“She hadn’t done nothing. She was there. Her job was to get him drunk, which she did. We were just going to fuck with him a little…but I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t stop. It was the best feeling I’d ever had.”
“And to write another book, you need another story.”
“I’ll admit it, yes, I needed new material. But killing you also happened to be the most efficient way to clean up the mess Jenny had dropped at my doorstep. Besides, I was ready to leave that life behind. I was bored.” Helen’s voice dropped an octave. “And I think you understand, Florence—that desire to become someone new. Life is so varied. There are so many ways to experience it. What a shame to taste only one—especially the lives you and I were born into. I could sense that wandering soul in you the first time I saw you. It’s part of the reason I chose you. I knew you could cast off your old life like you were shrugging off a coat.”
“Chose me?”
“Chose you as my new coat.”
In that moment, Florence saw it all. It hadn’t been sheer luck that Helen had hired her as her assistant; Helen had sought her out. There’s no way Florence could have been the most qualified candidate—she’d just been fired for stalking her boss’s family. What Helen needed wasn’t a talented assistant; it was a new identity.
Florence remembered seeing her own LinkedIn, Instagram, and Facebook accounts in Helen’s search history. She’d done her research: She’d found someone who looked enough like her and whom nobody would miss. You couldn’t ask for a better coat than Florence Darrow. Helen had been planning Florence’s murder before they’d even met.
Florence knew, then, that she was not going to be able to talk her way out of this. Her only options were to keep stalling or to fight. She looked around for something she could use as a weapon.
“So, now what?” Florence asked. “You shoot me? Throw me in the pool too?”
“Well, the plan was to give you a fatal dose of heroin—I already told Massey that you, aka Helen, were using—but I guess you’re not going to come stick out your arm for me, even if I ask very nicely.”
“Fuck you, Helen.”
“It’s not such an absurd idea, Florence. Not to be unnecessarily cruel, but what do you have to live for? Your life is empty. I could tell that just from your writing.”
“I guess I should kill someone, too, so I have something to write about? Is writer’s block a valid defense on a murder charge these days?”
Helen laughed. “See—you can’t even come up with your own idea; you have to steal mine. But how about this: I’ll wire a hundred grand to your mother, for her trouble, if you come out and cooperate. Think about it.”
Florence couldn’t help but laugh back at her. “Helen, I don’t give a shit about my mother, and I’m not going to let you stab me with a heroin needle.”
Helen sighed. “Fine.”
Neither of them spoke. Then a loud metallic ring echoed through the bathroom. Florence ducked below the lip of the bathtub. When the reverb faded, she peeked out. Helen had shot the lock. It was slightly askew but still in place. She wondered how many bullets Helen had.
Another shot rang out. The lock rattled in the door. Helen started pounding on it. Florence jumped up. The lock was almost entirely off. One more blow and she’d be in.
“Wait,” Florence said uselessly. “Wait.”
Helen kicked the door in.
45.
Florence had flattened herself against the wall next to the doorway and was clutching the brass towel rack she’d unscrewed from the wall. As soon as Helen stepped inside, Florence swung her makeshift weapon at Helen’s head as hard as she could. She felt the crunch as it connected with bone.
Then she ran.
She was halfway to the stairs, still gripping the towel rack, when she heard something clatter to the bathroom’s tiled floor.
The gun.
She made a split-second decision, stopped, and turned back.
Helen was on her knees in the bathroom, holding her head in both hands. Blood gushed from between her fingers. Florence grabbed the gun from the floor near the toilet and pointed it at her.
Helen looked up but didn’t move.
They stayed locked in that tableau for a moment. Then Florence picked up a towel that had fallen to the floor and tossed it at Helen. Helen wadded it up behind her head and leaned against the doorframe.
Florence stepped over her and walked back to the window in the bedroom, keeping her eye, and the gun, trained on Helen. She quickly glanced out. Still no Idrissi.
Florence turned back to Helen. “I thought it was an act,” she said. “The callousness. The whole I-don’t-owe-anyone-anything schtick.”
“I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not,” Helen said hoarsely. “Unlike you.”
“I’m not pretending,” Florence said defensively.
Helen snorted. “Of course you are. You started pantomiming me the day you arrived. Don’t you think I noticed? Your newfound interest in opera and wine and cooking? ‘It’s hot as blue blazes?’ I mean, Florence, you’re literally wearing my clothes.”
Florence looked down at the dress she was wearing. “Well, so what?” she exclaimed. “I hated my life! I wanted something better; is that so terrible!?”
“So then you make a better life,” Helen said. “You don’t steal it.”
Florence said nothing, but she could feel her face burning brightly. That was bullshit. Everyone steals, including Helen. She’d stolen from Jenny. She’d stolen from whoever had introduced her to Verdi and Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
No, Florence wasn’t going to apologize for how she’d gotten here. She was done apologizing. She could be whoever she wanted to be and she would get there however she had to. She had dropped the gun to her side, but now she lifted it again and pointed it at Helen. A cruel smile parted her lips.
“Listen,” Helen said with more apprehension in her tone than before, “we’ll split the money.” Blood was dripping from her right earlobe.
Florence shook her head, still smiling.
“You can have all of it, then. You can even have Maud Dixon. I’ll start over.”
Florence shook her head again.
Helen paused. Then one of her familiar toothless smiles appeared on her bloodstained face, and her eyes shone brightly. She laughed mirthlessly. “You won’t do it, Florence. I know you. You don’t have the nerve.”
Helen stood up shakily, leaning against the doorframe for support.
“Stop,” Florence said. “Sit back down.”
Helen started walking unsteadily through the bedroom, toward the hallway. “Didn’t you learn anything from my story, Florence?” she asked over her shoulder. “You can’t shoot someone in the back and then claim self-defense.”
Florence watched helplessly as the distance between Helen and herself widened. “Stop,” she said again.
Helen paused just beyond the doorway, still facing away from Florence so that a bullet could only enter her body from behind. “What a waste,” she said quietly. “I would have made Florence Darrow great. But you? You’re no one. No one.”