He can’t realize I know, she reminded herself. At least not yet. But she still imagined Vince lying beside her, taking her pillow, and smothering her with it.
Imagined him holding a knife from her own kitchen behind his back as he got closer to the bed. Got distracted by remembering that she’d bought those knives at a TJ Maxx and they always needed sharpening. The last time she cut open a butternut squash, she’d really had to saw her way through. That would be a terrible way to go.
And given how fast he got rid of the last body, he wouldn’t have any trouble getting rid of hers too. She didn’t doubt that he had all the right solvents to clean things up so well that a forensic team would be hard-pressed to find evidence.
A shudder went across her shoulders and she bit her cheek to keep herself still.
That old chestnut about killers occurred to her—a quiet guy, kept to himself. That did describe Vincent.
She stayed still as he folded his pants and put his shirt in the laundry basket. Didn’t move as he set his watch on the dresser, plugged his phone in to the charger.
Maybe she should get out ahead of this. When you lived with someone it ought to be easy enough to incapacitate them. Horse tranquilizers. Food poisoning. Offering to tie him to the bedposts for sex. Then she could interrogate him. Force him to admit everything. Ask him all the questions she’d always wanted to know.
And yet, what she longed for was for him to slide into bed and put his hand on her shoulder, to tell her he knew she was awake. To say that he loved her desperately and wanted to confess all the things he’d kept from her, and all the reasons for them. It was a childish desire, a wish for the world not to be as it was, for people to act in ways they just didn’t. It was the wish of a sucker, ready to be fleeced for everything she had.
Vincent Damiano isn’t a real person. She’d been so busy trying to make sure Vince didn’t see behind her masks that she didn’t notice that he was all mask.
Hole in the head, hole in the heart, or hole in the pocket. The Hall family curse.
Eventually, he left the room, flicking off the overhead light. She lay alone in the dark, eyes open. Outside, the streetlights shone. Behind her neighbors’ houses, the old mill building rose, dark too, with the bright silver coin of the moon above.
It wasn’t until the red light of dawn bled onto the horizon that she finally slept.
* * *
Charlie woke in the early afternoon, alone.
She stumbled out of bed, then poked her head into her sister’s room to make sure that Vince hadn’t gone crazy and chopped her in half or something. Posey was sleeping, one arm flung over her ancient MacBook.
Charlie put on a robe, went to the kitchen, and poured herself a mug of bitter, lukewarm coffee. She slid a steak knife into the pocket of the robe. Then she waited, stomach churning.
It was time to have the real talk.
Twenty minutes later, Vince came back in with two bags of groceries. Charlie couldn’t help seeing the space through his rich-boy eyes. All the worn things. The grease stains. The shabbiness.
He took a look at her expression and set the bags on the counter, making no movement to unpack. “Did something happen?”
“You lied,” Charlie said, meeting his pale eyes.
He didn’t look defensive yet, but he did look wary. “I—”
“Trying to figure out which lie I’m talking about? It must be hard when there are so many,” she snapped. “Edmund Carver.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said.
“Because you prefer Remy? Or because you’re afraid someone will hear?” She’d thought it would feel terrible to confront him, but it felt great to have the nastiness inside her finally spilling out. “Was it hard, to sleep on a mattress on the floor and not between your one-billion-thread-count sheets?”
He shook his head. “I swear to you, it wasn’t like that.”
But when she looked at him, all she saw was the Edmund Vincent Carver of the society pages, disdain in his smoke-colored eyes. Just a little pomade, the tilt of his jaw, and he’d be a stranger. If only she’d observed him more closely, she’d have seen it—picking out that Vacheron Constantin watch at twenty paces, knowing about the vacation homes of the upper class, the fucking love of gossip for fuck’s sake. Not to mention the ability to murder people and believe there would be no consequences.
“Oh, you swear it. Well then, it must be true,” she said, a snarl in her voice.
“I wanted to start over.” Vince’s voice stayed soft. “With no part of my old life. I didn’t want you to see me the way I used to be.”