Livia Lone (Livia Lone #1)(55)

Mrs. Lone stared at her mutely.

“If you tell anyone I killed him,” Livia said, “I’ll tell them why. It’s that simple.”

“No one’s going to believe you, you lying piece of refugee trash!”

“I don’t know. Why would I have killed my great benefactor? For the rest of your life, they’ll always look at you, and wonder whether I was telling the truth. And how it could be that you didn’t know.”

Mrs. Lone made the vomiting sound again, but otherwise said nothing.

“Call nine-one-one. Tell them you heard me yell. He was lying on the floor when you got to my room. I told you he collapsed. You tried to revive him. CPR. But you were panicked and you didn’t know how. You were hitting him, trying to wake him up. That’s why he has marks on his neck.”

“They’ll do an autopsy. They’ll know it’s a lie.”

Livia realized on some level that the woman was listening to her, her objections now only practical ones, as though she wanted to be persuaded and just needed to be presented with a way.

“You know the police. They’ll listen to you. They were all tied up with him, I could see that, his friend Chief Emmanuel especially. Chief Emmanuel won’t want a scandal any more than you do. I think he knew more about your husband than you’d like. I think a lot of people knew, like you did, and won’t want anyone to know they knew. If you tell the police the right story, they won’t investigate.”

Mrs. Lone shook her head. “I won’t be part of this. I’ll see you in jail first.”

“Maybe. But I’ll be out in two years, when I’m eighteen.” She looked into Mrs. Lone’s eyes, letting her feel the truth of it. “And I know where you live.”

Mrs. Lone shook her head. “I can’t live with this. I can’t.”

“You won’t have to. After you call nine-one-one, call your brother. Rick. You’re upset now over the loss of your husband. You don’t want me in your house. You never did. You want Rick to take me in, just for the rest of this year and for my senior year, while you deal privately with your loss. Do that, and you’ll never hear from me again. Don’t do it, and the whole town will know your husband was nothing but a sick, disgusting child molester.”

Mrs. Lone brushed away tears. “Don’t you talk about him that way, you tramp. He had his flaws, his demons. But he was a great man.”

“It’s not me talking about him you have to worry about. It’s the town. And when they learn what he really was, I think you’ll be hearing more about his flaws than his greatness.”

“How dare you, you—”

“But you can prevent that. Make the call. You think he had a heart attack. Get his belt back on him, unless you want people to ask why it was off. And then call Rick.”

“My brother will never take you in.”

“You better hope he does. Because if he doesn’t, someone else will. Someone in Llewellyn. I’m a brave little refugee girl who’s suffered such a terrible ordeal, remember? And if I stay in Llewellyn, you’ll never be rid of me. Ever.”





37—THEN

Paramedics came to the house and tried to revive Mr. Lone. They couldn’t. They took him to the hospital, where he was pronounced dead.

Mrs. Lone told the right story. Chief Emmanuel asked Livia some questions, and she corroborated Mrs. Lone’s version. She could tell the man had doubts. She could also tell he didn’t want to indulge them. Because how could the chief of police, no less, have been so close to a man like Mr. Lone, and not known what his friend was up to? Better to avoid those issues entirely.

The next morning there were a lot of visitors. The Lones’ sons. Senator Lone and his aide, Matthias Redcroft. People from Mr. Lone’s businesses. And Rick, who had driven all the way from Portland.

Livia stayed in her room and could hear them all talking, though she couldn’t make out the words. She was amazed at how good she felt. She knew things might not go well. There could still be an investigation. Maybe Mrs. Lone would change her mind and tell. Probably not, but maybe.

But if that happened, Livia would deal with it. She almost didn’t care. Compared to the satisfaction, the . . . excitement of killing Mr. Lone, what might happen next seemed almost irrelevant. She felt like something had changed in her. Like she had somehow become . . . more herself again. Or who she was meant to be.

She kept imagining it, over and over. The way he’d shouted at her. What he told her he was going to do to her. The momentary satisfaction on his face when he was between her naked legs, pressed against her, rubbing against her. And then how he realized he was wrong. That she was in control, not him. That she was the one who could do anything she wanted, no matter how he tried to stop her. And that what she wanted was to make him die. Thinking about it, remembering it, made her feel a strange . . . tingling she didn’t recognize or understand. But she loved the way it made her feel. She loved thinking about it.

After a few hours, there was a knock on her door. Even if he hadn’t been dead, Livia would have known it couldn’t be Mr. Lone. He never knocked.

She got off the bed and opened the door. It was Rick. Just Rick.

“Hey,” he said. He looked at her closely, his expression concerned. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.” She tried not to be nervous, not to think about how much might hinge on what he said next.