Wishing Well by Lily White (3)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 

After the time we spent in Maurice’s ‘room with a bed’, as he called it, we made it back to the ‘sunshine room’, as I called it, and ate dinner. Not much conversation was had, but I hadn’t expected it, at least until I asked about the reason for one yellow room in his basement.

My curiosity won me an angled brow, a moment of silence as he carefully placed his fork on his plate, pulled the cloth napkin from his lap and placed it on the table. A million thoughts rushed behind his downcast eyes, lines of sorrow written across his face.

His voice had little strength when he asked, “What has Vincent told you?” His eyes lifted to mine. “About me? About life before he brought me here?”

Not a damn thing... I thought, bitterly. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he’d admitted Maurice had some issues, and that they’d lived in Paris before coming to the States.

“Not much. He said you lived in Paris before coming here. That you had a place in Paris and a farm outside the city with a well much like the one in the garden.”

Nodding, Maurice admitted, “I don’t remember that much about Paris. Or the farm. I was younger than Vincent when Maman died. But I do remember a room like this one. It was her favorite place. I could be calm for her in that room.”

My heart fractured again. And while trying to swallow past the knot of emotion his words conjured, I realized something about Maurice: it wasn’t that he couldn’t talk - his vocabulary and tone were normal in that moment - it was something else that made communication difficult for him. Maybe because we were ‘friends’, the words were coming easier to him.

“I’m sorry about your mom. My dad died a little over two years ago.”

Nodding, he refused to look at me. “I didn’t like my Papa. He was-“

His teeth clenched together so hard I could hear them scrape. Shaking it off, he said, “You should go,” his voice was tightly controlled.

A live wire, frayed at the end, Maurice struggled against some emotional turmoil, his energy - his pain - bleeding across the table. I opened my mouth to ask what I could do, I reached across, but pulled my hand back when his expression twisted, when it was all he could do to tell me to get out. Fear took hold of me, concern, and I found myself bolting for the hallway, running past the dancing flames of fire sconces to shove the key into the elevator slot, my fingers tapping the code as glass shattered in the distance and tears rolled down my cheeks.

Not knowing what I’d said or what I’d done, I pressed my back against the elevator wall as the doors slid closed, my body sinking to the ground, my head snapping up with the expectation that Vincent would be waiting when the doors slid open again.

He wasn’t. The employee halls were empty. The hotel silent except for the muted echo of conversations floating in from the lobby.

Forcing myself to my feet, I hit the button for the fifth floor and took the elevator up. My feet were practically dragging as I made my way to my room, let myself in and stripped away my clothes in route to the shower. By the time my skin had turned pink beneath the spray of hot water and steam, I glanced at a clock to see that I was expected in Vincent’s suite in a half hour.

I didn’t bother to dry my hair or care about the clothes I pulled on, and by the time I was knocking on Vincent’s door I resembled a drowned rat. His expression said as much when he pulled the door open, his lips slightly parted as if he’d planned to say something but had lost the words as soon as his eyes caught mine.

“That bad?” He finally asked after clearing his throat.

Stepping inside the suite, absolutely hating the man walking behind me, I didn’t stop until I was at the sidebar trying to remember what Vincent had mixed to make the drinks he always gave me.

I knew why I was here. I knew the demands he’d make of me, and when his hands landed on my shoulders, his fingers gripping down as if to massage the muscles, I flinched beneath his touch. “Not as bad as right now,” I answered. Picking up a bottle to read the label, I set it down, jerked away from his hold and turned to face him. “If you’re going to make demands of me, you could at least get me drunk.”

Arrogance cocked his brow, amusement curling his lips. “You act like you know why I wanted you up here.”

One slow blink and then: “What other reason could there be, Vincent? You told me I have no choice in anything. And knowing you, you’ll threaten me with kicking me out of the hotel, leaving me penniless and homeless unless you get your way. So, here I am.”

“Yes,” he responded, his thumb running across his lip in suspicion. “Here you are. Without a word of complaint, in fact. How very unlike you.”

I hadn’t intended to submit to anything on my way up to Vincent’s suite, but now that I was here - now that I had the opportunity - I decided to play my own games. Vincent wanted to force me to submit to his whims. I wanted answers. Perhaps by giving him what he wanted, by pretending that he still had the ability to hurt me, I could discover the information I needed to help Maurice.

“Will you make me a drink, or not?”

His shoulders shook with a bark of laughter. “Are you really that eager?”

I nodded my head. “Eager to get this over with.”

Leaning down, Vincent held his mouth a teasing inch from my ear. “Then why the need for the drink?” Pausing, his breath was a beat trailing down my neck. “Take off your shirt, Penelope.”

Stepping out from between Vincent and the sidebar, I stripped off the shirt that was damp at the shoulders and down the back from my hair. I hadn’t bothered to wear underwear beneath my frumpy clothes, hadn’t cared to seduce a man that was only using me for his own amusement.

Vincent’s smile was mistrustful, but he edged closer regardless. When he was near enough to reach out and touch me, I took a step back. “I have a question I want to ask.”

His eyes drifted from my breasts to my face. “I might have an answer.”

“Where did Maurice get all those scars on his chest?”

The humor in Vincent’s expression was gone, his body becoming still. “He let you see those?”

Confusion addled my thoughts. “Yes. Why?”

A line of concern wrinkled Vincent’s brow, his phone ringing from another room at the same time. Turning to glance in the direction of the sound, he asked, “What happened while you were down there tonight?”

Convinced he was going to be angry that I’d had sex with Maurice after his explicit instruction not to, I said nothing as the phone went to voicemail only to immediately ring again. Cursing under his breath, Vincent shot me a look that could kill before marching into the other room to answer. What I heard from the other room trapped my breath in my lungs, worry seizing my heart between its crushing fingers.

“What do you mean he’s lost control? Damn it! Have his medication waiting for me by the elevator. I’ll be there in a second.”

The fall of angry steps preceded his booming question. “What in the hell have you done to my brother this time?”

“I -“ My mouth fell open to answer the question, my heart practically beating in my throat. “I don’t know. We were eating dinner and talking -“

Grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his sofa, Vincent’s gaze snapped to me. “Talking? About what?”

He’d made it halfway to the door before I answered, “About family.”

Stopping suddenly, Vincent spun on his heel to look my direction. “I want you to see the consequences of your actions. Put on your damn shirt and follow me.”

Grabbing the damp shirt from the floor, I was pulling it over my head as I chased behind him. “That was what I wanted to ask about. The scars, and Maurice’s reaction when I mentioned my dad.”

Climbing into the elevator, Vincent pressed the button to the lobby. “Your dad? Why would he give a damn about your dad?”

“He didn’t,” I explained, shoving my arm through a sleeve, “but it made him think of his dad-“

“Fuck,” Vincent breathed out, pinching the skin between his eyes in frustration. “Now I know why he’s destroying the basement.”

The elevator doors opened and John, the hotel manager stood waiting. Handing a small box to Vincent, he stepped away as Vincent stuck a key on the elevator panel and punched in the code for the basement. The doors slid shut as I asked my next question.

“What did he just give you and how do you know Maurice is destroying the basement?”

Vincent cut me a scathing look, pulling a syringe from the box and uncapping it. “John retrieves the dishes from Maurice when I’m unavailable to do so. Apparently he didn’t have to go past the elevator doors to hear the sound of objects being broken. And this,” Vincent explained, holding up the syringe to check the clear liquid beneath the light of the elevator, “Is what I have to give Maurice when he won’t calm down.”

The doors slid open again before I could respond, the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood filtering down from the left hall. As we both stalked toward it, Vincent kept his voice low. “He already tore apart that room once today. I doubt there’s much left for him to destroy.”

Turning, I froze in the doorway while Vincent charged forward, tears bursting from my eyes to see Maurice so out of control. His mouth was opened wide on a frustrated scream, his eyes vacant, his fists beating holes into the walls. This wasn’t the man - the friend - I’d known earlier. This wasn’t the man who’d shown me that, despite his aggression, he could be gentle.

So lost in his anger that he didn’t notice us come in, Maurice struck out with his arm when Vincent stuck the needle in his neck and pressed the plunger. Vincent was able to move in time to avoid being hit, and within seconds Maurice was off balance, his body stumbling back as Vincent caught him and directed him onto the cushion of the couch. Although his eyes didn’t close and he wasn’t sleeping, Maurice didn’t actually see me when his head lulled in my direction.

Standing over his brother, Vincent released a heavy sigh, actual pain clearly evident in his expression. I was caught off guard to see it.

Still crying, I didn’t move until Vincent walked past me and grabbed my arm to pull me down the hall. Stopping when we’d reached the entryway in front of the elevator, he said, “Never, and I fucking mean NEVER, bring up our father around him again.”

Puzzle pieces began clicking together in my head, the truth of Maurice’s life becoming clearer. “Is your dad responsible for those scars on his chest?”

Vincent’s expression shadowed. “Some of them, yes. Some of them are from Maurice himself. He wasn’t the easiest child to deal with and our father believed too much that harsh discipline was the answer to keeping Maurice under control.”

True agony was a cold chill across my bones. “Is that why you lock him down here?”

With an agonized grin, Vincent answered, “At first I’d believed Maurice was trapped, but lately I’ve learned that he’s had the ability to leave the basement the entire time we’ve been here. It’s not just me that keeps him apart from the world. I believe Maurice traps himself-“

“Because he believes he’s bad,” I finished for him.

“That’s probably exactly right. And most likely the result of my father’s words and my continued handling of him.”

Regret and guilt flooded his eyes before he turned to push the elevator button. “We should go.”

Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I wrapped my arms around my abdomen. “We can’t just leave him like that. What will happen when the drugs wear off?”

“He’ll wake up and go to bed.”

“I’ll stay with him,” I offered. “Maybe clean up the room as much as possible and then help him when he comes around.”

Vincent looked at me like I was an idiot, but there was something else behind those green eyes of his, something that pleased him. “Suit yourself,” he answered, allowing the doors to close and leaving me to stay in the basement with Maurice.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

 

While Maurice was lying on the couch, not quite sleeping and not quite awake, I spent the next few hours doing my best to clean up the mess he’d made of the room. After finding trash bags, a dustpan and broom in the small kitchen down the hall, I swept up the shattered glass, the blisters of wood and the plaster that had been pummeled into a fine dust over the carpet. Setting the bags near the entryway of the elevator, I returned to the yellow room that now resembled what was left of a hollowed out bomb shelter.

Maurice blinked his eyes every so often, his gaze tracking me in moments where he found some sense of lucidity, and while he continued to lay there from the effects of the drugs, I found a first aid kit in a bathroom and went to work disinfecting and bandaging the cuts and scrapes on his hands.

After finishing, I set the first aid kit aside, sat on the floor next the couch and lay my head on his chest, the motion from his deep, rhythmic breathing reminding me that, even as the world felt like it was closing in, his quiet strength was there.

The silence was too much after a while, so I got up to retrieve a book from his shelf. Not recognizing the title, I sat back down and started reading to him, intentionally keeping my voice soft. The story wasn’t all that great, a tragedy I assumed by the somber tone, but I kept reading regardless, not stopping until I felt his arm move and his hand cup the back of my head. Closing the book, I glanced up to see him looking at me, a sleepy haze over his green eyes, surprise written into the line of his brow.

“Hi,” I whispered, forcing a smile on my face even when I felt like crying.

“Hello,” he answered, his voice gritty and slow.

Not knowing what to say, and not wanting to bring up what he’d done before Vincent knocked him out, I simply stared at him, waiting to see how he would react to my presence. Weaving his fingers through my hair, he watched my face for a while.

“Why are you here?” he asked, confusion mixing with shame.

“I thought I’d help you get to bed when you’re finally strong enough to walk to your room.”

I don’t want you to be alone , I didn’t say. I don’t want you to be sad, or angry, or afraid.

Brows pulling together, he asked again, “Why?”

Shrugging a shoulder, I answered, “That’s what friends do.”

Nodding his head, he pulled his hand from my hair and struggling to push himself up. There wasn’t much I could do to help, Maurice must have been two hundred pounds of pure muscle. But eventually he’d righted himself into a seated position, his wild, dark hair falling down over his face giving him a boyish charm I’d never seen before.

I thought he’d ask me to leave again before heading to bed, but instead he took my hand, his fingers exploring mine. “Will you stay with me?”

“Is it safe?”

His eyes met mine. “I won’t hurt you...and I’d like to know if you can chase away the nightmares.”

Nodding my head, fighting not to let more tears fall, I accepted his offer. “Okay, Maurice, lead the way.”

His fingers squeezed mine, his body unbalanced as he pushed to his feet. For a moment, I worried he’d fall over and take me with him. But somehow we managed to make it out into the hall, and although his shoulder dragged the wall to keep him upright, we made it to his room.

The bed creaked when he crashed down on it. I thought he’d fall asleep with his clothes and shoes on, but he righted himself, pushing up to sit on the edge of the bed, his movements clumsy as he attempted to untie his boots. Moving out from the shadows, I lowered myself to my knees in front of him to untie the laces when he couldn’t. Above me, Maurice silently watched, his fingers running through my hair.

After tugging the boots off - and almost toppling over from the effort - I pushed to my feet and said, now the pants and the shirt. He lifted his arms just barely, the bulge of his biceps defined beneath the short sleeves of his black shirt.

Stripping the shirt off him, I reached for the button of the pants. His hand grabbed mine, drawing my eyes to his in question.

“Please don’t tell me you’re suddenly feeling shy.”

Shaking his head, the motion more uncoordinated than fluid, he attempted to smile suggestively. I rolled my eyes. “You can’t possibly think you have the strength for sex. Let’s sleep tonight, Maurice. Together.”

