One of Us Is Dead(83)

My heels sunk into the grass as I walked, making my steps slow and awkward. Thank God no one could see me. As I made my way around the back of the house, I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of an unlit windowpane. No wonder Karen tried to look like me; who wouldn’t when you look like this?

The back door was unlocked as promised, and I walked in slowly. I was positive we would be the only two people in here, but no need to go screaming through the house if I didn’t have to.

“Bryce,” I whispered loudly. I tiptoed farther and came into the rec room, full of reclining chairs, a home theater setup, and a wet bar for cocktails. Why the fuck wouldn’t he just be in the first room?

“Bryce. We aren’t playing hide-and-go-seek, just come out. No one is here,” I said, this time louder. Nothing.

The guesthouse was clearly unused. None of the carpeting was worn down. None of the furniture touched. It looked like a model home, sterile and fake, and it fit Bryce perfectly.

I heard a creak above me in the ceiling. The noise that is made when someone shifts their weight on a floorboard. “Bryce, are you up there?” I called out.

I began to make my way up the spiral staircase. I fucking hated these. They’re so tacky and childish. Bryce probably thought it would make him look young and hip. I reached the top and found three unlit rooms. As I looked in from the hall, I realized it was a bathroom and two bedrooms. I skipped the bathroom and went to the larger of the two bedrooms first.

“Bryce. This doesn’t have to be a big thing. Just get out here and give me my money so I can get back to the party. People will notice that I’m not there.” I entered the bedroom and flicked on the light switch, but nothing happened. I tried several more times but nothing. I pulled my phone out and turned on the flashlight. Panning the room, I saw nothing. Just more unused furniture and bland decorations, like a grandmother’s house.

The floor creaked again, this time in the room next door.

“Bryce. This isn’t funny. You aren’t tough, you’re a fucking politician. Just get out here.”

I exited the room and entered the smaller bedroom. There, on the bed, was a duffel bag, money clearly visible as the bag was open.

“Ah, there it is,” I whispered. The money. I didn’t need Bryce to be here, just the beautiful prize that lay before me. That chickenshit was probably too afraid to come out here himself and sent some servant to drop it off.

I stepped forward to grab the bag, and then it was gone. Everything was gone.





77

Jenny present


“Tell me about Bryce Madison then, Jenny,” Detective Sanford says. He stares me down. Waiting for the big reveal I’d built it up to be. Just as I am about to speak, a police officer bursts into the room.

“Sir! It’s Bryce Madison,” he says, out of breath. Detective Sanford rises quickly and excuses himself, closing the door behind him.

What did Bryce do now? We were finally getting somewhere. I stand from my seat and pace the room. Did he do something to one of the girls? If something had happened, this is the detective’s fault. His questions were all over the place. He just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand Buckhead.

My patience wears thin. I go and knock on the door, then I bang on it.

Sanford opens the door. “What are you doing?”

“What did Bryce do?” I ask, completely ignoring his question.

“He didn’t do anything. He’s dead.”

My mouth falls open. I take a deep breath. A sense of relief rushes through me. It’s over. It’s finally over. I slowly walk back to my chair and take a seat. My shoulders slump, and I just stare off at nothing.

Detective Sanford surveys me, looking me up and down. He rubs his chin again. His brow knits together. He still doesn’t get it.

“What were you going to tell me about Bryce? Why did you ask me what he had done?” He takes a seat across from me, pulling his chair in as close to the table as possible.

“I’ll just show you instead.” I bring out my phone, open a video, and hand it to him.

“Push Play.”

He does.

When the video finishes, Detective Sanford scratches the top of his head. His eyes widen.

“That was Dean Petrov in the video?”

I’m not sure if it’s a question, but I nod anyway.

“And the voice off-screen?” he asks, but I think he already knows.

“Bryce Madison,” I say.

“Why didn’t you show me this earlier?”

“I didn’t know if I could trust you. Bryce had police on his payroll. But now that he’s dead . . . it doesn’t matter.” I fold my arms to my chest. “Who killed him?”

“Dean Petrov. He walked right into his office and shot him in the head. He was sitting across from Bryce’s body with the weapon in hand when the police arrived.” Detective Sanford stands from his chair. “He’s in custody.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say.

“Bryce killed Olivia, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Shit. This is bigger than I thought it was. I was convinced one of those housewives did it.” He paces the room, tapping his fingertips against his chin, trying to put all the pieces together. “How did Olivia get wrapped up in all of this?”