I only wanted to scare him. I didn’t even think the gun was loaded.
Ah. And there I go. Giving you lies when I promised truth.
Let me try again.
I didn’t know whether the gun was loaded, that’s true. In retrospect, it’s insane that Darcy Butler’s father was displaying a loaded gun in his Parisian flat, and that Darcy and then Duke toted it all over the city.
But honestly, I wasn’t even thinking about that. Only later did it occur to me that the gun might have harmlessly clicked, and Duke would’ve flinched and then made me pay for my empty threat.
The shot was loud, so loud it seemed like it would blot out any other noise forever. I’d cried the first time I’d fired a gun, aiming for a rabbit I hadn’t wanted to hit, and my father had told me I was going to need to toughen up if I expected to run Ashby House one day.
I didn’t cry this time. I watched, feeling outside my own body, as the bullet tore through that clean white shirt of Duke’s, just along his ribs, as his face bloomed with surprise, eyes wide as they looked at me.
Remember, this was a gun meant for killing elephants and tigers.
You can imagine what it did to a person.
I fired again.
It’s that second shot that makes me a murderer to my mind. The first? I’d been terrorized for weeks at that point, scared past the point of endurance that night, and I can forgive myself for reacting. Maybe anyone could.
I think you can.
But the second bullet … that’s when I adjusted my aim. That’s when I knew exactly what I was doing.
That’s when I sent a bullet straight into the heart I thought would be mine forever.
It was so quiet after. My ears wouldn’t stop ringing, and Duke was slumped on the carpet, his eyes staring. His chest moved up and down in a jerky movement, once, maybe twice. There was a sound in his throat I never wanted to hear again, and I was glad when it was over, when he was still.
I knelt beside him for a while there in the darkness, like I told you. His blood soaking into my nightgown while I waited to feel something. Horror, remorse, fear. Anything at all.
Relief came first. It was over now. I’d never again wake up wondering if this was the day he went too far. And then, a flicker of sadness followed. Not for the Duke he’d actually been, but the Duke I’d thought he was.
But that was it. No shame. No grief. No worry or frantic thoughts of police and punishments, and good god, did they still have the guillotine in France?
It was more like I’d just solved a math problem that had been vexing me, and I wondered if this was what it was to be in shock. That was it, surely.
All those feelings—those natural, human feelings, like grief and regret—would come in time.
Or so I thought.
For now, however, there was one last thing to do.
I went to where I’d left the gun, and moved it to the top of the stairs, taking care to wipe it down with the unbloodied hem of my robe. Then I went back to Duke’s body, wrapping my arms around him, letting more of his blood cover me, pressing my cheek to his so that his blood soaked into my loose hair.
And then I began to scream.
You know the rest, darling. Or you can look it up. That part is less important to the story I’m trying to tell you. There were police （my “Conversational French” from Agnes Scott was sadly inadequate when it came to discussing something like this, it turned out） and of course it was a bit of a scandal, but the official story was that someone had seen Duke flashing his cash at a seedier casino he’d been in that night in Montmartre, and followed him all the way home with the intention of robbing him.
Duke himself assisted with this version of events by conveniently leaving the front door wide open when he came home, so eager was he to show me his new prize.
A scuffle, a loaded rifle, two panicked shots, the cash Duke’s friends swore he’d had in his jacket pocket that night all missing （tucked inside a hideous china dog I’d bought for Nelle, buried deep in one of my trunks）， and there you had it.
Tragic, made more so by our youth and beauty, our clear love for each other. And on our honeymoon, too! Married less than two months.
Did people believe this story, or did Daddy’s money make it go away? I’ve never really known. It doesn’t matter.
I got away with it. That was all I cared about.
It feels good to write that down, I must say. The clear, pure truth of it, no excuses, no explanations.
I had gotten away with murder, and I was glad for it.
Is that enough truth for you, my dear?
-R
AVAILABLE SCHOLARSHIPS