Uncertainty filtered through his gaze, but he relented, allowing me to strip off his pants and toss them aside. They hadn’t fully hit the floor by the time he was tugging at my clothes. Raising my arms, I let him strip the shirt from my body, and I balanced myself with my hands on his shoulders as he tugged my pants down my legs.

By the time we were cuddled up next to each other, our bodies tucked beneath blankets and our heads resting on pillows, he’d closed his eyes and fallen asleep.

Brushing the hair from his face, I stared at him for a while, finally doing what he wouldn’t allow me to do when he was awake. Pressing my lips to his, I lingered there for a moment, wishing he knew how I cared about him.

Someone had to love this gentle beast of a man. Someone had to see the light that could exist at the end of his dark tunnel and then take him by the hand to show him.

 

. . .

 

Weeks passed, each day bringing more of Maurice’s playful side out for me to see. Sure, there were still the fits of anger, the days when he worried I’d reject him and run away. There were days that lifted my spirits high just so they could shatter. But there were other days that started out in Maurice’s arms and built into the most amazing of crescendos.

In those weeks I spent luring the truth of Maurice’s spirit out from beneath the shadow that held him, I noticed that Vincent had backed off from his games. And after Maurice started showing actual improvement, Vincent not only complimented what I was doing, he set out to help me along.

During the day, I’d spend most of my time in Maurice’s basement, either sitting quietly by as he typed on his computer or talking to his counselors to learn what I could do to help crack his shell, and of course, my body was always left sore from the countless hours we’d spent exploring each other’s bodies to find some form of Heaven within his constant Hell.

Not once had he allowed me to kiss him, and on rare occasion would he let me touch his face. I still didn’t understand why he demanded that one barrier, but I knew not to push him by asking too many questions.

Most nights, Vincent would accompany us up to the garden, staying back as Maurice and I wandered the paths. And although he was always close enough to help should Maurice lose control, Vincent was also elated that Maurice never did. It was a turning point in the life of his brother, and for the role I’d played, Vincent rewarded me by becoming a more tolerable human.

That wasn’t to say that Vincent didn’t still make his sordid comments and rude jokes when Maurice wasn’t in the vicinity to hear, but he didn’t make demands of me that I’d find inappropriate, he didn’t threaten me with homelessness for not playing his games.

I could breathe easier in those weeks, and in the emails I was still sending to my sister, I was finally honest when telling her how happy I’d been. I felt bad that the emails were becoming less frequent and for longer time periods between each one, but Maurice was taking up so much of my time.

On a bright afternoon with the sun beaming down in waves of delicious warmth, I was taking a walk through the garden wondering if the day would come where Maurice could be walking beside me. I didn’t think he’d overreact too much to see guests pass by, didn’t think he’d panic to be out among society when the dark veil of night wasn’t there to keep him hidden. But each time I brought the subject up to Vincent, he was always quick to shut me down.

So, while standing by the well and peering down at the glimmer of coins beneath the surface of the water, I considered how I would convince Vincent to let Maurice out just once. As was always the way with my sadist for a boss, just thinking about him was like whispering his name, calling him to wherever I was standing.

“Tu faites un vœu, et espérons que cela devienne réalité.”

Recognizing the deep voice at my ear, I ignored the heat of Vincent’s chest against my back. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t speak French?”

Masculine laughter was a deep note vibrating against my body. “I just said that I’d like to pick you up, dunk your head in the well, and laugh while you struggle to breathe.”

Finally turning, I glared at him until he took a step back, his green eyes glittering in the sunlight. Cocking a brow, I asked, “Is that really what you said?”

His smirk curled. “Your name is Penny, is it not? Or at least that’s the ridiculous name you like to be called. What I said was only fitting.”

Shaking my head, I vacillated between slapping him and laughing. Vincent Mercier deserved a hard smack, but I was in too good of a mood to get violent.

Levity lost, he confessed, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And while I’m not yet comfortable bringing Maurice out into the garden during the busiest part of the day, perhaps baby steps can be taken.”

“Really?” My heart damn near burst from my chest. “What kind of steps?”

Vincent cocked his head, his eyes darting to an attractive couple that passed by arm in arm. After greeting them with a wave, his eyes returned to mine. “We can try bringing him out around sunset for the first time. There will be a few stragglers out wandering, but most will be inside. We’ll see how he reacts.”

My cheeks hurt from the stretch of my smile. “Thank you, Vincent.”

“You’re welcome,” he answered, turning to stroll off. But before he was more than a few feet away, he glanced back at me. “I just want you to know that if anything should go wrong, your ass will be on the line for it. Literally.”

Giving him the finger, I smiled sweetly, watching him stroll off with his shoulders shaking with laughter.

It didn’t matter if Vincent had threatened me directly, not when I realized that, for once, Maurice would witness a sunset.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Faiville Prison, 4:53 p.m.

 

Stretching her neck to ease the muscles, Meadow released a heavy breath, relaxing back in her chair as Vincent digested the portion of the story she told. Studying his face, she wondered about the shadows beneath his eyes, the exhaustion of a man who, until then, had been content to appear unaffected. Not wanting to give him the time to recover - to pull his professional mask back in place - she asked a simple question.

“I’ve thought about that part of the story quite often. Penny was so happy to learn Maurice would be able to see a sunset, that in the progress he’d made, he would gain new experiences in his life. But as you told me yesterday in our discussions, Maurice had escaped the basement on the night of the masquerade ball. Not just escaped, he’d been around a large group of people without striking out.”

Vincent lifted his eyes to give her his attention. The green was flat, the normal smile that curled his lips absent.

“Why could he handle the ball and not a walk through the garden among other people? What was the difference?”

It wasn’t until Meadow remembered this particular part of the story that she’d connected the two events, but now that she knew Maurice had been out on his own previously, she couldn’t help her curiosity.

Rolling his shoulders, the weight of Maurice’s problems were heavy on Vincent’s chest. “I often wondered that myself. It was the reason I was so shocked to find him in the hallway the night of the ball. I guess I’d never considered his escape because I knew, for as careful I was to keep Maurice separate from society, he’d internalized my fear and deemed himself unworthy of human interaction. It wasn’t that he wanted to strike out at people, it was simply that he couldn’t handle the attention or the perceived rejection. Perhaps the mask at the ball made it easier for him to be in a crowd. Nobody could reject him if they didn’t know who he was.”

Not wanting to see any light within the septic soul of the man across the table, Meadow couldn’t help her belief that, despite Vincent’s games, despite the mistakes he’d made, there was a spark of compassion inside him. It was that spark that made it impossible for her to celebrate his death like others would do in two days.

However, she also couldn’t allowed the weakness he showed when it came to his brother to distract her from the answers she’d come to this interview to ask. One, he still hadn’t answered, one she needed to know so that she could soothe her battered heart.

“Who killed Penny?” she asked, her voice calm, her demeanor practiced.

Nostrils flaring with a deep inhaled breath, Vincent’s head tipped back, his eyes closing, “If you read the police reports you’ll see that I did. Her and several other people. The police did an excellent job of investigating the garden around Wishing Well, the cadaver dogs digging up the past.”

Meadow slammed her hand on the surface of the table, “Damn it, Vincent! That’s not an answer.”

The door popped open to Meadow’s left, a guard stepping through to announce, “Day’s over. You’ll need to end the interview for today and start again tomorrow.”

She could see the slow smile stretch across Vincent’s face. “For fucking once in the time I’ve been here, I’m actually happy to see a guard.” His head lowered again, his eyes opening as he threaded his fingers together over the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Meadow. I suggest you use what time you have tonight to focus your thoughts and determine what questions must be asked. We only have a few hours remaining before they stick a needle in my vein, and whatever answers you later remember you needed will be forever buried with me in my grave.”

Glaring at the pompous expression on his face, she stood from her seat a bit too forcefully before turning to stop the tape and retrieve her recorder. She didn’t bother glancing back as she allowed the guard to lead her from the room.

 

. . .

 

Spending the night reviewing the tapes, pushing off sleep even when it clutched its greedy fingers over her tired bones, begging her eyes to close her just once, Meadow regretted the loss of the effect she’d hoped Penny’s true feelings for Maurice would have had on Vincent. She’d wanted the words to sting, the realization that his games weren’t as perfect as he’d believed following him into death. But as usual, Vincent had been one step ahead.

However, there was still one secret he hadn’t discovered, a hidden tidbit she intended to use to crush him into dust.

Not all of his victims had been as easy to manipulate as he’d believed. At least one puppet had escaped their strings.

Giving in to the need for sleep, Meadow was flustered to wake with only an hour to get ready and begin the last day of the interview. Not taking the usual care with her appearance as she had before, she quickly grabbed a new set of tapes, her recorder and darted out. Having made the drive faster than what would be considered safe or legal, she was practically running as she approached the gates of Faiville Prison. The same guard from the previous two mornings stood waiting.

“Damn, looks like I just lost fifty bucks. I bet the guys you wouldn’t show today.”

Ignoring his jab, she tucked her recorder beneath her arm. “I’m only a few minutes late.”

Leaning inside the small booth, he tapped in the code on the electronic panel before pulling the heavy key from his belt. “Doesn’t matter, you’ll have to wait for a few minutes anyway. Mercier’s finishing up with another visitor.”

Fury arced through her. “What do you mean another visitor? This interview was supposed to be exclusive.”

The guard shrugged and opened the gate, the hiss a sharp noise against the tension in the air. “Man’s dying tomorrow. His attorney is in there with him squaring up his final wishes.” Eyeing her as she passed him, he laughed. “No offense, but it looks like you didn’t get much sleep last night. You’re not as put together as usual.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she kept from snapping at him again. Smiling sweetly instead, she asked, “How would you sleep after hearing the sordid details of the life of a man who killed four people?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I hate to say it, Ms. Graham, but it wouldn’t bother me much. I’ve worked on death row for thirteen years. I’ve heard stories that would make your skin crawl. Once these assholes are about to walk the final line, they just love to brag.”

Her shoulders sagged, and realizing she was taking out her anxiety on a man who didn’t deserve it, she forced herself to relax. “How much longer will his attorney be here?”

They’d reached the interior waiting room by the time he answered. “There’s no telling. Usually it’s a matter of deciding what will be done with the body following death, but in Mercier’s case, I assume there’s more to deal with, considering he’s rich and all. Just take a seat on the bench and they’ll walk you back once he’s done.”

Dropping her weight onto the uncomfortable bench, Meadow ground her teeth. She had only a few hours left to discover how Penny died, to determine whether it was actually Vincent that killed her sister. Memories raced back, sharp and jagged, the truth of the tragedy unfolding in her mind’s eye. She knew more than she was letting on, felt guilt for her role in it, wanted to stab a knife so deep in Vincent’s heart that the secret she revealed would be the last thought across his mind as he took his last breath.

And she wanted to cry.

While Vincent worked out the terms of his death and estate with some high-power attorney, Meadow fought tears of rage, of sorrow, of frustration. She had nothing left after this interview. Her sister was gone, her mother was gone, and except for the journalism career she didn’t love, she was without direction in her new life.

The tears fell despite her hatred of them. For her sister. For Maurice. For all the people who were caught in the web that Vincent had so expertly weaved.

A noise drew her attention to the gate, a man being allowed through in his slate grey suit, his pressed white shirt and red tie. A file folder was held loosely in his hand, plain durable paper in brown. Approaching her, he dared to meet her eyes with his own, the blue like a clear lake beneath the salt and pepper color of his hair.

Extending a hand, he introduced himself, not that Meadow hadn’t already deduced who he was. “You must be Meadow Graham. I’m Stephen Chase, Mr. Mercier’s attorney. It is Meadow, correct?”

Nodding, Meadow didn’t miss the odd expression on his face. “Of course. Are you finished with Vincent? I need to start the interview if I hope to finish today.”

Behind the attorney, two guards waited patiently by the gate, their eyes darting about as if they weren’t listening. Meadow knew they were.

“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to stop and talk to you before leaving.”

“Is he cancelling the interview? I have one day left!”

“No,” he answered, shifting the folder in his grip. “But Mr. Mercier explained to me that there are items at the Wishing Well he’d had stored that he would like given to you.”

“What kind of items?”

“Odds and ends. I believe some of the items were from Penelope’s room. I’m not sure what exactly. He explained there’s a list at the hotel. I’m hoping you’ll agree to meet me at the Wishing Well tomorrow morning following Mr. Mercier’s execution.”

Although the last place Meadow wanted to go was the Wishing Well, she couldn’t find it within herself to decline the invitation. Seeing the hotel, walking the halls would be the same as confronting a ghost, the same as confronting a nightmare she feared she could never escape. Perhaps looking the monster in the eye would be the only way to dispel it.

“Fine. I’ll meet you there once the execution is over.”

Standing from her seat, she gathered her recorder and blank tapes, a hand landing gently on her shoulder. Turning, she backed out of reach of Mr. Chase.

“There is one other matter we need to discuss.”

Staring at him, she waited for whatever bomb he would drop. The expression on his face was too apologetic for good news.

Taking a breath, he explained, “Although Mr. Mercier has agreed to conclude the interview with you today, he wishes to do so without the use of recording devices-“

“What?” Her voice echoed, the one question repeating through the halls. The volume of it had attracted the attention of the two waiting guards and they no longer kept up the appearance of not paying attention.

“What do you mean he won’t let me record this last part? I have no other way to take notes. I’m not allowed to take so much as a pen inside that room. Am I supposed to write stuff down with a fucking crayon?”

Anger was a pulse beneath her skin. How dare he? How fucking dare Vincent do this to her? He knew she needed these tapes, knew she was approaching the portion of his confession that mattered the most. All the rest of it was a method for him to brag, but this part - THIS admission - was what she needed to finally move on from the heartbreak of what her life had become.

