Wishing Well(26)
“What made you think she was doubting herself? You hardly knew anything about her by that point.”
He grinned, contentment written into the lazy curve of full lips. “I’ve spent a lifetime studying women. Their behaviors and mannerisms. Their body language that reveals their secrets without ever having to say a word. Penelope didn’t need to tell me why she felt insecure for me to know she did.” Flaring his fingers as if this were simple knowledge any person should have, he said, “I gave her a reason to find pride within herself. It was her fault for her inability to let go of the need to continue experiencing the feeling.”
When Meadow didn’t respond, Vincent canted his head. “Oh, come now, you can’t tell me you don’t know that men have been doing this for centuries? It’s all part of the game.”
Clenching her teeth, Meadow asked, “What happened to émilie?”
His brow wrinkled. “How should I know?”
Proud that she’d cornered him with the question, Meadow thought back on the diary, on the night Penny had first seen the dangers that lurked around Wishing Well. For once, Meadow felt like she had the upper hand. “You were there the night she died, weren’t you? According to the diary you were. In addition, you were charged with her death. How do you not know?”
His teasing grin stretched wider, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “Now that, I did not know. Did Penny witness that night?”
Not yet ready to reveal what she knew, Meadow asked, “Is that the reason you had the diary sent to me? For fear that having it sent to you or even read to you over the phone would give the police more charges to pin on you? To give them more evidence to support your crimes?”
Vincent hesitated, drawing a grin from Meadow’s lips. “Oh, come now,” she said, repeating his words, “you’re already scheduled to die. What’s one more lie to admit to? It’s not like they can kill you twice.”
His shackles rattled, his movement minimal. “I’m beginning to like you. It’s a shame I never had the chance to have both you and Penelope at the same time.”
“Oh, please. As if that could ever happen. I’m a little too smart for your games.”
He laughed, the sound dark, deceptive. “Are you calling Penny stupid?” Tsking, he said, “Your own sister. It’s in bad taste to speak ill of the dead.”
“Tell me, Vincent, what happened the night émilie died?”
Breathing out, he stretched his neck from side to side, his eyelids heavy. Meadow knew he wasn’t tired, it was simply an illusion he wanted to portray.
“We both have information on that night, apparently. And I’m curious as to what Penelope saw. If you’ll tell me what she believed she saw, I’ll tell you what actually happened. Quid pro quo , Meadow.”
“That’s Latin,” Meadow commented, “has the surprise of what I know forced you to change languages?”
A slow shake of his head. “French may be my first language and English my second, but they are not the only ones I know. Would you like me to tell you what I just said?”
“Something for something,” she answered. “You can save your breath, I already know. Fine, I’ll tell you what Penny saw, but once I’m done, it’s your turn. And I want the truth, Vincent. No painting of pretty pictures to disguise your demons. This is your last chance to confess the truth of your crimes so that the world can know just how cunning and monstrous you were.”
His expression was blank, unreadable. “Be careful with the words you choose, Meadow. You may just have to eat them later.” Rolling his shoulders, he resettled in his seat. “Now, please, tell me what Penny remembered of that night, and I will tell you what actually happened.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PENNY
Housekeeping wasn’t so bad, if you didn’t mind the monotonous tasks. Vacuuming, sweeping, emptying every tiny trash can, trying not to think what was on the sheets as you pulled them from the beds. One would think businessmen would be a tidy bunch, but judging by the mess they left behind in their rooms, you’d be mistaken to believe it. Every room was the same, papers bunched and tossed haphazardly about, some in the trashcan and others on the floor near it, as if they’d been shooting baskets and their aim became worse as the night wore on. It probably had something to do with the alcohol they were drinking, because that was the other trash you found scattered throughout: tiny bottles of various liquors that I was sure cost a fortune to pull from the mini-bars.
But whereas housekeeping was a strenuous labor, especially as you climbed over the beds to tuck in the sheets and ensure the corners were just right, it didn’t do much to occupy the mind. No, that job had been solely Vincent’s, my brain running through everything that had occurred that morning both in his office and garden, every expression he’d given me and every word he’d said.
Lying to myself was a waste of time. Every attempt I’d made to convince myself I wasn’t attracted to him was met with a skip in the beat of my heart, a breath that it took a fraction more effort to inhale when I remembered how it felt to have his hand wrapped over my mouth and the other gripped possessively on my hip. I was a stupid girl to think that he’d meant anything by it, but I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘but what if he had?’