Dead to Her(89)
Until things settled down, Marcie decided later, she was going to have to liquidate some assets. Once, five grand would have seemed like a fortune to her, but she was now capable of spending that during a half-hearted boutique browse. Maybe she’d have to get a job—a thought that filled her with dread, the ghost of the stench of diner fat rearing up in front of her, ready to sink into her skin.
She couldn’t sleep. She’d lain awake staring at the ceiling in the dark, the sheets beneath her cool, no longer tangled and warm with passion from either Jason or Keisha. The bed was like an abandoned wasteland of love with only one survivor. A grave not yet filled.
When they’d bought the house, she’d loved its vastness, but now the size made her nervous. She found she was listening for unusual noises, afraid of any hint of an intruder somewhere inside. Someone was out there, someone who was determined to destroy Jason and Marcie and seemed prepared to kill to do so. Would they come here and try to kill her? Now that she was so alone?
She got up, going to the window and looking out at the street. The house opposite, the house that had saved her, was silent and the sidewalks were empty, as they always were after midnight. She half-expected to see Jacquie looking up at her. Everything had started going wrong when Jacquie resurfaced. Could Jacquie really be behind it all? If so, what did she want? Surely she wouldn’t have gone as far as to poison William to get her revenge on Jason for being rejected? But then, history was littered with stories of the revenge of women scorned.
But Jacquie couldn’t have poisoned William. How would she have known where to find the needles Eleanor had hidden away? Could someone have told her? But why? Too many unanswered questions and for now she had more immediate concerns. Her mind turned to money again, and she headed to her dressing room. They couldn’t take her jewelry. Not if she’d sold it. And the same went for Jason’s cuff links and watches and some of her more expensive one-off dresses.
As she started stacking the tiny beautiful boxes that summed up their affair and a marriage’s worth of gifts, she calmed down. Even if she sold it at cut-rate prices she’d have plenty left over after paying Iris back. She reached into the next drawer for her Versace scarves, suddenly feeling a sense of liberation. With Jason she thought she’d built herself a wall of protective wealth. What good had it done her? It hadn’t been her money. Next time, when she married another rich man, she’d make sure she had bank accounts of her own and cash secreted away in case of emergencies. If anyone would marry her.
From Jason’s drawers she took out his four watches—two of which had been gifts from her, albeit paid for by him, so she felt no qualms in selling those—and then piled up his cuff link collection—three pairs were diamond studded and none of the others were cheap.
When she was done she got back into bed and stared at the cool spare pillow—Jason’s pillow—beside her. She thought of all the times in the early days that she’d lain beside Jason, breathless from sex, watching him sleep, just wanting to run her fingers down the firm muscles of his arms and chest. How obsessed she’d been with her handsome man. Then there was Keisha, dark skin against white sheets, who’d lain right here with her, warm flesh, hot wet mouth, a new ocean of sexuality to dive into.
Jason and Keisha. Keisha and Jason. One all masculinity, the other the opposite. Yin and yang. As the memories assailed her, echoes of sensation, she felt her body stir. Had Keisha killed William for her maybe? Marcie had kept telling her she wouldn’t be poor again—was this Keisha’s way of trying to secure both their futures so they could run away together with a fortune? Or maybe she had just been the scapegoat and Jason had poisoned William to free himself of his debts and save himself from prison? These two people she’d had sex with. Terrible people. The sheet brushed against her nipple and she shivered.
Jason and Keisha. Their wickedness began to drive her fantasy, the complete disregard for conformity, and then, as her hand slid down her own body, in her imagination all three of them were in the bed together, a twisting panting mess of limbs, each body eager for its own satisfaction.
Once she was done, gasping in delight as the orgasm ripped through her, she rolled over and finally fell asleep, and didn’t wake up until nine the next morning, when Detective Anderson rang the doorbell.
55.
Marcie was pretty sure Kate Anderson didn’t sleep. When she’d woken Marcie at nine, her skin was disgustingly fresh, even clear of makeup, and she had the energy of someone who’d been up for hours. Still, once she started speaking, Marcie woke up pretty fast herself. First, she told Marcie that they now had reason to believe the computer crash at the partnership had been caused by a remotely planted virus. She’d wanted to know how proficient Jason was at computer hacking or if he had any friends or connections who he might have turned to. All their usual leads for tech crime were staying unsurprisingly quiet. It had made Marcie laugh out loud. Jason? A hacker? No, that wasn’t possible—his passwords were too easy to guess for him to be that IT savvy. She’d almost asked why on earth he’d want the crash, but then, as she started to wake up herself, the answer became obvious. To delay the audit. To buy himself time to put money back or at least make more mess to hide his crimes. No, even as she pleaded ignorance, Marcie knew that Jason might not have hacked the system himself, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t organized it. That day when he’d lied about where he was—had he been getting the virus removed?