The attorney didn’t react to her anger, his expression blank, his posture firm. “I apologize, Ms. Graham, but those are his wishes. He’s under no order compelling him to discuss this matter with you. He’s doing so voluntarily, but he no longer wants your recorder in the room. I can take it off your hands if you like, and return it when we see each other tomorrow. I assume the tapes you’ve brought with you are blank, and you won’t have to worry about losing the work you’ve already accomplished by entrusting the recorder with me.”

“That son of a bitch,” she cursed beneath her breath. But time was running out, the clock ticking forward, stealing the precious minutes she had to pick Vincent’s brain, to extract the truth she needed.

“Fine,” she said, handing over the recorder and tapes. “But this doesn’t mean what he tells me is private. I still have an article to write.”

The attorney nodded. “I understand. You’ll just have to do so from memory rather than having his words documented on tape.”

Without a recording, Meadow wouldn’t be able to prove that what she wrote was fact, she wouldn’t be able to verify Vincent’s words if someone were to question their accuracy. And perhaps that’s exactly what Vincent wanted.

Maybe it was a good thing they wouldn’t allow her to enter the room with a pen. She wasn’t sure she could resist jumping across the table and stabbing him in the eye.

“Thank you, Ms. Graham. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow.”

The attorney sauntered off in one direction while Meadow walked in the other, the guards shaking their heads as she approached. One followed her toward interview room three, his voice low when he commented, “Mercier really is a bastard, isn’t he? Asshole’s dying tomorrow but still feels the need to screw with people.”

Meadow didn’t bother to respond, her focus on one man alone, a man who sat grinning on his side of the table as the guard let her into the room. Ignoring the quiet click of the door closing, Meadow took her seat, her arms crossing over her chest in defiance of Vincent’s amusement.

“That’s a really pretty smile you have for a dead man.”

Laughter burst from his lips, actual joy beaming behind his glittering green eyes. “Ah, Meadow. Don’t be mad,” he finally said once he had calmed enough to speak. “There are reasons for everything I do. You’ll learn that eventually.”

When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Have you decided what questions you’d like to ask today? Seeing as I’m dead tomorrow, I certainly hope you’ve determined which ones are the most important.”

Unclenching her teeth, she glared across the table at him. “I think you already know what my first question will be. I asked it twice yesterday, both times wherein you refused to answer.”

Shaking his head, he grinned. “You’ll have to excuse me for my forgetfulness. With death on the horizon, I can’t seem to think of much else. Please remind me, what is it you would like to know?”

Her fingers curled into her palms, her nails cutting crescent shaped gouges into her skin. “Did you kill Penny? Or was it Maurice?”

Sighing, Vincent relaxed back into his seat, his eyes locking to hers. “I find it funny that you keep asking a question to which you already know the answer. Or, at least you think you know.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if he’d returned to the years his memories took him. With a voice far more somber than anything she’d heard in the past few days, he said, “When I was a child, I used to adore the hours I spent with Maman reading fairytales-“

“Oh, cut the shit,” Meadow burst out. “I don’t have time for your musings about pretty stories.”

“I think you do, Meadow. At least if you truly want to know this last part. But, I’m actually glad you interrupted me, I was skipping ahead. Tell me, what details do you know about the day your sister died?”

“Are you asking me that so you can formulate a better lie?”

He grinned. “No. In this, I will be honest. I just find it funny that you seem to think it wasn’t me who killed your sister. Now, how would you know that? It’s not like Penny could record the events of her own death in the diary I sent you. So why do you think the details are any different than what the police know?”

Vincent was edging too close to the secret Meadow had kept close to her chest, the only weapon she had left to use against him. “The police report claimed that two people died that night, that it was due to a lover’s spat the deaths occurred. You didn’t love Penny, not according to the diary-“

“The diary ,” he repeated, soft laughter shaking his shoulders. “Right. Obviously that’s the only way you could possibly know this.”

“Two people died,” she argued, “one quite viciously from what I recall reading. But viciousness isn’t your style, Vincent. You are far more controlled than to lose yourself to that type of violence. And if what the reports say is true, than it wouldn’t have been you to kill both Penny and your friend, Barron. However, a man who was jealous, a man such as Maurice, would be able to tear another man apart so cruelly. He had no control over his instincts.”

Breathing deeply, Vincent held the air in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling. “Yes,” he agreed, “Maurice was quite capable of that.”

“So,” Meadow continued, “I believe Maurice killed her because he thought she was with another man. He killed her because she was the only woman he loved, she was his damn obsession, and he mistook seeing her with someone else and slaughtered not just her, but the other man. Perhaps that is why he was so devastated that he took his own life.”

A flicker of remorse flashed across his expression, there and then gone, human and then cold, unfeeling monster. “Back to what I was saying,” he finally replied, his smile stretching again. “The reason I always loved fairytales was because of their perfect timing, despite how unrealistic that timing might be. And this story is a fairytale, I hope you know that.”

Rolling her eyes, Meadow knew shoving Vincent along would only make him dig his heels deeper in refusal to budge. Lounging back in her seat, she glared at him, waiting for whatever point it was that he wanted to make.

“Except, in fairytales, the perfect timing has more to do with the prince sweeping in to save the fair maiden, his actions allowing just enough time for the reader to think she’ll perish, but then there he is on his white horse, slaying the villain. And as you know the prince and the maiden kiss, their bodies disappearing as they ride off into the sunset. The perfect timing of fairy tales are intricately tied to the happy ending. However, in this particular fable - although there is a prince, there is a maiden, there is a villain, there is a kiss, and there is a sunset - the perfect timing is tied to its tragedy.”

A shiver coursed down her spine, pain and sorrow shredding her heart, images flashing through her thoughts. “Just tell me what happened, Vincent. I’ve lost enough time due to your meeting with your attorney. I don’t have much more to go before you die.”

Weaving his fingers together over the surface of the table, Vincent leaned forward to close some of the distance between them. “And so it happened, on a night that should have been pure joy for the prince and his maiden, the villain swept in to steal that happiness for himself, if only to exact revenge...”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Vincent

 

“I mean it, Maurice, stop trying to shove food in my mouth in front of Vincent. Your jerk of a brother will get ideas and pretend to try it himself while actually just stabbing me with a fork!”

Penelope’s laughter was an infectious joy lighting the face of my brother, my eyes locked on his expression with utter disbelief. In a matter of weeks, Penelope had been able to accomplish what everybody else had not: She’d shown a man who was trapped by his own emotional turmoil how to come out from beneath the weight of it and learn how to live again. The counselors, the doctors, not even my mother, had been able to accomplish that. And for what Penelope had done, I would forever be in her debt.

Not that I would admit that debt. Not to her, at least. Lord knows she would wait for the most inopportune moment to demand her pound of flesh. Although Maurice loved her more than he could even love himself, I still saw her for the rebellious, Dirty Girl I’d discovered on the streets. But that didn’t mean I could ignore the gratitude I had for her ability to return a member of my family to me.

Lips pulled into a smile, Maurice shoved the fork at her once again, the food spilling over to dribble down her chin. “I’ll kill him if he stabs you. He knows that.” Turning to flash me a fake snarl, Maurice asked, “Right, Vincent?”

“C’est vrai, mon frère .”

It was in moments like this, I wondered if I was dreaming. This change in him wasn’t possible.

Two weeks had passed since I’d agreed to taking Maurice out into the garden at sunset, fourteen days wherein Penelope hunted me down demanding that I make good on my promise. I’ll admit nervousness had kept me from finally relenting, and for those two weeks, I found excuses for why it couldn’t happen that night. However, I’d run out of excuses, and tonight, while the sun was still partially in the sky and was busy lowering itself over the horizon to become a web of brilliant, beaming color, Penelope and I would walk Maurice out while there were still people lingering around the gardens to see how he reacted to the attention.

In truth, my brother was a good-looking man, not quite as tall as me, but broader, his physique better defined. His hair was just as dark and wild, curled at the ends where it dusted his shoulders. And his eyes, like mine, were the color of emeralds that could lure a saintly woman into the bowels of Hell. He would attract attention whether he liked it or not, but hopefully with Penelope at his side, he could ignore the idle glances and the curious stares.

Penelope took the bite he was offering, her lips sliding slowly along the tines of the fork as he pulled it away, their focus locked on each other. To see him so happy, to feel his contentment from across the room, I had a moment of jealousy for my brother. In all my years, in the freedom I’d had to explore the world, never had I looked at a woman like that.

But, that’s fine. I would still fuck them, and that would just have to be good enough for me.

“Well,” I said, clearing my throat, “I should probably get going before you two strip down and start mating with each other right in front of me. By the looks you’re throwing across the table, I just envisioned a reverse cowgirl occurring on top of your lunch.”

Penelope turned her head and glared. “Not funny, Vincent.”

Maurice grinned. I was giving him ideas apparently.

Laughing as I left, I returned to my office with a skip to my step. Life had just become less irritating at the Wishing Well, a bit of light added to the secret hidden in the basement. I’d been at my desk for a few hours when a familiar face walked through the door.

“Hello, Vincent. Long time no see. Has your newest toy been keeping you busy and out of touch?”

Glancing up from my computer, I watched Barron stroll in to take a seat. As usual, his blond hair was perfectly styled, his suit impeccable, his eyes focused on me with the arrogance only a man like him could have. As rich as me, as powerful in this city, he walked as if he owned everything within sight, and had he not been currently in my hotel, that would have been true. Barron was a entrepreneur with his name on most of the nightclubs, restaurants and bars around town.

“Barron, it has been quite a while. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you for lunch the last several times you asked. I’ve had my hands full with the hotel and my brother.”

Taking a seat in one of the leather chairs facing my desk, he unbuttoned his suit jacket and relaxed. “How is the monster these days?”

Feathers ruffled by the comment, I couldn’t blame him for his use of the term. Three months ago, I’d used the description myself to describe Maurice.

“He’s improving, actually. In fact,” I glanced at the clock on my computer to see I was supposed to meet Maurice and Penelope in the basement in forty-five minutes, “I’m going to have to keep this visit short. I’m taking Maurice for an activity in a little while. How have you been?”

“Better than you. While you’re busy babysitting a grown child, I’ve been having the time of my life. Making money. Fucking women. Attending party after party with grownups. And everybody has been asking about you, wondering where you’ve been.”

Clicking to exit my email program, I relaxed back in my seat and lifted my feet to rest them on the surface of my desk. “I wouldn’t call it babysitting, and I’m glad people have missed me, even if I can’t say the same about them.”

“Has one particular woman been keeping you busy?”

Brows pulling together, his statement confused me until the past came back to me and the reason for his presence clicked in place. “You’re here because of the bet.”

Inclining his head, he grinned. “Today is the last day of the three month time period. I’ve come to see how well you’ve trained her. I look forward to my taste. Especially after the bruise she left on my cheek the first time we met.”

Damn. Losing the profits from the hotel for a full year would sting, but it wouldn’t bankrupt me. And being a man of my word, there was no way I was getting out from the wager I’d made. “Looks like I owe you a ton of money, Barron. I didn’t complete the bet.”

A curious expression flickered across his face. “Are you telling me that a homeless teenager bested Vincent Mercier at his own game?” Shaking his head in disbelief, he laughed. “You’re losing your touch. I would have had that girl eating from my hand after not giving her a choice.”

My fingers drummed on my desk. “It’s not that she bested me, it’s just that her usefulness ended up being in a different place in my life. It seems Maurice fell in love with her.”

His eyes widened. “Tell me you’re fucking kidding? You’re giving up millions so that your pest of a brother can be in love? What the hell is going on with you, Vincent? That bitch deserved to get put in her place.”

Pausing, he stared at me, thoughts racing in his head. “Unless tossing her to Maurice was your way of training her? Being used by that psycho son of a bitch can’t be too enjoyable.”

My anger crested as my patience wore thin. It was one thing to disparage Maurice once, but to continue doing it was beyond what I considered tolerable. “Be careful, Barron. You’re beginning to anger me. Regardless of his issues, he is still my brother.”

“Maybe I’m angry, Vincent. You dragged me into this and even accepted that little bitch struck me. But I allowed it with the understanding I would get to strike her back. You can’t possibly be telling me that I have to simply settle for her disrespect. If I’d known you’d backpedal, I would have done something about it a few weeks ago when I saw her.”

My eyebrow cocked. “A few weeks ago? Were you at the hotel and didn’t tell me?”

Stretching his legs out in front of his body, he tapped a finger against his knee. “No. I went to the cafe to grab some coffee and walked in as she was walking out. When I touched her, she threatened to rake her fingernails down my face. I left it alone, but only because I thought I’d have the opportunity to show her what happens when a girl like her says something so nasty to a man like me.”

Seeing the anger in his expression, I had no doubt that Barron was looking forward to teaching Penelope a lesson. Thankfully, she was under lock and key at the moment, down in the basement where Barron couldn’t reach her. I would be sure to warn her of his intent, be sure to tell her to keep an eye out for him on the streets.

“Isn’t the money you’ll receive for winning the bet enough to more than make up for any insult? We’re talking millions, Barron.”

“I already have millions,” he reminded me. “But what I don’t have is tolerance for petty little bitches who think they can treat me as if they’re somehow better.”

Worry crept down my spine at the menace in his voice. “Penelope is off limits to you, Barron. She’s a woman who’s dragging Maurice out of his shell and also my employee. You’ll be smart to leave her alone.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a pointed request from a friend and business acquaintance to leave this one alone. Penelope may have started as a game, but in the effect she has on my brother, she has become a very important person in my life. And as such, she has my protection. It was a slap, Barron. That’s all. I’m sure a man of your stature can look past it.”

