A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(79)

She knew he'd noticed it, because he'd confessed he entered the house just to see what a ten-million-dollar listing looked like. He'd confessed he was envious. He'd even tried to apologize for his behavior at The Leaky Barrel the night he and Lance had come close to blows. But Gwen hadn't been gracious, and now she needed grace.

The Frobishers had taken their house off the market and wouldn't return her phone calls. She wanted to say she was sorry, beg their forgiveness, but they weren't interested in talking to her.

Gwen didn't know if she'd ever be able to return to work. She'd started seeing Maricela's therapist. She said they were making progress. But right now, Gwen couldn't make herself park in the same lot as The Leaky Barrel, couldn't imagine showing a house, especially if it had a basement. Running away sounded attractive.

"We'd have to come back for the trial," Art said.

Gwen shivered. He tightened his arm around her. The idea of sitting in the same room as Mo Cotton, even if he was guarded and handcuffed, made her a little ill. "How do you feel about leaving St. Barnabas? They offered you the job. And a big raise. They really want to keep you."

When the news came out that Art had beat the Real Estate Killer to a pulp and delivered him to the police, he became a local celebrity. That was just the kind of publicity St. Barnabas needed. Parents had pulled their children from the school because the prior administration hadn't been able to protect them from sexting and bullies. Now they had a bona fide hero on their hands.

"I have mixed feelings," Art said. "I hate to leave the people who need us."

Gwen knew he was referring to Olivia and Brian. His prognosis was good, but recovery would be a long road. Olivia's mother had been given temporary custody. He would be staying with her until the court decided if Olivia was a fit parent. Mike and Art were rallying a group to speak on her behalf. Gwen wanted to help. It would be a penance of sorts.

"You and the kids are my priority. I want what's best for us," Art said.

Gwen closed her eyes. Sunlight turned her lids crimson. She listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore below and remembered.

In her mind's eye, she stood on the cracked patio of the Laguna Beach house before it became a place of nightmares, and listened to the surf from that high vantage point. It was a dream then. A dream of things she wanted so badly she almost lost herself. As painful as it was, it was good for her to revisit this memory often. There were lessons to be learned there.

She opened her eyes and looked at Art. "We don't have to decide tonight, do we? I feel so content. Right here. With you." She reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his.





CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE





Epilogue


French is the language of wine. I've been studying it since I now have some time on my hands. It makes me regret I never left this bourgeois republic for the eminently more civilized country of France. Oh, well. Que sera sera, as Doris Day sang.

My study of the language is how I happen to know the French word for dungeon. It is oubliette. It comes from the verb oublier, which means "to forget".

In the Middle Ages when one was thrown into the black underbelly of the castle, the trap door was dropped and the prisoner forgotten—not very humane. He was left to rot in the dark and feed the rats.

The state has deemed my extermination of some of Southern California's vermin as a crime. I see my actions as a public service. We disagree but, unfortunately for me, might makes right.

I've been tossed away like so much rubbish into the oubliette of San Quentin. They say it will be for life, if you can call this a life.

My sister sees it as divine retribution for my sins—my own personal Inferno. Like Dante, she hopes I will descend deeper and deeper discovering ever more horrific punishments. But unlike Dante, I won't be an observer. I will feel the pain.

I believe, in her heart of hearts, she thinks my incarceration will assuage her own guilt and embarrassment. She is miserable in the knowledge that someone who shares her DNA has snuffed out a few real estate agents. She must accept I am her family, and she hates it. That's a comfort to me.

I should have been my father's heir. I was never understood or appreciated by him, or anyone else for that matter. I've always lived in a black hole. Fiona sucked up all the light.

It's interesting to me that wine, my passion, is treated in much the same way as I have been—buried in damp basements away from the sun. Out of sight, out of mind.

This is where I find my hope. My raison d'etre, as the French say. The richness and complexity of a wine comes during its time in the cellar.

So I sit and write my story. I study French and history and weaponry and herbs and potions and poisons. I learn the ways and wiles of man and woman, and I mature. I prepare myself for the day I'll emerge from the oubliette. And I will. And when I do, my sister will drink the wine I've made in dark.