Who is Maud Dixon?(82)

She didn’t even know if Massey had reached him yet.

“You look pale,” Helen said.

“I’m a little hungover.”

Florence watched Helen butter and eat a piece of bread. She pulled back her lips into a grimace with each bite to avoid smudging her lipstick. A murderer. She was eating lunch with a murderer. She’d killed two people: Jenny and Nick. Ellis Weymouth too, probably—the man Jenny had served fifteen years in prison for murdering. What was more likely: that two young girls, best friends, both grow up to be homicidal, or that one of them is a psychopath, sadistic enough to frame the other for her own crime? Certainly someone who had no reservations about taking a life would have no compunction about sending someone to prison. Even her closest friend.

And now she’d stolen Florence’s passport. In order for Helen to use it, of course, the real Florence Darrow needed to be out of the way—for good.

But what could she do besides sit across from Helen and eat lunch as if everything were normal? She couldn’t confront her. Who knew what Helen was capable of? After all, she’d had a gun in Cairo without Florence ever knowing. No, Florence just needed to wait for help to arrive.

Amira came out carrying a platter of chicken salad. She set it down on the table and turned to Florence.

“You had a nice swim?” she asked.

Florence froze. She looked at Helen, who had narrowed her eyes and was staring at her darkly. Neither of them moved. Amira, receiving no answer, returned to the kitchen. Then Helen flexed her right hand and Florence jumped up, kicking her chair to the floor with a loud clatter. She ran inside and raced up the stairs, Helen’s steps pounding behind her.

Florence darted back into her old room, into the bathroom, then spun around and locked the door. She sat down against the door, panting.

A second later, Helen rapped gently against the door.

“Florence,” she sang. She rapped again. “Florence, are you alright?”

Florence jumped up and moved into the bathtub. She pulled up her knees and hugged her legs to her chest.

Helen jiggled the doorknob, tentatively at first, then harder. Finally she heaved her entire body against the door. It was old but the wood was thick and strong. It would hold, Florence thought. The lock—a clunky brass contraption—looked solid too.

The door stopped shaking. She could hear Helen panting on the other side. The sound of their two bodies taking in air was all that could be heard for a few moments.

“Why did you have to kill him?” Florence finally asked. “He was just a sweet, simple boy.”

Getting Helen to talk was the best way to buy time until Idrissi’s arrival, but more than that, Florence simply wanted an explanation.

“Kill who?” Helen asked innocently.

“You know who. Nick. Why did you kill Nick?”

Helen’s tone changed. “If you’re pointing fingers you might want to look in the mirror, Florence. You killed him. The moment you told him your name was Florence Darrow. You ruined the whole thing. You should have just kept up the ruse. It was a good one. You wanted to be Helen Wilcox? Great! By all means, take her. But you can’t have both. You can’t have Helen and Florence. That’s just greedy. I’m Florence Darrow now.”

“I didn’t even tell him my name was Florence Darrow!” Florence cried. “I told him that my real name was Florence but now I go by my middle name, Helen. I never said my real last name. I’m not stupid.”

“Florence, you told me that he knew your real name. I had to assume you meant your full name. I couldn’t take any chances. You should have been clearer. It’s a shame, but again, that’s on you, not me.”

“He was just a sweet boy,” Florence said again, more softly.

“Oh, bullshit,” Helen spat. “He was an overgrown stoner who acted like a boy to get women into bed.”

Florence didn’t respond.

After a beat, Helen said, “Hang on—I’ll be right back.” She added with a manic, trilling laugh, “Don’t run off!”

Florence heard Helen’s footsteps recede quickly. She waited a few seconds and cracked open the door to peer out. Helen wasn’t in the room. Florence hurried to the window and looked down into the driveway. Still no sign of Idrissi. She turned around. Where should she go? She could already hear Helen coming back up the stairs. She retreated back into the bathroom and locked the door again.

“Now, where were we?” Helen asked.

“Helen, please just tell me what’s going on. The truth this time.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Helen said, “Here, take a look at this.” A folded piece of paper was slipped under the door. “This will explain everything.”

Florence eyed the paper warily. What could it possibly say? She put her hands on the rim of the bathtub and pushed herself up to standing. And then there was a dull crack and the door splintered at hip level. The sound was unmistakable. Helen had fired a gun at the door, and the bullet had lodged midway.

“Helen!” shouted Florence. “Are you insane?” She heard the sound of muffled laughter on the other side of the door.

“Worth a shot.”

From inside the tub, Florence reached for the plunger beside the toilet and used it to draw the paper toward her. She unfolded it. It was blank.

There was an interlude in which both women were silent. Helen tapped what Florence assumed was the gun lightly against the door, as if bored. Florence pulled down a towel from the heavy brass rack on the wall and folded it underneath her in the tub.