The Fury(51)

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“She’s late, as usual.” Kate gestured at the tall man standing next to her. “Meet my new fella. Isn’t he devilishly handsome? Jason, this is Elliot.”

Just then, Lana arrived. She came over and was introduced to Jason. And then—well, you know the rest.

Lana acted completely out of character that night. She was all over Jason, flirting shamelessly with him. She threw herself at him. And she was being so weird with me, so cold, and dismissive. She rebuffed all my attempts to talk to her—as if I didn’t exist.

I left the gallery feeling confused and dejected. The cold hard ring was in my pocket, and I turned it over and over in my fingers. I found myself giving in to a familiar feeling of despair, a feeling of inevitability.

I could hear the kid sobbing in my head: Of course, of course she didn’t want you. She’s embarrassed by you. You’re not good enough for her, can’t you see that? She regretted kissing you. And tonight was her way of putting you in your place.

Fair enough, I thought. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps I never stood a chance with Lana. Unlike Jason, I was no practiced seducer. Except of old women, apparently.

My jailer was waiting for me when I got back to the house. She had been writing all evening and was now relaxing with a large Scotch in the living room.

“Well, how was it?” Barbara poured herself another drink. “Fill me in on all the gossip. I want a full report.”

“No gossip. Very dull.”

“Oh, come on. Something must have happened. I’ve been working hard all day, earning our daily bread. At least you can entertain me a little before bed.”

I was in no mood to indulge her and remained monosyllabic. Barbara could sense my unhappiness. And, like a true predator, couldn’t resist going in for the kill.

“What’s the matter, dear?” She peered at me.

“Nothing.”

“You’re being very quiet. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure? Tell me about it. What is it?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I bet I can guess.” Suddenly, Barbara laughed, full of glee—like an impish child delighting in a mean prank.

I felt unaccountably nervous. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s a private joke. You wouldn’t understand.”

I knew better than to react. She was trying to provoke me, but there was no point in getting into a fight with Barbara. I have learned from bitter experience that you never win an argument with a narcissist. It doesn’t work like that. Your only victory is to leave.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Wait.” She downed her drink. “Help me upstairs.”

Barbara walked with a stick by then, which made climbing stairs difficult. I supported her with one arm. She held on to the banister with her other hand. We slowly made our way upstairs.

“By the way,” Barbara said. “I saw your chum today. Lana. We had tea—and a nice cozy chat.”

“Did you?” That didn’t make sense. They weren’t friends. “Where was that?”

“Lana’s house, naturally. My, my, isn’t it grand? I had no idea you were so ambitious, duck. Mustn’t set your sights too high. Remember what happened to Icarus.”

“Icarus?” I laughed. “What are you on about? How many whiskeys have you had?”

Barbara grinned, showing her teeth. “Oh, you’re right to be scared. I would be, too, if I were you. I had to put a stop to it, you see.”

We reached the top of the stairs. Barbara let go of my arm, as I handed her stick back to her. I tried to sound amused.

“A stop to what?”

“To you, duck. I had to put the poor girl straight. She doesn’t deserve you. Few do.”

I stared at her, feeling frightened. “Barbara. What have you done?”

She laughed, delighting in my distress. As she spoke, she hammered her stick on the floorboards, underscoring the rhythm of her speech. She was clearly relishing every word.

“I told her all about you,” Barbara said. “I told her your real name. I told her what you were, when I found you. I told her I’ve had you followed—that I know what you get up to in the afternoons, and the rest. I told her you’re dangerous, a liar, a sociopath—and you’re after her money, like you’re after mine. I told her I caught you messing about with my medication not once, but twice, recently. ‘If anything should happen to me in the near future, Lana,’ I said, ‘you mustn’t be surprised.’”

Barbara drummed her stick on the floor as she laughed.

“The poor girl was horrified. Do you know what she said? ‘If all this is true,’ she cried, ‘how can you bear to live with him in the same house?’”

I spoke in a low voice, flat, expressionless. I felt strangely tired. “And what did you say?”

Barbara drew herself up and spoke with dignity. “I simply reminded Lana that I am a writer. ‘I keep him around,’ I said, ‘not out of pity or affection, but to study—as an object of repulsive fascination. Very much as one might keep a reptile in a cage.’”

She laughed and pounded her stick on the floor repeatedly, as if applauding her witticism.