Till Death (3 page)

I am laying in bed when he emerges, his hair wet, a towel around his shoulders, his jeans unbuttoned and hanging low on firm, muscular hips.  I stretch, my body still naked, in hopes of distracting him from any erratic thoughts. The shower had been off when I returned, no rush of water to hide the sound of the door. Hopefully the walls are insulated enough to hide any noise of my return. I close my eyes, trying to keep my face smooth and calm, trying to paint the picture of a woman whose heart is not racing, whose mind is not panicking.

“We can’t keep doing this. I can’t …” His words hang, unfinished, and I open my eyes to see him bend down, picking up his shirt and walks to the edge of my bed, his eyes traveling over my skin until they stop at my face. He puts a knee on the bed, leaning over to brush his lips over my skin, placing soft kisses on my stomach, the underside of my breast, my collarbone, and then my lips. He studies me, his green eyes cloudy. “Neither one of us deserves you,” he says, his voice thick, his lips taking one last drink of my mouth. Then, he stands, buttoning his pants and pulling on his shirt, his expression dark and worried.

I close my eyes, roll over, and wait for him to leave.

I loved Jennifer more than I have ever loved another soul on this planet. Her death leaves a hole in my heart that will never be filled. Please respect our privacy in this difficult time.

There are very few explanations for that note, written on Nathan’s stationary, in handwriting I recognize as his, placed in a folder that bears my name. My mind can only grasp one. In Nathan’s world—his meticulous scheduled, perfectly planned universe—my life ends in death. It is planned for, a statement already prepared, everything in place except for my dead body. How am I planned to die? And for what purpose?

I hear the slide of my door and feel the air lighten as Drew leaves. My eyes look at the clock. Six hours until Nathan arrives home. Six hours to think, before the next man fucks my mind.

I dress, wanting to get out of this house, needing space to think, space to figure out a new plan. I keep it simple, jeans, a silk camisole, and ballet flats, pulling my hair into a low bun and putting on mascara and powder. I pause before the mirror, staring at my lips. Red and puffy, irritated by the scruff on Drew’s face. I dab on a little polish and grab my purse, stepping out the back and heading toward the garage. Once in my car, once the large door opens and I am through the estate’s private gate, once my foot is hard against the pedal and my windows are down, I allow my thoughts to flow.

Yesterday, sitting at my father’s side, I had contemplated escape, my mountain of self-pity great enough that I had wanted to eject from this life, abandon his needs, just for the pathetic reason of being miserable. Now I have a whole new reason to run: my personal safety. But am I being dramatic? Am I grabbing ahold of this note with two gleeful hands, happy to have something that I can twist into a justifiable reason to leave my father? I cannot leave without something in place for his care. No matter the reason, no matter how miserable I am, or whatever danger I choose to manifest in my mind, I am now in the rare position of being able to actually help my father. Provide for him, visit with him, unconditionally financially support his care, and not just through this sickness, but for the rest of his life.

***

“What happens to my father upon my death?” I am fingering the buttons of a Chanel blouse, one I took the tags off this morning, wondering if it is salvageable with only half its buttons. Nathan had ripped it open without concern for the fine fabric, his need too great for something as silly as unbuttoning.

Nathan’s head snaps so quickly that I hear a bone pop, his expression alarmed. “What do you mean?”

I drop the shirt and reach for my skirt, stepping into it sans underwear, not wanting to hunt for them in the sheets of Nathan’s bed. “I mean, if I die, what happens to my father? Would you continue to provide for his care?”
I shouldn’t have said anything
. One of the unwritten rules, made clear by Nathan’s attitude, is that I get up and leave after sex. No chitchat, no goodbye kiss. Feet to door, in silence, as soon as possible.

“Do you plan on dying?” His face was almost distraught, his question spoken quickly and urgently. Obviously suicide would clash with his carefully laid plans.

“No. I don’t think anyone
plans
on dying. But what would happen if I do? The agreement doesn’t mention anything about that.” The omission indicates to me that my father will be left high and dry upon my expiration.

He frowns. “I can have my attorney draft an amendment. I didn’t expect your father to outlive you.” His blue eyes lock with mine; studying me carefully; I wonder if I have made a mistake in asking the question, if I am raising suspicions that will only make my escape more difficult.

“I would like that,” I say quietly, zipping up the side of my skirt.

He fastened the buttons of his shirt, his expression grave. “Then I’ll do it this week.”

This week
. I need to leave, his face showing the thoughts that are running through his head. I ball up the broken shirt in my hand and scoop up my heels, leaving the room and heading outside, wanting to put distance between us before he starts asking questions of his own.

I cannot sleep, my mind running laps in the small cavern that is my head. My afternoon drive did nothing but raise more questions. Thinking about my situation seems to do nothing but stress me the hell out. I kick off the covers and stand, my muscles jumping, my head aching with the effort of trying to not think. Swimming. Maybe that will clear my head, exhaust my muscles, and allow my body to finally sleep. I step to the curtains and slip through, unlocking the slider and stepping outside.