He barked out a laugh. “So, you’ve gone soft? I should have known.” Rising from his seat, he straightened the creases from his pants and rebuttoned his jacket. “I’ll expect the money I’ve made off this hotel on the first day of every month.”

Nodding my head, I stood and extended my hand to shake his. “And you will receive it. I’m a man of my word.”

Flicking a disgusted glance at my hand, he stormed off, closing my office door behind him with considerable force. I dropped my weight into my seat and went about finishing up a few issues that needed my attention before shutting down for the night and heading to the basement. Sunset was in twenty minutes and I didn’t want to be late. This was as important to me as it was to Penelope.

Reaching the basement, I heard the standard tapping coming from the left. Assuming Maurice was busying himself with what he was learning about managing aspects of the hotel, I strolled down the hall expecting to find Penelope on the couch curled up with a book. Although I couldn’t mention Barron in front of Maurice, I had every intention of warning her when I next saw her alone. Unfortunately, when I entered the room, only Maurice was inside.

Concern was an icy finger scratching at my heart. “Where’s Penelope?”

Maurice’s eyes never left the screen of his computer. “She left a few hours after lunch to go up to her room and take a shower.”

My brow arched. “Why doesn’t she just shower down here?”

His eyes sparkled. “Because she never gets clean. I won’t let her.”

Shaking my head, I said, “Well, I’ll just go upstairs and bring her down. Sunset will be happening soon.”

I’d barely turned to leave before he answered, “She had to run errands before coming back. If she’s not down here on time, she’ll meet us by the employee door leading to the garden.”

By now, my pulse was absolutely jagged. “Then we should go.”

Perhaps it was a note in my tone that caused his eyes to dart up. “Sunset isn’t for another ten minutes.” Maurice’s shoulders went rigid, worry creasing his brow.

Purposely attempting to hide my own feelings, I smiled. “We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. You know how Penelope can be.”

The expression on his face was love-struck. “Wonderful?”

“Let’s go, Maurice. This will be your first sunset in a long time. I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

Watching him rise from his seat, I had to stop myself from rushing him along. My spine was prickling with anxiety, my thoughts racing to the conversation I’d just had with Barron. Telling myself there was no way his path could have crossed with Penelope’s, I walked with Maurice down the hall, taking a deep breath as I punched in the code that would take us to the lobby.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

 

The first indication that something was wrong was Penelope’s absence by the employee door leading into the garden. She had been so excited for this step in Maurice’s life, so adamant that I let it occur. She was his champion after falling for a man that was learning to love himself as much as he loved her. For Penelope not to be at the door with a selfless smile to give to him, together with her hand for him to hold, was the first warning I needed to turn around and take him back to the basement.

I wish I could say it was just me that tensed to see the hallway empty of her presence, but Maurice grew concerned as well, his eyes searching the distance looking for her. “Maybe she’s outside,” he posited, “I may have misheard her. I do that all the time.”

It was a momentary relief to think the two had simply miscommunicated, and I walked beside my brother through the door. The garden, like the hall, was silent, even as guests strolled by, their hands or arms locked together while they enjoyed the peaceful serenity of the garden I’d commissioned to remind me of home.

I should have turned around. I should have forced him back inside. But doing so would have only set him off. Now that Maurice was outside the confines of the basement beneath the hotel, there would be no stuffing him back in that cage until he had Penelope beside him.

“Maybe,” I said, “she’s just late. Anything could have held her up. We’ll continue walking until we find her.”

Nodding his head, Maurice tucked his hands inside his pockets, his shoulders folding in on themselves as self-conscious thoughts attacked his mind. Already he was assuming that Penelope had forgotten about him, that she was rejecting him by not being in the place where she’d promised to meet him.

If she was running late, I would be sure to tear her a new asshole when I had a moment to speak with her alone. This was a big step for Maurice, an important step, and she should have known better than to fuck it up. And even while my anger caused my teeth to clench together, there was still the concern that Penelope would have been on time if something hadn’t stopped her.

To say I wanted to run the perimeter of the garden to find her and drag her to us was an understatement, but with Maurice at my side, I had no choice. I had to walk calmly. Running would only cause him to panic. It would cause him to lash out.

“The well,” he finally breathed out. “I bet she’s there. She always talks about how much she loves it.”

“Does she?” I asked, making idle conversation, my eyes scanning every nook and cranny, seeking her out. “Why does she love it so much?”

“Because that’s where she met me.”

My mind returned to that night, to the fear I’d seen on Penelope’s face when I told her to be careful around Maurice. If only I’d known she’d be the catalyst for his change, I would have shoved her at him, chained her to his waist. As it was, Maurice had been the first to pursue her, the only one to love her, but Penelope wasn’t aware of that yet.

We were nearing the well when a distant sound drew both our attention, and before I could react by holding Maurice back, he’d taken off at a dead run. It was nothing more but a startled cry, it could have been anybody, really. But Maurice had Penelope’s voice dedicated to memory, the pitch of her tone a siren’s song that called to him. I was sure he heard her voice in his sleep, was sure he could sniff her out like a dog does a rabbit when on the hunt.

The next scream that cut through the silence of a day turning to night was far more compelling, far more distressed than was normal for a woman playing around. I couldn’t run fast enough to keep up with him, couldn’t yell loud enough to make him stop.

All hell broke loose when Maurice crashed through a grouping of distant bushes to find Penelope limp on the ground, her attacker standing above her with rage darkening his face. I only caught a glimpse of the gouges across Barron’s face before Maurice was on top of him, only caught a peek of the blood that wept from the wounds. If only Maurice had been more in control, those wounds would have been our salvation.

But as it happened, as the fury overtook my brother and he lost the ability to understand reason, Barron was on the ground screaming as Maurice became more dangerous than a wild animal, beating on and breaking every bone in Barron’s face. At the time the fighting began, this portion of the garden was empty, but as any loud noise will do, as any terrible fight will cause to happen, the battle between the two men drew attention. As guests ran over to see what the noise was about, I was attempting to jump in and drag Maurice off the man he was beating to a bloody pulp.

The crimson stain was everywhere. On the ground, on the bushes, on my clothes, on Penelope where she lay much too still to be alive and breathing.

Barron managed to break free of Maurice for an instant, long enough to run in the direction of Penelope’s body, to fall on top of her, to sink down as Maurice tackled him again. In the fight between the two men, Penelope’s body was also being crushed. There was nothing I could do to stop it. My clothes were ripped like theirs, my body, face and hair covered in the blood of Barron and Maurice both. All three of us had wounds consistent with a battle.

The fight was far too brutal, the ripping of skin, the crunching of bones, the viciousness of a man gone mad, creating a scene that caused the guests to scream as they witnessed it, for them to grab their phones and call the police.

Bones protruded from Barron’s body, his face unrecognizable as human, and when Maurice made sure that Barron was no longer breathing, he flung me off his back and crawled to Penelope.

As far as the guests had witnessed, the gathering of people who would attest to the facts of what had occurred, my brother and I had killed a man as well as the woman who was with him. They didn’t know what caused the fight to occur, they hadn’t heard the muted cry of a woman fighting off her attacker. They didn’t know that Barron had caused her death with a blow to her face, or by breaking her neck. In truth, and when all the examiners and doctors had their chance to detail the injuries of her body, they wouldn’t be able to opine which one had been the blow that killed her.

The sun was setting over the garden, the distant horizon lighting up like a painting over the endless sky, and in the distance, sirens were tearing through the warm spring evening, blue lights swirling within the reds and golds, pinks and violets of a sun sinking beneath the horizon.

On my knees, I watched as Maurice lifted Penelope’s limp body from the ground, a roar escaping his chest and mouth as he cradled her to his chest, his lips pressing to hers with a gentleness that brought tears to my eyes. Pulling away, he roared again, the sound that of a man who’d just lost everything. I’d never heard such deep sorrow and pain, and in my entire life, I never wanted to hear it again.

Behind me, the drum of running feet approached, the hurried voices of guests explaining what they’d seen, and in a panic to protect my brother from what I knew was coming, I rushed toward him to make it appear as if I’d been the aggressor. The police had me by the arms, their grip crushing as they dragged me away from a broken man clutching his broken doll, tears streaming from his eyes.

Before they could approach him, I screamed the only words I could think to say. “It was me! Okay? That son of a bitch thought he could fuck her behind my back! My brother tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t let him!”

Yes, I’d flipped the roles we’d played, but with the injuries, the blood, the carnage that covered us both, it could have been either of us that had been the one to kill.

How stupid had I been to scream the first words that came into my head when it would have been easier to use logic and explain calmly what had happened? To lay blame at Barron’s feet? To go against everything the guests were claiming they’d seen so that I could protect us both from being arrested?

However, instinct isn’t always stupid.

As it turned out, it was my immediate confession that had been the only thing protecting my brother from being taken into custody, from being tossed to the ground where he would have fought to the death to get back to Penelope.

Perhaps that’s why emotion had clouded my better judgment in that instant: I knew Maurice would have been killed by not listening to a single instruction the police gave him.

I could only be thankful that my hotel manager had come running as soon as he heard the report there was a fight in the garden, that he’d been smart enough to bring the drugs that would neutralize Maurice and keeping him from fighting the police who wanted to take Penelope’s body from his arms.

While being handcuffed, I watched Maurice’s body crash to the ground, watched John explain something to the officers that kept them from hurting my brother.

Figuring it all could be explained once I knew Maurice was safe, once I had a moment to calm down and come to my senses in the police station, once I had time to speak with my attorney, I let the officers lead me away and place me in their waiting car.

And while waiting for the officer to round the car, climb in and drive away, I heard the slap of the employee gate closing, and turned to see a dark haired woman running away.

 

. . .

 

“What do you mean one of us is taking the fall for this? It was Barron who killed Penelope. I only attacked him because he went after my brother next.”

“That’s not what seven guests had to say. I’m not privy to their exact statements, but from what I’m gathering on what little the police have told me, the guests are pinning the deaths of both the man and the woman on you or your brother.” Stephen Chase, the man who had been my attorney for longer than I could remember relaxed back in his seat, obviously uncomfortable with the plastic chairs in the holding room of the local police station.

According to him, I would be staying overnight to attend my arraignment in the morning.

“What are my chances of getting out on bail tomorrow?” I asked, hating the jumpsuit they’d given me to wear after taking my clothes as evidence.

“Slim, considering the brutality of the crime. That man was ripped apart, Vincent. The woman’s body crushed in parts. What the hell happened?”

“I already told you-“

“You told me you killed a man for attacking a woman in your garden, but for fuck’s sake! The scene was a blood bath!” His palm slapped the table in frustration before he reached up to run it through his hair. After releasing a heavy breath, he leveled his stare on me and lowered his voice. “I know you couldn’t have done that. You’re not a fucking maniac. Your brother, however-“

“Had nothing to do with it,” I insisted. There was no way I would let them drag Maurice into this. If my brother were found to have committed murder, he would end up in a state psychiatric facility. I refused to let that happen to him. “Speaking of which, did you get in touch with John? How is my brother doing?”

“You’re worried about your brother? Are you kidding me right now?”

I simply stared at him.

“Your manager said they got him to the basement. Whatever the hell that means”

When relief withered my shoulders, he ground his teeth. “You kill me, you know that? This is serious, Vincent. They have cadaver dogs out there looking for the pieces of that man who was killed.”

That information did not bode well. Scrubbing my palm down my face, I asked, “Just out of curiosity, how deep down can those dogs smell?”

His eyes rounded. “I’m not sure. Why?”

Shaking my head, I answered, “No reason.” Except for maybe the two other bodies I’d disposed of when accidents happened.

Fucking Hell, this was bad. “So, what now? We go through the arraignment? The judge sets my bail? What happens then?”

Cursing under his breath, Stephen clicked his pen, the noise an outward symptom of his disbelief and anger. “Then we allow the police to conclude their investigation and decide on charges. As your attorney, I’m highly recommending you come clean about who actually ripped apart that man and killed the woman.”

“Penelope, I said, genuine sorrow coating my voice. “Her name was Penelope Graham.”

“I don’t give a fuck what her name was. All I know is that if you don’t come clean, she’ll be the woman you get the death penalty for.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Faiville Prison; 12:01 pm

 

Meadow was in tears as the guard led her from the interview room for shift change, her jaw practically dragging the table after listening to Vincent’s reiteration of events. She didn’t have a single second to ask him more about it before the door popped open and she was informed she’d need to leave for a half hour.

In truth, and for the first time since she’d started that interview with Vincent, she appreciated the interruption. Meadow felt broken, crushed, suffering the same injuries her sister had suffered as a fight broke out around her.

After being led to the waiting area where she took a seat on the benches that were as uncomfortable - as inhospitable - as all the feelings inside her, she wished she’d brought the police reports and autopsy reports with her, if only to confirm what she thought she knew.

Barron had suffered such brutal injuries that the medical examiner could only guess which one had been the trauma that killed him. As if a pack of animals had taken hold, his body was torn apart, was shredded by the rage of a man who, until now, Meadow believed had been jealous. She’d guessed, she’d KNOWN, Vincent couldn’t have been the one to do it, leaving only Maurice to have lost control.

But in all the days she’d spent studying those reports, in all the years she’d thought back to what she’d read, she’d never considered the possibility that the rage of the man who killed Barron had been in protection of her sister from the man who’d intended her harm.

How stupid had she been?

As for her sister’s body, the injuries were also inconclusive. Bones broken, skull crushed in, skin ripped and torn. There were several guesses as to what had been the fatal blow. Meadow assumed the injuries had been intentional, not that they’d occurred as one man attempted to protect her body from another man who could have cared less.

