around the screen to show me. “It’s him.”
“Answer it.”
I can’t hear what Matthew is saying, but as I watch Skip’s expression transform from anger into a kind of primal terror, I act on instinct. I pull Romeo into the back seat of my car, jump into the driver’s seat, and start my engine, while Skip leaps into the passenger’s side.
“He’s going to hurt her!” Skip shouts. “I’m calling 911!”
I’m already making a U-turn, my wheels squealing against the pavement, as I head towards the Bishops’ house. There’s no traffic on a Sunday afternoon, and I’ll run any red lights we encounter. We’re only a couple minutes away.
Matthew must know his threat will bring Skip to his door, but he won’t expect me to be there, too.
Matthew had a long time to plan this. But I’ve got the element of surprise on my side.
I’ve got something else, too. As we race toward the Bishops’ house, I steer with one hand and reach across Skip to unlock the glove compartment of my car with the other. I take out my fully loaded .38 pistol and set it on my lap.
“I know the code for the back door. Give me the gun.” Skip is leaning forward, one hand on the door handle, ready to leap out the moment we get there.
“No!” I instinctively say. “He’ll be expecting you to go in that way.”
Then I tell Skip what we’re going to do.
By the time we pull up by the curb down the street from the Bishops’ house, Skip has his jacket off. He leaps out before my car comes to a stop and sprints diagonally to the front door, banging on it and yelling Marissa’s name.
He’s creating a diversion. If Matthew is watching out a window, his eyes will be on Skip.
I lock Romeo in my car, then quickly survey the terrain. The Bishops have neighbors on both sides. To their left is a house with a manicured lawn and two cars parked in the driveway. The one on the right is surrounded by trees and thick bushes. I opt for that one, hoping the cover of the foliage will camouflage my movements.
By the time Skip is breaking a window at the side of the house, as I told him to, I’ve arrived at the back door.
I punch in the code Skip gave me—S-A-M-B, for the name of Bennett’s pet gecko—praying no one has changed it recently. The light on the lock switches from red to green.
I’m in.
The kitchen is empty, but I hear the sound of retching, then Matthew barking, “Get a grip, Marissa!”
They’re in the hallway, heading toward the noise Skip is making.
I step into the hallway, a half dozen feet behind them. My gun is raised. It’s difficult to shoot a moving target, so I aim for center mass, envisioning a bull’s-eye on the back of Matthew’s light blue shirt.
We move almost in unison toward Matthew’s office, my footsteps light and nearly soundless in my running shoes. I’m like a ghost, creeping unseen behind the Bishops.