It is beautiful on this ledge of the world. The house sits on the edge of a stiff drop, looking down on the city below. It is a city that sleeps with lights on, skyscrapers announcing their greatness with uplights and a blatant waste of electricity, dotting the landscape with colorful dots all hours of the night. I turn to the house, following the simple, modern lines of the architecture, the house designed to make an impression, from the front as well as the back, the floor to ceiling windows disappearing into the night sky. The house is dark, any lights in Nathan’s room hidden by blackout curtains. It is as if the entire house is dead, and the only life is outside.

I wonder where Drew’s bedroom is. Which part of this colossal house he occupies. I wonder if he came for me tonight. Earlier, I put a note on the glass. On it, I wrote only ‘No.’ I figured that would be clear enough for Drew, yet cryptic enough that—if seen by someone else’s eyes—wouldn’t rat out our affair. I’m not ready to see Drew. Not ready to accept the fact that he may be involved in a plot to cause me harm.

I pull my t-shirt over my head and slide my pajama pants off, leaving them both in a pile on the pool deck, standing naked on the edge of the pool. I stare into the ripples of water, the lights constantly changing the color of the water, making the transition from cool to warm, from icy to red-hot. I dive when it is the color of blood, needing to see the color change while underwater, needing to feel transformed, from blood red to relaxation blue. When blue steals over the space, I close my eyes and start my laps.

I have memorized this pool, every inch of it, my mind and body knowing exactly how many strokes, how many kicks, how many breaths to take before I reach the edge. Before it is time to tuck, roll, push, and return back in the direction I came. I go. Back.

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

Twenty laps. Thirty laps. Forty laps. I try for fifty, my legs weary at lap forty-two, my chest aching, arms shaking, strokes slowing until I stop, in the middle of the pool, in the middle of lap forty-three. I roll over and float on my back, keeping my eyes closed, my chest heaving as I fight to slow my gasps.

When I finally open my eyes, it is to an orchestra of stars—thousands of identical specks. And under them, on my back, I feel so small. Small and tired, my eyes heavy. I right my body, my feet standing, moving sluggishly through the thick water to the steps, my gait quickening as I leave the weight of the water and enter the heat of the night. I ignore my clothes and pull on the slider, shivering slightly when I step into the cool room, my weary arms pulling the door closed and locking it.

I wrap a towel around my body, and crawl into bed, pulling the comforter over my body and closing my eyes. And finally, without argument, my mind goes to sleep.

***

Something is wrong. The first sign came this morning, when Nathan called my room personally and asked me to come to the house.
Asked
. Physically said the words, ‘Will you come to the house?’ I don’t think the words ‘Will you’ have ever left that gorgeous mouth of his.

When I walked in, prepared for his hands, his mouth, his cock, Drew and Nathan stood in the kitchen, their eyes on me, watching me closely. An arrangement of flowers sat between them, roses and lilies spilling out of an arrangement that stood four feet high. I walked carefully toward them, my eyes flicking back and forth, trying to read the serious look on their faces.

“These are for you,” Nathan said stiffly, stepping to the side and gesturing to the flowers.

I looked at them in confusion, staying in place. “Are we expecting guests?”

Nathan flinched. “No. I ordered them for you. You like flowers, right?”

I stare at the flowers, trying to figure out what was going on. “Why?”

Nathan mutters something to Drew, something that sounds like, ‘Take care of it’ and turns, calling for Mark, the man appearing from a side hall and walking out with him. I turn, watching the front door close and the blurred images of the men leaving.

Nathan’s personal call of beckoning, a flower arrangement fit for a queen, and the turnover to Drew. Three signs that point my mind in the direction of crazytown.

“Is it not big enough?” Drew’s tight voice causes me to turn, my eyes noting several details at once. His tight grip on the bar stool before him. His green eyes intense and sharp. The way his polo hugs the muscles of his chest tightly, emphasizing the cut of his build.

I step forward, approaching the arrangement with trepidation.
Take care of it
.

“The flowers are fine. What are you supposed to be taking care of?”

“You,” he says shortly.

I can feel a tremor moving through my hand and I quickly move it, grabbing a stem and leaning forward to smell it. I try to laugh, the sound coming out wrong. “Why do I need taking care of?”

He steps forward swiftly, gripping my wrists and turning me to face him. “Are you unhappy?”

I bristle, yanking my arm away from his and stepping back. “Does it
matter
? I wasn’t aware that anyone cared about my personal happiness.”

“It matters if you are planning on killing yourself.”

His voice is so quiet, so deadly serious, that I pause in my exit, turning to face him. He stares at me, his face grim.