In the end, she was right, Vincent hadn’t been the aggressor - he hadn’t been the villain in this tragic fairytale ending. And he hadn’t been wrong to say that it was the too perfect timing that had made it possible for the story to end this way. As if fate herself had danced the streets of the city, the sway of her hips causing soft winds to blow and push all the characters into place.

Too perfect, that bitch we call fate and her timing.

But even in that, Vincent didn’t know all of it. He didn’t understand just how perfect the timing had been. Only Meadow knew, and it was her turn to tell him. It had been her one card - the ace that would send him to death screaming.

Not anymore. Now it was just a pathetically sad fact that if she hadn’t been so angry and afraid, she could have prevented tragedy and senseless death.

“Are you ready to go back? Or did you need another few minutes?”

Swiping at the tears that dotted her cheeks, Meadow glanced up at the grim faced guard by the gate. Standing on the other side, he peered out at her from between the heavy bars, his hands wrapped around one on each side of his body. Her expression must have set off warning signals in his head. “Did he say something to you in there that made you so upset? You don’t have to finish this, you know? You can walk away and let that bastard die all by himself.”

His words made her cry harder. For all of his games, for the tangled webs he’d spun and the joy he took in trapping his prey, Vincent Mercier didn’t deserve to die at all.

It had all been about his brother. About Maurice. The deaths, the accidents, the cages and chains: it had all occurred because one man hadn’t known how to help another. But not because he hadn’t tried.

People would celebrate Vincent’s death tomorrow.

Meadow wouldn’t be one of them.

Slapping away the last tear, Meadow answered, “I’m ready,” while hating the crack in her voice. Standing from the bench seat she would never warm again, she took measured steps toward the imposing gate, winced at the sound of the pneumatic hiss and stepped through to finish an interview she wished had been conducted years before.

Before...

She would have done anything in her power to save him.

Led inside interview room three, she didn’t lift her head, didn’t dare meet Vincent’s eyes until she’d steeled her spine and was ready. What she found when she finally glanced across the table broke her even more. For the first time since they’d started this dance, Vincent looked at her with pity behind his emerald green eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a soft whisper.

“For what?”

Vincent was too still in his seat, too remorseful and calm. For some strange reason she suddenly missed the arrogance, the humor, the razor-edged wit of the man now looking at her with keen understanding in his expression. “You just heard the details of your sister’s death. That can’t be easy for anyone.”

If only he knew...

Wrapping her arms around her abdomen, she attempted to hold herself together. And with minimal strength in her voice, she said, “You weren’t the villain in this story. I mean...you were...but at the same time, you were not.”

A quick shake of his head, just one soft movement. “No, not in that part, at least. In others?” He shrugged. “Perhaps I was.”

A journalist shouldn’t lose herself this way, not a real one, not the type that is tough as nails, that could set herself aside from the story and look at it from an objective place.

She couldn’t. She’d lost the ability to fight.

“How,” she asked, her throat clogged by emotion, her lungs struggling to take a steady breath. “How did Barron end up in the garden with my sister?”

Seconds passed in silence, Vincent studying her, dissecting her, before breathing out and admitting, “That, I don’t know. From what my attorney told me, the police reviewed the security tapes from the hotel. They saw your sister arrive, they saw Barron come and go, but how those two ended up together is a mystery I fear we’ll never solve. It’s the timing I mentioned.”

I glanced up at him to see him flare his fingers in resignation. “How did the woodcutter show up just in time to save Little Red from the wolf? How do the princes of every fairytale appear at exactly the moment they’re needed? I used to think those stories were comical for the way everything just neatly fell in place. I used to think they were so opposite to reality. But after this story, after countless other tragedies where people were simply in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time, I don’t laugh at fairytales anymore. Even life has its neat and tidy endings that we have no choice but to accept.”

Another short period of time where the only sound in the room was the gentle hum of the air conditioning. Meadow was lost for that moment, at least until Vincent rattled his chains.

“But that’s not all there is to know about this particular ending, is there?”

Lifting her eyes, she found him leaning toward her, closing the distance she so desperately needed.

Meadow needed space from the tragedy, the shattered lives, the secrets and the pain.

Oh, God, the pain...

“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered weakly, her own lies crushing her beneath their pathetic weight.

“Don’t lie,” he answered softly, “not now, not after we’ve reached the end.”

Tension traced across her bones. He can’t know. There’s no possible way.

Reaching as far as the shackles would allow him, Vincent could only touch the tip of his finger to her chin. She wanted to straighten her posture, to stop curling her body over the edge of the table just so she could move out of reach. But, yet, that small bit of contact comforted her more than she wanted to admit.

“How could you let Maurice die?” she asked, pure agony coating her words.

“I didn’t mean to. I did everything I could to help him. He’s why I walk voluntarily to my death. But that’s not what we need to discuss at the moment, is it? We have time for that after locking in the final piece of this tragic puzzle.”

Meadow lifted her eyes, the truth of her secret written clearly across her face.

“Barron finding your sister, the choice of which night Maurice and I would go to the garden, those weren’t the only factors with perfect timing, were they? There was one more factor that added to this fairytale ending, and I think it’s only fair you tell me.”

Her eyes locked to his, gold-flecked brown meeting the emerald green as all veils and pretenses were torn aside, the secrets finally being revealed.

Vincent blinked, his dark lashes a fan across his skin for only a moment before the green pinned her again.

“How is it your sister was at the hotel that night? And why did you choose to run after witnessing what happened, Penelope ?”

Heart seizing, she clenched her eyes shut, opening them again to see him staring at her with knowledge written into the color.

“You know?” she asked, her mind drowning in disbelief.

Vincent simply nodded his head. “I’ve known since the moment you first entered this room to start the interview. I’ve known the entire time.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Penny

 

Vincent left the room with his shoulders shaking. Lately it seemed he no longer got his enjoyment by torturing me with games, but rather by torturing me with making suggestions Maurice would take to heart. Five seconds ago and we’d merely been eating lunch, even if messily so due to Maurice’s fun in force feeding me. But now, the beautiful man with glimmering green eyes was staring at me like I’d become the meal he would eat, the food on the table no longer holding his interest.

“What’s a reverse cowgirl?” he asked, his head tilting slightly to the side.

My face fell into my palms. Mumbling against my hands, I answered, “It’s nothing. Just forget Vincent ever said anything.”

Deep laughter floated across the table, his hand reaching out to tug mine from my face. “It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Shaking my head in disbelief, I laughed along with him. “I’ll teach you what it is after our walk in the garden tonight. Deal?”

Cocking a brow, he smirked. “Deal. But what can you teach me now?”

When he looked at me like that, I wanted nothing more than to grab his face between my hands and kiss him until we were both breathless. But for as long as we’d been ‘friends’, he still hadn’t allowed me that one bit of intimacy. Sex, Maurice could handle. In fact, it was a demand he made several times a day. But kissing, he wasn’t there yet. I didn’t know if it was a trust thing and I’d asked Vincent if he understood why Maurice had that issue. Even Vincent didn’t know. The only guess he could make was that the last person Maurice had willingly let kiss him had been their mother.

And then a few months later, she’d died.

So, perhaps it was fear - a fear I was determined to show him was misplaced. Vincent had given me some ridiculous speech about how a kiss gives life or brings death, whatever the hell that meant, but I refused to let Maurice continue walling himself off from any of the best experiences in life.

So, at night while he was sleeping, I would kiss him all over his face. And one day, I would do it when his eyes were open, when he was looking at me like I was his world, when I’d finally reached a point with him that he could trust I would never leave his side.

“I can teach you patience,” I answered, grinning like an idiot to see the content expression of his ridiculously beautiful face. It wasn’t fair how handsome both Maurice and Vincent were, and perhaps Maurice’s issues, those problems that kept him apart, had been a favor to the women of the world. Dealing with one was enough to suck you into a vortex of sensual confusion and leave you with the inability to breathe, but if these two had ever gone out on the town together, I knew there would have been a slew of broken hearts left in their wake.

“Patience? Why?”

“Because I need to get a shower and I have errands I need to run today,” I explained, my sister on my mind.

It had been a few weeks since I last sent an email and after stopping by the Internet cafe to answer whatever messages Meadow had sent me, I had every intention of stopping by a store to purchase a phone with the earnings from my last paycheck. No longer concerned that Vincent would boot me onto the streets, I wanted to make my life more convenient. Why I hadn’t bought one weeks ago was beyond my understanding, but perhaps my own fear of what could happen with Vincent’s mercurial moods had made me a bit too leery of draining her savings.

His moods didn’t matter anymore. Nothing would strip me away from Maurice.

Concern edged his eyes. “Will you be back in time for the walk?”

Smiling to comfort him, I wanted to reach out to wipe the worried lines from his face, but knowing he would only pull away, I curled my fingers into my palms. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Not one damn thing. Okay? And if I don’t make it down the basement in time, I’ll wait for you by the employee door leading outside.”

Maurice nodded his head before settling back into his seat. “Okay.”

And if I wanted to keep that promise, I would have to get going. Already, the day was getting late. Standing from my seat, I pressed two fingers to my lips and blew him a kiss. “I’ll be back, Maurice, and then we’ll find out what I can teach you later.”

He nodded his head and it killed my not to be able to hug him, to hold him in a way he still wouldn’t allow. Maurice’s idea of physical affection often led to rough sex, and there was no time for that, not if I wanted to send the email to my sister, buy a phone and make it back in time.

Not only that, but I needed to shower. Doing so in the basement only led to Maurice climbing in to dirty my body after I got it clean.

“I’ll see you when I get back,” I called out, leaving the yellow room to race down the hall to the elevator. After going to my room on the fifth floor, showering and getting dressed, I left the hotel via the back employee gate of the garden.

It didn’t take long for me to reach the Internet cafe, and by now the clerk recognized me well enough to call out my name as I entered. “Penny! How are you today?”

“Good,” I answered, tossing enough money to buy myself a half hour.

Shaking his head, he opened the cash register and handed me a receipt with the login code. “Why haven’t you bought a phone yet? Coming here all the time has to be a pain in the ass.”

“I’m buying one after leaving here today.”

The cashier grinned. “Well, in that case, I’ll miss you. Desk three is open.”

“Thanks!”

Within seconds, I was at desk three, logging into my email provider to find dozens of emails spanning the past few weeks, each subject line becoming more panicked and urgent. When I reached the email with the subject line, MOM IS DEAD!! , my heart was a drumbeat in my throat and I clicked to open it.

Tears burst from my eyes, my hand flying to my mouth as if that would stop the loud sobs from escaping my lips. I could barely read the words through my tears that wouldn’t stop streaming, could hardly understand what Meadow’s email was saying.

Apparently, she’d been sending me emails for over a week to let me know my mom and her new husband were in a car accident, that neither of them had survived. When I didn’t answer, she’d lost her patience and had written me this email with the horrible subject line, hoping it would catch my attention.

Meadow was an intelligent girl. She had a good head on her shoulders. She knew where to find me. Why hadn’t she called the hotel to let me know the news? Perhaps, her shock, her pain, her agony from losing mom had made it impossible for her to think logically. Telling myself I would ask her that question when I had a chance, I scrolled through the next several emails with the details of the funeral she was planning. Refusing to have it without me there, she made plans to come to the city to find me, and her last email, dated that morning, told me she’d arrived into town safe and sound.

She was staying with her best friend, Gia, at her house in our old neighborhood. Glancing at the clock on the computer screen, I calculated driving distances and determined I could make it there to see her and get back to the hotel on time.

Panic and grief have a way of scrambling the mental wires, logic becoming absent as emotion takes control. I should have gone back to the hotel and called Gia. Meadow should have called the hotel to get in touch with me. When you take all the ‘should haves’ and wrap them up in a neat little package, you see just how ridiculous the mistakes had been. But who has time for that when their heart is tearing in two? My sister needed me just as desperately as I needed her.

Racing from the cafe, I flagged down a cab, and after jumping in the back without concern for cost, I rattled off Gia’s address.

The cabby turned to me, his brows pulled tightly together. “That’s a forty-five minute drive. Do you know how much that will cost?”

“I don’t care,” I practically yelled, tears still streaming, “just get me there now!”

After looking at me like I was insane, he shrugged a shoulder and took off down the road. The drive felt like it took days instead of less than an hour.

Gia’s house was exactly as I remembered it, a single story ranch style with blue shutters and a red door. The yard her mother had always meticulously maintained was in full bloom now that we were in the middle of spring, and from what I could see the white picket fence had just received a fresh coat of paint. I tossed some cash to the driver when he told me the ridiculous fee, but before climbing out and letting him drive away, a moment of logic took over.

“Can you wait for me to come back out? I’ll need a ride back to the city.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he pulled out his phone and started scrolling through. “Whatever you want. The fare’s the same whether the car is moving or not.”

“Thanks,” I said, my voice distracted as I ran down the small sidewalk leading to Gia’s door. Ringing the bell, I tapped my foot anxiously waiting for someone to answer. Gia finally pulled it open, confusion wrinkling her brow. “Meadow? You could have just walked inside.”

“No. I’m Penelope.”

“Holy shit!” she said, laughing, “It’s still impossible to tell you two apart. But what are you doing here? Meadow went into the city to look for you. She said you’ve been out of touch the past few weeks.”

“Damn it!” Tears burst from my eyes. I was not in the mood for this. “I got her emails and came here looking for her. I didn’t even know she was coming into town.”

Cocking a hip, Gia leaned a shoulder against the door. “Neither did I until yesterday. She called me in a panic as she was boarding the plane. All she brought with her was a small carry on, which -“

Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Damn, she must have rushed out the door when she left a little bit ago. She forgot her stuff. Are you heading back to the city?”

Her gaze flicked past my shoulder to see the waiting cab. “Looks like it. Why don’t you take her bag with you? I have a feeling once you two find each other, she won’t want to come all the way back here.”

