Wishing Well(25)

It would have been nice to focus on her entirely, but other matters required my attention, a certain problem that had followed me from home and remained hidden from easy view. Tucking my hands in my pockets, I both loved and regretted that problem. It was my burden to bear.

C’est la vie , I muttered to myself.

Taking the first steps toward a life that chained me, I tilted my face into the sun before pulling a coin from my pocket to toss into the well, a penny that sank as it jostled and turned to land among hundreds of others.

Only time would tell if that wish would come true.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Faiville Prison, 1:27 pm



Unable to meet Vincent’s cold, cruel eyes, Meadow watched her fingertips tap slowly against the surface of the table. She knew he studied her, knew that behind his brilliant green gaze, satisfaction lurked, the truth of his games bubbling to the surface, the victory of surrender he’d so easily pulled from Penny on a beautiful spring day.

Meadow wanted to believe that Penny had known all the moments that had been staged, that she’d somehow intuited the manipulation Vincent had so easily mastered. But the diary contained no question of his intent, no nascent thought that, perhaps, her encounter with Barron had been intended, that émilie’s arrival in the garden had been planned rather than just mere coincidence. The diary made it clear that Penny had, in truth, been deceived into believing that a man such as Vincent Mercier could see the value of a dirty girl when the grime had been wiped away.

“What if Barron had hurt her?” Meadow asked after clearing her throat. “What if you hadn’t returned in time?”

“There was no concern of that.” He answered, his voice careful, soft in a way that was unlike him.

“But he was going to hurt her eventually, wasn’t he? You shouldn’t have believed he could restrain himself then.”

Silence, and then, “You’re skipping ahead, Ma belle . We are not at that point yet. I am simply pointing out what it was in the beginning. Time begins to move quickly now, a few weeks wherein I allowed the seed to germinate, allowed the beginning of her love to push up from the soil.” Vincent paused, considering. His voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, he asked, “Will you not look at me as we talk?”

“I’m angry with you,” Meadow admitted. “So angry I can barely remain sitting across this table from you, can barely remain in the room.”

“I have done nothing to you. Not in that sense, at least. Why do you take on the anger, the betrayal, of your sister? It is not worth your time.”

Lifting her eyes, she glared across the table. “Maybe because she’s not here to feel those emotions. She died before knowing the truth.”

“Did she?” he asked, a curious grin tilting the corners of his perfect lips.

“According to her diary, she did. But you’re right. We’re skipping ahead.” Gathering her thoughts, Meadow leaned back in her chair, her gaze dodging about the room, Vincent’s presence too much for her to bear. She wouldn’t leave. She’d return for the next two days to complete the interview.

And she’d return one day after that to watch this man die for his crimes. A piece of her dying with him to watch the spectacle.

“Let’s talk about émilie. You mentioned her appearance was perfect timing, so you’d intended to have an excuse to drag Penny into that alcove. You’d wanted the excuse to touch her in that way. Was émilie aware of what you were doing? How many people knew of the game you were playing?”

Mirroring her posture, Vincent relaxed in his seat, his long legs stretching out beneath the table until his foot tapped hers. She pulled her legs tighter to her chair, knowing that even that minimal touch was meant to distract her.

“émilie did not know what I was doing. Nobody except Barron knew. Every day around that time, émilie had a habit of coming to my office, sneaking an hour or two with me while I took my time with her on my desk. She’d fallen hard despite my warnings, had believed she could bring to life the heart of a man that had turned cold. Most women want to believe they can change a man, that there is some magic inside them, some trait, that will make him alter his ways. But people don’t change, not unless they want to.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

Vincent blinked. “I hadn’t finished speaking. You should exercise patience. All good things come with time.”

Meadow had a visceral reaction to the words. He’d said them many times. Perhaps such a phrase should be chiseled onto his tombstone.

“Knowing that émilie would arrive around the same time I was giving Penelope the tour of the grounds, I’d emailed my assistant prior to leaving my office asking her to send émilie to the gardens when she arrived. Her presence was an excuse to drag Penelope into that alcove, but it was also a catalyst to something else. Women, despite their objections and statements to the contrary, enjoy winning what they perceive to be competition. It makes them feel special, preferred, if you will. And by my rejection of émilie, a woman Penelope had seen and knew was quite beautiful, it made Penelope feel uniquely desirable. It was a boost to her self-esteem.”

Leaning forward, he asked, “If something makes you feel good about yourself, especially in a moment where you had been doubting, wouldn’t you want to gravitate close to its orbit so you could continue feeling good?”