“Killing myself?” The thought is so absurd, the idea something that has never crossed my mind. “Why would I do
that
? To save you both the trouble of dirtying your hands?”

He blinks, confusion stealing over his face. Oh … he was good. Wide eyes, an innocent face. He has the whole act down fucking pat. I continue on, my words spilling out uncontrollably. “I know everything, Drew. How you came to the Crystal Palace specifically for me. How you knew everything about me before you ever stepped inside. How you’re planning on killing me!” I finally run out of words, gasping for breath, tears starting their embarrassing run down my face.

His face is pale, eyes distraught. “Candace … that isn’t … you think we’re going to
kill
you?”

“Don’t give me that innocent face,” I hissed. “Did you guys think I was stupid? Did my low GPA put a giant ‘Here is a Dumbass’ sign above my head?”

“So … you’re
not
suicidal?” He seems stuck on this topic, ignoring my questions, color beginning to return to his face, an improvement that irritates me. He shouldn’t be comfortable; he should be at least half as inconvenienced as I am.

“No, I’m not suicidal!” I snap. Part of me is pissed that they place enough self-importance on their own impact to think it would drive me to take my own life.

He pulls out a stool and sits, pressing his palms to his forehead before looking up at me. “The questions you were asking Nathan … about your father’s care … it was because you thought we were going to kill you?”

I raise my chin defiantly and cross my arms, saying nothing.

He shakes his head, bewildered. “Why?”

I don’t want to answer his questions. I want, for once in this fucking life as Jennifer Dumont, to get some answers. “Why don’t you start by telling me the truth? Just once, Drew. Don’t ignore my questions or drill me.”

He deflates before my eyes, his eyes taking on a haunted look. “I can’t.”

“Bullshit!” I yell the word, startling him, and he shoots me a stern look, anger stealing over his face.

“No one is planning on killing you. I can promise you that. We wouldn’t have brought you here to kill you. What even gave you that thought?”

I don’t answer, biting my lower lip and considering my options.
Is this the moment? The time when I show my cards?
The danger in showing all of your cards is that it gives your opponent the opportunity to craft a lie around the evidence. It is too early for that gamble, especially when I can’t figure out his involvement in this mindfuck of my life. I feel like I am at the precipice between a good decision or a disaster, one road taking me to the truth, the other closing off Drew to me forever. I take a gamble, wiping leaked tears from my cheeks and pull out a bar stool, climbing atop it and staring into Drew’s eyes. “Drew, I am about to walk out that door and say ‘fuck you’ to any agreement I have made with Nathan. I need you to tell me
right
now what is going on and why I am here.”

He looks at me with a look that causes my stomach to drop and my heart to fall. The look is filled with such despair, the look of an animal who has been beaten until they have lost the will to live. “You asked me once why I am here. You have your father. I have my sister.”

I inhale. That is not the question I need answered right now, not at a time when so many other, more pressing items such as my personal safety are at stake. But his words, combined with his face, make me shut my stupid smartass comments up and listen. “Is she sick?” I ask quietly.

He chuckles. “That would be the best case scenario. No one knows where Cecile is. She disappeared, four years ago. From this house right here.”

I still, my thoughts trying to connect the dots. Nathan. Drew. Cecile’s disappearance. “Did Nathan do something to her?”

“Trust me, if I thought he had something to do with her disappearance, I would have strangled the truth out of him by now. No, Nathan wants to find Cecile as badly as I do.”

“Why?”

“When Cecile disappeared, she took two things with her. One was Nathan’s heart. The other was thirty million dollars of his money. Which, at the time, was all he had to his name.”

Drew explains. The thirty million had been Nathan’s inheritance, advanced to him early, so that he could pursue his passion in real estate development. Cecile took all of his liquid assets, straddling him with debt, almost five million dollars in outstanding notes that would need to be covered in order for him to finish Casa Mar, a six hundred-room resort in St Thomas. Nathan refused to go to his family, not wanting to mar their opinion of Cecile, his broken heart believing that she would return to him. He approached his younger sister instead, asking her to loan him ten million dollars—enough to cover his debts and float him until Casa Mar was sold.

His sister readily agreed, and after Casa Mar sold out, Nathan set up an offshore account in her name, transferring fifty million dollars into it—his repayment for the loan, plus his gratefulness in interest. His plan was to give her the account number on her twenty-third birthday, which was less than three weeks away.

“She died four days before her birthday,” Drew says flatly. “In a fire at his parents’ home. You ask why we picked you? Why you are here—in this house?”

I raise my eyes to meet his.

“Nathan’s sister was born on June 6, 1984. Her name was Jennifer Ann Dumont.” He pauses, letting the information sink in. “You’re here for one reason. The day you were born, and that passport that is coming in the mail. You will be, as far as that bank in the Bahamas is aware, the owner of that account, and Nathan is planning on using you to make one hell of a withdrawal.”