“Yeah, okay. I really need to get back.”

Not only to find Meadow, but to be at the hotel in time for sunset. Maurice would have a panic attack if I wasn’t there. There was no telling what he would think happened to me.

Handing me the cross body bag, which was no bigger than a purse, she touched my shoulder as I turned to leave. “Hey, Penelope. I’m really sorry to hear about your mom. Meadow was inconsolable. I’ve never seen her so flustered and out of it. She’s really taking it hard.”

Nodding because I didn’t know what to say, I walked off, but turned again before reaching the cab. “Gia, if Meadow left her stuff here, how did she get to the city? She wouldn’t have been able to pay for a cab.”

“My mom said she’d drop her off since she was heading over there for some business meeting. She probably hasn’t even noticed she left it here. It’s like I said, she’s really messed up right now.”

“Thanks.” She was still waving goodbye as I climbed into the cab.

“Back to where I picked you up?” The driver asked.

“Yes. And hurry.”

I should have remembered to plan for traffic when deciding whether I could make it to Gia’s and back to the city on time. I should have remembered that at five in the afternoon, the streets leading between the city and suburbs became a practical parking lot. Here I was again listing out the ‘should haves’, the mistakes that made a night like this possible.

By the time we were able to get remotely close to the Wishing Well, the sun was already settling over the horizon, my hands clenched painfully over the strap of Meadow’s bag. Unable to endure sitting in the back of a cab doing nothing, I snapped, more worried about Maurice than anything else. Although I knew Meadow was in a state of mourning, even though Gia had mentioned that Meadow hadn’t been herself, I knew she couldn’t be so bad that she wouldn’t simply wait at the hotel for me to return. If she went there, the people at the front desk would have contacted Vincent -

Crap , I thought. He didn’t know I have an identical twin. I’d mentioned my family to him, but never that Meadow was my twin.

I didn’t want to think what Vincent would say or do after sauntering into the lobby to discover Meadow standing there. I could only hope he controlled himself enough not to say or do anything to freak her out, that he showed her to my room so she could wait there, or perhaps to a table in the dining room.

Why the fuck didn’t I have a phone? It would have prevented all of this.

I couldn’t sit in the cab any longer. Running the rest of the way was faster at that point.

“How much for me to get out here?” I asked, urgency edging my voice.

Sirens cut through the night air, so ear-splitting in their volume that the driver couldn’t speak loud enough to be heard over them. Blue lights flashed as police cars fought to race past us, the traffic eventually moving enough so that they could squeeze by. As the sound eased with their distance, the driver finally told me the amount. Wincing at the cost, I tossed him the cash and let myself out of the car.

Still several blocks away, I saw the lights of emergency vehicles battling against the brilliant colors of the setting sun, and after turning several corners, I heard the distant screams, the murmurs, the shouting police, a heart-shattering roar of pure pain rising above it all. I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t gather my thoughts, couldn’t do anything but keep running toward the hotel. And as I approached it, I knew something terrible had occurred.

What I didn’t I know was that my entire life had just fallen apart. Not until I unlocked the employee gate into the garden. Not until I stood off to the side, a large flowering bush hiding me from easy sight as I witnessed the scene that was playing out before me.

Logic was lost to me, agony sliding in to take its place in my thoughts. And my heart didn’t just splinter, it buckled and stopped. Hand flying to my mouth to prevent the scream that never came, I first saw Vincent being handcuffed and led away, his clothes bloody, injuries dotting his body and face.

Beyond him, beyond the man who had taken me from the streets and somehow given my life new meaning, I saw my sister’s body being pulled from Maurice’s arms. John had just enough time to inject Maurice with the medicine Vincent had used on him before, and as Maurice’s body crashed down, as Meadow lay lifeless over a bed of grass, blood and gore, as the guests kept insisting to the police that Maurice and Vincent had killed her, I no longer had the ability to think rationally.

So instead of running up to the scene to discover what happened, instead of taking just one fucking second to gather myself together and think , I reacted to my fear and instinct by leaving through the back gate. Glancing at the police car where they’d taken Vincent, I turned and I ran.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Faiville Prison, 2:07 pm

 

Silence.

Pure, aggravating, hypnotizing, agonizing, penetrating silence.

Vincent and Penelope both were caught in its thrall. Neither moving, neither blinking, both barely breathing as they absorbed the facts of a story that had destroyed so many lives. And hanging over the horror of the events like a lingering shroud that still hadn’t been swept aside to reveal the last bit of tragedy to be found, was the ticking clock counting down the hours to when the last act of injustice would occur.

Vincent was being put to death at six o’clock the following morning, and there wasn’t a damn thing either of them could do to stop it.

One would think the man with death hanging over him would be more lost than the woman who could walk away, but in testament to his fortitude, to his acceptance of fate, Vincent was the first to break the enduring silence when he closed his eyes, opened them and spoke.

“You took over your sister’s identity. At first I told myself I was crazy for even thinking it, but for a year now, I’ve wondered. I offered you the interview just so I could confirm one way or the other.”

Penelope’s tear-dappled gaze met his.

“How? Why?” he asked, confusion drawing lines across his forehead.

For those questions, she had a simple answer. “Fear.” Shaking her head at her own stupidity, thinking of all the mistakes, the ‘should haves’, she swiped the back of her hand across her face to chase away the tears that slid slowly down her cheeks.

“After running off, I didn’t know what to do. The last thing I wanted was to return to the hotel, and having nowhere else to go, I checked into a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city. What happened...it was all over the local news that night, so I sat glued to a television in my room with horrible reception and tried to see through what was being reported. I wanted the truth, but I was in too poor a state of mind to process any of it. I made irrational and horrible decisions in the weeks that followed.”

“We both did,” Vincent offered, his words intended to comfort when they only drove the weight of the tragedy deeper.

“We both did,” she agreed, her voice lacking conviction and strength. Sad laughter escaped her lips. “Perhaps it was your mistake that caused mine. I’ll blame this on you if you’ll let me.”

Shackles scraping across the table, Vincent reached for her. For the first time, Penelope reached back. Their fingers threaded together as he said, “You have my permission to blame me for whatever you want. But at least explain what blame I’m taking.”

Remembering back, Penelope breathed deeply, the pain, the fear, the confusion and hatred she’d felt coming back in crashing waves. “The news that night was nothing more than speculation. They interviewed a few of the guests who witnessed it and could only guess as to what caused the fight. The only thing the guests thought they knew for sure was that both you and Maurice had been the aggressors. It wasn’t until your arraignment that I started putting the pieces together. They televised it, you know?”

Nodding his head, he admitted, “I knew they would. Apparently the brutality of Barron’s death made for excellent television. People are such vultures.”

Enjoying the warmth of his hand, comforted by the contact, Penelope admitted, “When you claimed at the arraignment that you had lost control out of jealousy - that it was a crime of passion, or whatever - I knew better. You had no reason to be jealous. Maurice, on the other hand, he had reason. They hadn’t released the victim’s names as they were waiting to contact next of kin, and although I knew one had been Meadow, I wasn’t sure about the other. By the time they finally named the victims as Penelope Graham and Barron Billings, I’d already made my decision as to what I would do.”

“And why did you make that choice? Didn’t you question why Meadow was with Barron? Didn’t you want to talk to me, at least, knowing I hadn’t been the one to cause that fight?”

It’s insane what emotions will do to a person. For some, they’re able to think rationally. They’re able to calm down and decide on a course of action that helps improve a situation instead of making it worse. But Penelope, at that time, wasn’t able to make sense of anything. All she knew was that her entire family was gone, she only had a thousand dollars to her name, and she was once again unemployed and homeless. If only she would have stopped to think about another way to handle it.

“I was angry and scared. Heartbroken. I know they released you on bail, but the last thing I wanted to do was return to the hotel. It scared me to think that Maurice had killed both Barron and Meadow. He could have killed me. As for why my sister was with Barron...”

Penelope shrugged, releasing a breath before saying, “The guy was a jerk. I knew that much about him, but I didn’t consider him to be dangerous. I’d seen him in public since that incident in your office and he didn’t attack me. He let me go and he wasn’t violent. It didn’t occur to me that he’d tried to hurt Meadow. I thought maybe he was just harassing her like he did me. I thought that Maurice had seen them together and flipped out, and that you took the blame to protect him. I was right on that last part. You always protected him, even if keeping him in the basement was wrong.”

Nodding, Vincent squeezed her hand. “It was wrong. What my father did was wrong. What I did following my father’s death even more so. I had one group of physicians and counselors telling me there was no hope for Maurice, and another set that told me he could live a normal life if he would just comply with a medication schedule and therapy, but I was too frightened for him. And that fear, that lack of trust rubbed off on him until not even he could believe in himself. Perhaps, if I’d made different decisions, Maurice could have lived a different life. I know for a fact it was my actions that kept him from becoming what he should have been. It was my fault he hadn’t reached his true potential.”

Tears streamed down Penelope’s face. “He was only trying to protect me, and now he’s dead and you’re being put to death because of it.”

Without responding to what she’d said, Vincent asked, “How did you become Meadow?”

“After the arraignment, after the belief was in my head that Maurice had killed Meadow and Barron out of jealousy, I bought a plane ticket and flew to Germany using her identification. I had her bag, and since we were identical, nobody questioned it. As far as the world knew, Penelope Graham had died that night, not Meadow. And since I had nothing - no family, no job, no money, no home - I took over what she had. I continued the education program she was in. I handled my mother’s estate and took the house and the bank accounts. I became someone else and forgot all about the mistakes I’d made as Penelope. I started over as my sister since she’d never had the same problems as me. And here I am. A journalist with a life in another country.”

He let the statement linger before asking, “But are you happy?”

“No,” she confessed, the one word a weight being stripped from her shoulders. Every day she tried to convince herself that it wasn’t true, that she had found happiness in a life she never wanted. But despite the lies she attempted to tell herself, Penelope knew she was miserable. “Being a journalist was Meadow’s dream, not mine. I absolutely hate it. Looking at the constant evils of the world is awful. And as for a personal life?” She laughed. “I haven’t been with another man since Maurice.”

Surprise drew Vincent’s brows together. “No one else? In the seven years since that night?”

“I loved him,” she said, sorrow coating every syllable. “Despite his problems, despite what he’d done, I loved him. I still do, and to find out he died alone, that he-“

Unable to finish the thought, she choked back a sob.

Releasing her hand, Vincent leaned back in his seat. “I’m sorry. For everything. For what you’ve lost.”

Slapping away tears, she laughed pathetically. “This is a really shitty fairy tale.”

Grinning, Vincent answered, “Most of the true ones are. It wasn’t until people sought a better ending and changed them that they had the characters riding off into the sunset to live happily ever after. Most fables and fairy tales were cautionary stories when first told. It makes this particular one fitting, don’t you think?”

“At least I get to walk away from all of this. You’re the one losing your life.” Panic tore through her, sorrow chasing its wake. “Why don’t you tell the truth now that Maurice is gone? Why don’t you attempt to save your own life? You shouldn’t have to die for what happened.”

His smile was full of melancholy and regret. “You’re upset for me instead of at me.” A statement more than a question, Vincent appeared amused by Penelope’s reaction. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I don’t want you to die.”

His green eyes softened. “Ma chérie, sois forte. Aie un peu de courage. ”

“I’m not strong, Vincent, and my courage is all tapped out,” she answered.

His laughter drew her gaze across the table. “So you have learned French? It’s about time. Your refusal always drove Maurice and I crazy.”

Weakly, she smiled. “And I learned German. It wasn’t easy.” Growing quiet, she asked, “Will you not try to save yourself?”

Vincent shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. I took the blame for those deaths in an attempt to save my brother, and I do not regret going to my death. If he had been blamed, his final years would have been more tortured than mine. They would have put him in a state psychiatric institution instead of a regular prison. I didn’t want that for him. And, in truth, those lives were lost because of me. Maurice’s life was held back because of me. He spent far too many years in that cage. I may not have killed those people myself, not your sister, not Barron, not Émilie or the other woman that was found, but I was the indirect cause. Dying tomorrow is fitting for the mistakes I made, and for the crimes I committed. I’ll take my punishment without remorse for what is done to me.”

Penelope knew their time was quickly running out, that she would be asked to leave the prison so that they could begin the preparations for Vincent’s execution. She needed to focus on what was important, on the last questions she needed answered before it was too late.

“I would like to know one thing.” Sniffling, Penelope relaxed into her seat, her tear-swollen eyes lifting to meet Vincent’s stare. “Why did you give me to Maurice in the end? Especially after the sexual relationship we’d shared? Did I mean so little to you that you could just toss me off to him without being hurt by it? Was I just another one of your women?”

Sympathy was obvious in his expression, that and the open intimacy of a man who truly cared for a woman. “I guess there’s one more mystery we haven’t yet solved, one secret I never mentioned.” His lips curled at the corners. “I never slept with you, Penelope. Not once. All those nights in my room had been my brother.”

“What?” Her eyes widened, disbelief a shadow over her thoughts. “I don’t understand.”

“Are you angry?” he asked, genuine curiosity a note on his fluid voice.

“No,” she answered. “I think I should be, but in a way, it only makes me more sad to know I’d been his all along.”

Inclining his head in agreement, Vincent explained, “From the night he stole you from the masquerade ball, I knew you were special to him. You were the first woman he felt compelled to chase after. That night was the first that he’d stepped out of his self-imposed prison. And I couldn’t take that from him. But,” he paused, the hint of a grin on his lips, “knowing how he was and knowing how rebellious you could be, I couldn’t just slap the two of you together without both of you learning how to behave. You needed to learn submission to a man such as him, and Maurice needed to learn how to control his urges. I didn’t want either of you to walk away injured, physically or emotionally. Once I felt you were both ready to know each other, I sent you down to the basement that day.”

