Wishing Well(32)

“Play nice, Maurice,” I warned one last time as I released his arm to approach émilie. She was still wiping her tears away when he drew near her, her body tensing from where it was revealed by her skimpy frock. Barely looking at my brother, she stood from the bench, turned around, lifted her skirt and offered herself to his desires.

I wasn’t polite enough to turn and not watch, and if I were to be completely honest, it was fascination to see a woman submit so thoroughly. He took no time thrusting inside her, his lips pulled back on a snarl, his huffs of hot breath like white plumes against the cold night air. For a brief moment, I believed émilie was enjoying herself, but then...

It seemed Maurice was a bit too excited. After taking her in either her cunt or her ass, I wasn’t quite sure, he leaned over to taste her flesh. His teeth must have sunk down a bit too hard because she pulled away from him with a scream on her lips and pulled back her hand readying a slap.

Even though I ran from where I stood witnessing the tryst, I wasn’t fast enough for my brother. By the time I neared where they had been, Maurice had already lifted émilie from her feet, walked her the short distance to the well and tossed her in. He stalked away as I ran to the well, his low growls a whisper against the wind as I looked inside the well to see émilie sinking beneath the water. Reaching, I was barely able to take her hand and pull her up, a wash of red sweeping down into the depths to settle amongst the pennies.

Laying her on the grass beside the well, I felt for a pulse and didn’t find one. Blood leaked from her head where it had struck the stone rim of the well from how she’d been tossed inside.



No pulse.

No breath.

No response to anything I said.



Maurice had claimed his latest victim and I was left to clean up his mess.

Picking up émilie’s body, I carried her from the well, my mind racing and my eyes narrowed on my brother who shrugged as if he’d done nothing wrong.

Holding the door open for me, he waited until we were inside before saying, “She called me a dog. She was going to hit me, like Papa.”

The breath I’d been holding fell from my lips on a rush. “It’s fine, Maurice,” I answered, knowing that any harsh words could set him off. “We’ll deal with this situation, and perhaps next week, we can find a woman you’ll like.”





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Faiville Prison, 2:17 p.m.



“You’re not saying anything. I’ve been silent for a few minutes now.”

Meadow attempted to uncurl her fingers from the edge of the table, attempted to silence her thoughts, slow her heart, take a full breath after listening to his sordid confession. “I’m not sure what to say,” she admitted on a rushed exhalation.

Vincent was quiet for a short moment before whispering, “Would you like some salt to season those ridiculous words you’ll now have to eat?”

Her gaze tipped up and their eyes met. “Ridiculous words?”

The green of his beautiful, mesmerizing eyes glimmered. Softly, he explained, “You accused me of killing émilie, but as you can now see, it wasn’t my hands that led to her death. It was an accident, an unfortunate one at that. I believe she could have fulfilled my brother if she’d just learned to behave.”

Without arguing that he had, in fact, been responsible, she chose to instead ask a question that screamed in her head. “Was Penny intended for Maurice? Had that been your ultimate plan for her?”

Seconds ticked past, the quiet hum of the air conditioning the only noise in the room. “There you go skipping ahead again.” Vincent’s shackles rattled as he sat back in his seat. “We should tell this story in the order that it occurred, and I haven’t reached the training of Penelope just yet.”

“Training,” Meadow repeated, the one sickening word echoing in her head. “Training for what?”

“To be the ultimate lady, a woman of such high esteem that even a man like me could never forget her. She was so brash when I found her, wet clay ready for a skilled hand as she was spun around and around on a potter’s wheel and given shape.”

“She was a human being, Vincent!” Meadow’s voice rose in volume, her crushing anger barely contained. “You keep referring to her as a flower, as clay, as a puzzle or some fucked up game, but never what she actually was! She wept tears, she was able to feel love, she could express herself through laughter or smiles or words, but never in this entire interview have you admitted as much.”

Cruelty stretched his full lips, the corners lifting with amusement. “She was mine to play with as I wished, Meadow. Penelope gave me that permission eventually. She admitted that without me, she could no longer continue living. She begged to be transformed into what I helped her become.” Pausing, he studied her face. “And she did become something truly special, a rarity in a world of facsimiles and replicas, of people who don’t have the balls to be who they are. I was, and I’m still, proud of her.”

Her heart skipped in rhythm to hear the compliment, rage a tenuous thing. Meadow’s recorder clicked loudly behind her in warning to change her tape. After doing so, she retook her seat and stared at a man who watched her far too closely. Could he taste all the feelings she harbored inside? Did he know more than he let on?