Cocking a brow, Penelope mentioned, “Yet you let me go down on you in your office?”

Vincent’s laughter boomed through the small room, true joy in the sound and in the expression on his face. “I am but a man, Penelope. Sometimes these things cannot be helped.”

She would have laughed herself if the door hadn’t opened, if the guard hadn’t stepped through to lead her away. Vincent darted a glance in his direction and sighed. “It seems it’s time for this interview to end. Thank you for agreeing to come talk to me.”

Hating the tears that poured from her eyes, Penelope could barely speak around the lump clogging her throat. “And thank you for being honest.”

With the guard standing and listening, she couldn’t say everything else she wanted. Like how she would miss him. Like how she didn’t hate him. Like how she would mourn him when he was no longer in the world.

By the look on his face, he knew what she was thinking without her having to speak a word. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ll be there to walk with you into whatever comes next.”

“Thank you,” he answered as she stood to leave.

And with one last glance over her shoulder, Penelope saw Vincent watching her leave, his shoulders rolled back, his face masculine and refined, his arrogance still obvious in the green of his eyes. Both he and Maurice both had been far too beautiful to be real.

“Goodbye, Vincent,” she called out.

“Goodbye, Meadow,” he answered.

Led through the gates, Penelope was escorted out of Faiville Prison, and she would return for the last time the following morning to watch Vincent Mercier die.

 

CHAPTER FORTY

Penny

 

The sun hadn’t so much as crested the horizon when I sat on my small hotel balcony the next morning, my eyes practically swollen shut by the tears that wouldn’t stop falling, my heart barely beating as my mind begged this day to never begin. If it were possible to stop time, I would have done so, remaining in permanent stasis, giving up the next rising sun, the next hour, the next second just to keep Vincent Mercier from never being executed.

Already the city was applauding his death, the media setting up their camps outside Faiville Prison, the reporters keeping in touch by delivering brief live broadcasts detailing the anxious energy of the people camped outside the prison’s gates.

And the reporters who wouldn’t be telling their tales live from on scene were busy behind their desks reminding their viewers why Vincent Mercier was being killed.

Four lives lost: Barron Billings, Émilie Lapierre, Penelope Graham and another woman it had taken them months and dental records to identify. Her name was Candace Ray, an exotic dancer who had given a show at the Wishing Well on the night of their annual ball, and who had disappeared four days later never to be heard from again. At least until the cadaver dogs had sniffed out her bones. Her initial disappearance had never been connected to Wishing Well since she’d given two other performances since that night, but the media had speculated that Vincent had invited her back, had slept with her and killed her before burying her in the garden.

Her parents would be in attendance for the execution, happy for the justice their daughter would receive. It was too bad they didn’t know that justice had already been given on the night Maurice Mercier had taken his life. Barron’s parents would be there as well, with absolutely no idea that their precious son was a fucking rapist.

I didn’t believe Maurice killed Candace on purpose, and I was sure her death occurred during one of his fits, but Vincent had taken the blame for that death onto himself in order to protect his younger brother, had claimed in court that he’d enjoyed taking her life.

Anything to distract the police, the lawyers, the judges or jury from looking in Maurice’s direction. Vincent made himself a monster in their eyes so that they had no reason to suspect another man.

I wanted to slap him for his stupidity, and kiss him at the same time for the selflessness of what he’d done. When I first met that man, he was all about himself. People were nothing but pawns to be played. Nothing mattered except that which benefited him. The world revolved around Vincent Mercier and every other person’s value was worthless unless they had something they could contribute to him.

I had been a game when he pulled me from the streets, a means to earn some easy money and keep himself entertained. I was only supposed to be a trophy he could set on his shelf and allow to collect dust until some other person came along to dust it off.

But Vincent, despite his selfish ways, had a weakness in his brother, Maurice. It was the only reason Vincent would deign to give up the world he believed he owned, to give up the life he’d built on the backs of every person he’d used to achieve his ridiculously lavish dreams.

As usual, however, Vincent was right in what he said. If Maurice had been dragged into the fray, if the police had suspected his part, they would have locked him away in a state psychiatric facility with all the other criminally insane. His last years would have been horrendous. He would have suffered those years even more bitterly than he suffered his basement prison beneath the lobby of Wishing Well.

Vincent seemed convinced that the bulk of Maurice’s problems had been the fault of his family and him. And I didn’t doubt that Vincent would walk into that execution room this morning believing he was dying not just because he’d attempted to save Maurice from being blamed, but also believing he deserved to die because he felt guilty for having screwed up his brother’s life by never believing Maurice could have been more than he was.

The first belief was an act of pure love for his brother. The second, well, that was simply a man atoning for his sins. He was sentencing himself to death for not knowing the best thing to do for Maurice, even if he’d spent his life trying to do what was right.

The thought broke my heart, splintering it into a million pieces and scattering the shards.

Regardless of how I felt, I would be there until the bitter end, just to ensure that Vincent didn’t die alone.

The first mist of fire on the horizon had me standing from my seat to walk inside and get dressed. Only two hours remained of Vincent Mercier’s life.

Despite knowing that it didn’t matter how I looked for this event, I still took the time to select nice clothes - a white flowing top with a navy blue skirt - to stuff my feet in heels and twist my hair up into a professional knot. I took the time to hide my swollen, red eyes beneath a generous amount of concealer, and took the time to apply mascara and lip gloss to finish the look.

To everybody in attendance, I would look like the unaffected journalist, there to record the facts and nothing more. But to Vincent and me, I would be the Dirty Girl from the streets whose heart was breaking.

The drive to the prison didn’t take long, the morning so young that traffic hadn’t yet accumulated on the streets. Approaching the gates leading to the parking area, however, was a different story altogether. The addition of rides, game booths and food vendors would have been a nice touch to make it look more like the carnival it was.

News vans filled the parking area, their floodlights glaring, their antennas scratching the sky as the reporters, cameramen, sound engineers and other technical crew littered the grounds around them.

I guessed it wasn’t too often that the world got to witness a millionaire being put to death. Driving past the chaos, I realized quickly how much I hated those people, the vultures as Vincent had so accurately described them.

After flashing my credentials to one of the prison guards, I was directed to park in a smaller lot reserved for the people who were being allowed inside. A line had formed outside the door, two grieving parents holding each other as they waited, several high power reporters watching them from feet away wondering if they should allow them privacy or approach. In the end, I knew those assholes wouldn’t be able to help themselves to the feast of heartache and pain the parents would give.

Not me. I was there for one purpose alone, even if it wasn’t the purpose I’d intended before starting the interview. Originally I’d wanted to stare Vincent in the face as the puppet who’d broken free of her strings, but now I would watch as they stuck the needle in his veins and let him know there was at least one person who would grieve.

As I approached the line, I was reminded of one other role I’d originally intended to play: that of the grieving twin sister.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t grieving for the loss of Meadow, it was simply that I didn’t blame Vincent for it. The only person I blamed for that was Barron. So when his parents glanced up at me, and when the reporters came rushing forward, I simply glared in their direction, even if they didn’t deserve my anger.

“Ms. Graham!” the reporters shouted, “How does it feel to know that your sister’s murderer is being put to death today? Are you looking forward to the execution? Is it true Vincent Mercier spent the past three days giving you an exclusive interview?”

Fucking vultures...

Pasting on a professional smile, I answered, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep to myself at the moment, as I’m sure you all can understand. Perhaps after the execution, I’ll be better able to answer your questions.”

They backed away, but only after one of the guards came over to direct me to where the other family members were standing. We would be afforded a front row seat, as if that would make up for the losses we’d suffered.

After a few minutes, we were allowed inside, and after passing through two large, heavy gates and two sets of doors, we entered a room with three rows of folding seats facing a large glass window with the partition pulled closed. Lucky me, I was given the seat that was front row center, stuffed between two sets of parents who would be cheering the executioner on.

Already, their whispers were making me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from telling them how wrong they were about Vincent. Was he a jackass? Yes. Did he deserve this? No. Not at all.

I guessed some would argue that he buried the bodies of both Candace and Émilie. He stole from them a proper burial. And with Candace, at least, his actions had left them to suffer not knowing what happened to their daughter. But, even in that, he was protecting Maurice. He made stupid decisions, but he hadn’t been a heartless monster.

Barron’s parents could just fuck off for all I thought about their son, and keeping myself from turning to them and admitting the truth as to what he had done was extremely difficult. Not that anybody would believe me if I came out with the truth. There was no evidence to prove Vincent’s claims of what occurred that night to set off Maurice’s fury.

The partition opened revealing a sterile room with a medical bench, a machine with several dials and tubes, and three plain white walls with a steel door set into one of them. I closed my eyes, tried to hide from what was happening, attempted to breathe when I knew who would soon walk through that door.

Fuck, I wasn’t sure I could watch it. Not without screaming, not without banging on the glass and telling them to stop. Vincent hadn’t been walked inside the room and I was already crying.

A hand patted my back. “I know it’s hard, honey. But it will be over soon.”

I opened my eyes to see Candace’s elderly mother attempting to comfort me. Slapping away a tear, I forced as much of a smile as I could and redirected my eyes to the window.

The steel door opened, all six foot five inches of Vincent’s muscular frame being led through, his hands locked behind his back, his shoulders pulled wide and his hair a dark, wavy mess dusting his white prison jumpsuit ... his green eyes locking on me where I sat.

A sob shuddered through me, so violent it shook the legs of my chair. Candace’s mother took my hand in hers, patting the top like a mother would to comfort an upset child. She meant well, so I didn’t snatch my hand away. I pretended it was my mom or sister sitting next to me and comforting me to watch this event.

Led by two officers to stand in front of the glass window, Vincent was positioned in the center, an intercom turning on with some quiet static. When the warden at the back of the room starting speaking it was a jolt of harsh noise against the silence of where we were seated.

“Vincent Mercier, you have been sentenced to death for the murders of four people. Having been found guilty by a jury of your peers, your punishment for those crimes will be carried out today. Prior to the execution, are there any last words you would like to say?”

My eyes locked to his, and it felt like I was the only person in the room. The usual glitter was in the green of his gaze, the humor, the arrogance, the laughter I remember seeing in him when we’d both shared in the joy of seeing Maurice improve. Despite knowing he would take his last breath, he didn’t beg or cry, didn’t lose any part of who he’d always been. Vincent stood tall, and he stood proud.

Still watching only me, Vincent opened his mouth to say, “Tu faites un vœu, et espérons que cela devienne réalité. ”

It was exactly what he’d said to me at the well in the garden on the day he told me we would take Maurice out to see a sunset. Back then, I’d had no clue what it meant, but I knew now.

You make a wish, and hope it comes true...

My tears wouldn’t stop falling, my entire world crumbling down on top of me as they led him away from the window, laid him down on the bench and hooked him to the drip line.

He didn’t fight. He simply closed his eyes.

And at 6:27 a.m., on a chilly Thursday morning, Vincent Mercier was officially declared dead.

I felt like I’d died beside him.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

 

It was nine in the morning before I was in my car again, emotionally stable enough to leave the parking lot and make the hour and a half drive to the hotel where all of this had started. Just like I felt seven years ago after my sister was killed, I had no desire to walk into the Wishing Well, to see the opulent interiors, to meet the eyes of the employees or Vincent’s attorney. But he had my recorder, and I couldn’t contain my curiosity as to what items Vincent had set aside in the belief that I’d want them.

I couldn’t turn on the radio without having to listen to all the news reports concerning Vincent’s death, so I listened to the smooth white noise of the tires rolling over the asphalt. My thoughts were in the past, my mind conjuring images of happier times, and my quiet meditation didn’t end until the noises of the city drew my attention. I turned off the freeway exit to drive down the main boulevard. Finding parking at a public lot a few blocks from the hotel, I walked slowly to approach the six story structure that stood tall in the bright sunlight. It was just as I remembered it, surrounded by a beautiful stone wall that held all the secrets of the garden behind it.

Entering beneath the large wrought-iron courtyard gate with purple and pink wisteria that hung down in a breathtaking display, I strolled up the cobblestone walkway to the front doors, smiling at the doorman as he opened them for me. My heels clicked across the gold scarred marble floors, the white shined to a brilliant polish. Above my head, the crystal chandeliers cast their light is a prism of color and at the large front desk that stood to my left, three impeccably dressed employees waited to welcome me to this heavenly place.

Only it wasn’t heaven to me, it was a ghost of a memory, a nightmare I had to face if I ever hoped to breath easy again. Thankfully, I didn’t recognize any of the clerks who stood waiting.

“Bonjour! Welcome to the Wishing Well. Are you checking in?”

“Um, no,” I answered, attempting to smile politely at the pretty brunette clerk. “I’m actually here to see Stephen Chase. He was the attorney for-“

“I know Mr. Chase,” she answered, interrupting me before I could mention Vincent’s name. “He’s in a meeting with the hotel manager, but if you’ll have a seat on one of the sofas in the waiting area, I’ll let him know you’re here. May I tell him your name?”

“Meadow Graham.”

Her eyes widened just barely before she gained control of her expression. “Of course, Ms. Graham. I’m sure it will only be a short wait.”

She wasn’t wrong. Within ten minutes of my having taken a seat on a large, white sofa that had elegant curves and carved wood detailing, Stephen Chase, with his salt and pepper hair, and his power suit glory, came strolling out to the waiting area with a manila envelope in hand.

“Ms. Graham. How nice to see you again.”

Sad laughter tumbled from my lips as I stood to shake his hand. “I can’t believe you’d actually say that to me considering the horrible circumstances. I noticed your absence today at the -“

“Why don’t we go out into the garden to discuss this?” he suggested, interrupting me just as the desk clerk had. After glancing over his shoulder to ensure no guests had overheard us, he motioned for me to walk ahead of him. “It’s just outside these doors. The gardens are stunning actually. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.”

Apparently, he’d neglected to remember the gardens are where my sister had died. I would have to ask him at some point if he would like some salt with his shoe.

Walking became more difficult with every step we took toward the gardens, not only because of the images flashing through my thoughts of what I’d seen the night my sister died, but also because I could hear Vincent’s laughter, his accented voice that was always teasing or mocking me. Regardless of what happened that morning, Vincent was still very much alive inside this building, his memory engrained in the walls, his vision still standing in elegant wonder as his body turned cold.

And more painful than that was what lay beneath my feet, in a basement where the man I would always love had taken his life when he believed that everyone who’d ever cared for him was gone.

I was struggling for breath by the time we made it outside, gulping down the fresh air as fast as I could drag it into my lungs. My distress was not lost on the grim faced attorney who followed behind me.

Lowering his voice to a gentle whisper, he said, “I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through today, Ms. Graham. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.” He placed his hand on my back as if to escort me, but I pulled away from the contact.

I didn’t want to be touched or comforted. I wanted to feel this pain for what it was if only to purge it from my body. “It is what it is,” I answered. “And I’m here to retrieve my recorder from you as well as whatever items Vincent had set aside for me.”

“Ah, yes. Of course.” Handing me the manila envelope, he explained, “Mr. Mercier asked me to give this to you. I’ll ask that you take it somewhere away from the guests’ view. We’re attempting to keep mention of Mr. Mercier’s name to a minimum, and you’re rather recognizable this morning due to pictures of your sister being shown on the news. While you look at that, I’ll go back and speak with the hotel manager to determine where the other items can be located. I’ll return momentarily to take you to them.”

Nodding absently, I stared at my name written in masculine script across the envelope. Not my name, really. My sister’s. Mr. Chase walked off and I continued along the cobblestone path until arriving at a familiar place. The wishing well in the center of the garden looked exactly as I remembered it.

“If you could wish for anything in the world, Penelope, what would you wish for?”

Memories assaulted me. Of Vincent. Of Maurice. It took everything I had not to buckle where I stood. Finally moving to sit on one of the iron benches, I tore open the envelope to pull out a single sheet of paper.

 

Penelope,

 

If you’re reading this, then I must be dead. Okay, so it’s an awful way to start a letter, but my gifts in life had never been in writing. My point in the sentence is that I know this letter wouldn’t have been given to you unless my execution had taken place and you’d gone to Wishing Well as I hoped you would.

I also hope you don’t expect some long-winded apology or some other similar nonsense. Whatever I had to say to you I’m positive was said in our interview. But knowing myself, and knowing my refusal to give any person leverage over me while I’m still alive and breathing, I know there was one thing I wouldn’t have brought myself to tell you.

I want to thank you, Penelope, for everything you were to Maurice and me. Despite the less than honorable reasons for pulling you from that alleyway the night I met you, and despite your atrocious manners and rebellious behavior, you turned out to be a blessing I never saw coming.

As you well know, both Maurice’s and my lives had been mired in many tragedies. We’d both suffered the grief of his issues, the loneliness not only affected him, but me as well. I may have had wealth, women and businesses to keep me company, but I was never truly happy until you came along. I’ve spent many years trying to figure out what it is you did for the two of us, and then one night while I remembered an afternoon spent in the yellow room that I’d watched my brother smile as I teased you, it hit me.

You gave us both back the sense of family. And while you became the light that shone in Maurice’s dark prison, you also became a sister figure to me. For all the money, for the lavish lifestyle I led, for all the comforts I had at my fingertips in life, you were more valuable than any of it. Those afternoons spent with you and my brother are what I take with me to my grave. I can promise you that while I waited on the gurney for the drugs to steal my breath, it was that yellow room I imagined last, it was your face looking at me with annoyed exasperation and Maurice’s beaming smile as he watched us talk back and forth.

He always had faith in you. He knew from the first second he saw you that night by the well, that you belonged to him, and he belonged to you.

I owe you everything for the role you played in our lives.

If this was our fairy tale, Penelope, than you were the hero that rode in on the white horse to rescue Maurice and I both. But even more than that, you were the beauty that soothed the violence of the beast, you were the sunrise and sunset in both of our lives.

I want you to continue being the hero, in every choice you make and in everything that you do. I truly believe you were put on the Earth to make it a better place, and I believe that whatever man ends up with you will be the luckiest man because of it.

Continue soothing the beast, Penelope. Even when he roars. Especially when he roars. And even when he tells you to play the maiden so he can be the hero, you continue simply being you.

My heart belongs with you, in this life and in whatever comes next.

I am forever in your debt,

 

Vincent Mercier

 

P.S. You must forgive me, Penelope. I am just a man...and a liar.

 

More tears. How my body was still able to produce them was a mystery to me. How I hadn’t gone blind from their heat was a mystery as well. I could drown in them, I thought, could fill the wishing well to the rim, until it, too, cried as those tears leaked over to slide down the stone and nourish the ground beneath it. Even now, it felt like I could barely hold my head above water.

The stain of my tears dabbled the note I held, the ink running along the edges where the tears had bled the words Vincent left for me knowing he would be gone. And in a bright spot where even the sunlight felt cold, I swiped them away wondering what I would do with my life now.

Being Meadow had been a disguise to hide from my past, but after learning the intricate details, after facing what had been done, I no longer felt the need to hide, no longer wanted to assume the life of my sister who was long gone.

My job didn’t make me happy. The country where I lived wasn’t my home. The name by which every person knew me was a lie I could no longer choke down.

I was as lost today as I had been the day Vincent found me in an alley beneath the freezing rain. Except he wasn’t here anymore. There was nobody who could pull me from the streets and lead me to my new home.

“Are you okay?” a deep voice asked

Wiping away another tear, I shook myself from the spectacle I was making, opening my mouth to answer, “Yes, I’m -“

My neck wrenched from how fast my head shot up in recognition of the familiar voice, my eyes locking to a memory, to a man that couldn’t be flesh and blood.

“You’re -“ my voice failed, the word cracked through as it crumbled apart. Swallowing to shove my heart back down to my chest from where it had lodged in my throat, I said, “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Arrogance was the arch of a single brow over his green eyes, the sunlight capturing the color and turning it into a glimmering, rare jewel.

“So are you,” he answered, his hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, his suit jacket perfectly tailored to the breadth of his broad shoulders. With his dark hair a disheveled, wavy mess, his strong cheekbones cutting lines beneath those mesmerizing green eyes, and his mouth set in a cruel, yet compelling hint of amusement, he could have been Vincent on the night we met - a man of wealth, of power, of secrets and sound mind.

This wasn’t the Maurice I remembered from the basement where we’d spent so many hours. This was a man I didn’t recognize, except for how closely he resembled his older brother.

“How?” The single word slipped out from between my lips on a rush of exhaled breath. Before I understood I was moving, I’d stood from the bench and crossed the distance to approach him. Maurice didn’t move away or give ground, but he didn’t step toward me or give any indication that he was as surprised by my presence as I was by his.

“I now own the Wishing Well,” he explained, his voice absent of familiarity, of happiness to see me, of the love we once had shared. Also absent was the self-doubt, the self-loathing, the confusion and sorrow that had always been present seven years ago when I’d known him. “I’ve managed it for the past several years under a corporate name.”

“You-“

Fuck...how was this even possible?

Beyond the shock of seeing him standing here, beyond the shock of understanding what Vincent meant in the letter by calling himself a liar, beyond the shock of standing in a garden I’d swore to never see again, was the shock of seeing Maurice staring down at me with confidence in the set of his shoulders, arrogance in the glimmer of his eyes, anger in the thin line of his lips as if daring me to admit that what I’d done to him was wrong.

I’d blamed him for my sister’s death. I’d walked away and stayed hidden. I’d deserted him while still loving him for all these years.

And in that time, he’d become another person.

It made sense, finally, in how Vincent could have known for a fact that keeping Maurice away from the world had hindered his brother’s true potential. Vincent must have seen the changes in Maurice, must have known his brother had grown into a man as beautiful and strong as the one standing before me now.

So, instead of hiding behind false pretenses, instead of lying or exhibiting a strength I didn’t have, I abandoned the fake persona I’d kept for seven years and morphed back into the girl I’d been when I called myself Penny.

“I’ve missed you,” I confessed, exposing my heart, my soul, my weaknesses and injuries for him to do with as he pleased.

A bark of laughter shook his shoulders. “You lied to me. You ran from me. You never came back. And now you tell me you missed me?”

“How long have you known?”

“Two years,” he admitted, the shadow of anger rolling behind his eyes. “It wasn’t Vincent that figured it out. He only invited you to the interview because I asked him to. We didn’t know you had an identical twin, and even when we discovered it, we didn’t think it was your sister that died that night. But then you started your journalism career and I scoured the photos of you, watched the broadcasts, saw the subtle signs of who you were. Even twins don’t share all the same expressions, the same tells and body language. You might have been able to fool the rest of the world, but you couldn’t fool me. And I hated you for it.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

His lips crooked in challenge, his brow arching again. It was such a Vincent-esque expression that it should have been foreign on the face of Maurice. Pure masculine mischief was written into the glimmer of his eyes. “Make it up to me.”

“How?”

His lips crooked higher, his eyes darting suggestively toward the small, hidden alcove that was down the path from the well. Following his gaze, I shook my head in disbelief before returning my attention to the man who was now staring at me like I was his next conquest.

“You can’t be serious. Here? Now? Like this?”

He shrugged a disinterested shoulder. “Or not. Goodbye, Penelope.”

I watched helplessly as he turned to walk off, his stride powerful and assured. Panic tore at my heart with clawed fingers. “Wait!” I called out. Maurice turned to glance at me from over his shoulder.

Son of a bitch...He was just like his brother now.

“Fine,” I relented, trying to ignore how my heart swelled in my chest, how heat bloomed between my thighs.

Carnal satisfaction curled his lips. Following slowly behind me, Maurice stood at the opening to the alcove while I backed up against the stone wall. We were hidden from view by the flowering bushes, shielded from the bright sunlight by the tree branch that stretched lazily above our heads.

“Turn around,” he demanded, his voice a deep vibration against my senses.

Our eyes locked, and I would have accused him of challenging me to do something he had no intention to do if not for the dark heat behind his gaze. On shaky legs, I did as I was told, turning slowly to splay my palms against the wall and leave myself defenseless to whatever he desired.

He was on me before I could take another breath, his chest a wall of heat against my back, his hips so tight against my ass that there was no mistaken how serious he was about taking what had always been his.

Seven years later and I still belonged to him alone.

I trembled when the tip of his nose trailed the line of my neck, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in my scent.

There he is...the Maurice I remember.

His teeth locked on the lobe of my ear, one hand moving up to cover my mouth and mute my cry of surprise. And with the other hand, he fisted my skirt, lifting it to give him access to everything he wanted.

It was so easy to submit to him...so natural. The years, the pain, the lies and the tears had done nothing to dampen the love I had for him.

But, he did nothing, simply laughed and moved away.

Spinning, I narrowed my eyes on him, the first touch of anger edging my thoughts. “Where are you going?”

Sliding his hands in his pockets, he twisted around just enough to look at me. “Back to work. Where do you think? I’m a busy man now.”

Pulling my clothes into place, my forehead wrinkled with confusion. “But, you didn’t-“

“You didn’t deserve it,” he interrupted, amusement curling his lips. “But if you think that would fix everything, you have a lot to learn.”

“I thought you wanted me back? I thought-“

“You can come back. You’re always welcome here. But that doesn’t mean you won’t have to work to regain what we once had.”

“You can’t be serious, Maurice? How can I come back here? I have no home, no job. My entire life is in Germany.”

I was beginning to hate the way he so easily shrugged his shoulder as if to dismiss what I had to say. “There’s a room available on the fifth floor, and we have a position open in housekeeping, if I’m not mistaken. You’re welcome to both.”

My jaw fell open as he turned to walk away again, his stride satisfied and in no hurry as he wound his way up the path. My eyes flared open with anger, my teeth set in frustration with this impossible man. Chasing after him on shaky legs, I called out, “You can’t be serious! Are you seriously offering me a job in housekeeping? After everything that’s happened?”

I was going to kill him. For real this time. So that he was actually dead. It was like Maurice had taken over Vincent’s persona to become the most aggravating man in the world.

Stopping in place, he spun slowly to face me, a wicked grin tilting the corners of his lips.

“If I’m not mistaken, even in some fairy tales, the princess started out as the maid. It’s your choice, Penelope. I’ve made my offer.”

And after flashing me another knowing grin, he turned to walk away, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Oh, yeah. He was going to be a dead man when I was done with him.

But what could I do? I had to say yes. At the end of our fairy tale, the beast had become the prince, and I was the beauty chasing after him.

Knowing what my decision would be, knowing that I would return to Wishing Well to be with the man I’d never stopped wanting, I followed behind him wanting to slam my fist into the back of his pretty head.

But I did so with the hope that our stories would finally become what they should have been all along, knowing that we both would live happily ever ...

 

...Oh, who am I kidding?...

 

We would drive each other crazy, every day and every hour, for the rest of our fairy tale lives.

 

 

THE END

 

If you are interested in reading additional books by Lily White or would like to know when new books are being released, Lily White can be found on:

and

 

Join the Mailing List!!!

If you are interested in receiving email updates regarding additional books by Lily White or would like to know when new books are announced or being released, join the mailing list via this link.

 

 

Join the Facebook Fan Group!!!

If you are interested in receiving exclusive previews for upcoming novels, or to participate in giveaways, join the fan group for Lily White Books.

 

 

Table of Contents