Wishing Well(33)
“We only have another two hours today, and we’ve been sidetracked.”
Nodding his head once, he commented, “Heightened emotions will do that sometimes.”
Clearing her throat, Meadow rolled back her shoulders. “Despite your reluctance to admit as much, émilie’s death was your fault. You knew that Maurice was a danger to any person that got too close to him.”
“And I warned her of that,” he argued. “It’s not my fault she didn’t listen. Although, after hearing what you told me of Penelope’s recollection of that night, what Maurice said to me when I returned from disposing of her body now has meaning. I couldn’t figure it out while sending off the email to Theresa to make it appear as if émilie herself had quit.”
“And that was?”
“That he’d already discovered another toy he wanted to play with. I was so angry with him at the time that I didn’t bother to ask what he meant, but if he had spied her watching from the window that night, his words now make sense.”
“Would you have given her to him if you’d asked him at that time and found out it was Penny that he’d seen?”
“Stop skipping ahead,” he reminded her. “The next part of this story is quite lovely, actually, a fairy tale for both Penelope and me. It was within the next few weeks that her love for me blossomed and I chased her through a maze of deceit.” Leaning forward, he added, “I had feelings for her beyond the ordinary, Meadow. The desire wasn’t one sided.”
Blinking, Meadow fought against the tears that threatened. “Why do you think that matters to me?”
He laughed. “It’s just a hunch.” Waiting for Meadow to meet his stark gaze, he asked, “Wouldn’t any person want to know that their family member was loved?”
“Fine, we’ll go in order of events. But first, I want to know why you kept Maurice hidden. There are many people in the world with psychiatric problems, some of which are able to adjust and live perfectly normal lives. Why keep him locked up?”
A shadow darkened Vincent’s expression. Meadow knew Maurice was a subject that affected Vincent more than he wanted to admit. It was rare for any person to say something that made Vincent Mercier squirm. “Maurice would never live a normal life. We knew that by the time he was twelve. It wasn’t just his disruptive fits, his hallucinations or delusions. There was something else inside him that was never officially diagnosed. I believe my father had a strong hand in that. Whether it was because he didn’t want his son to carry another label, or if he believed he could cure the problem himself, my father was the person who first kept Maurice locked down. He was educated like any normal child, given tutors and books and everything else, but he was never allowed to leave the premises of whatever hotel we happened to be living in at the time.”
Meadow caught the catch in Vincent’s voice, the subtle sneer of his mouth when he mentioned his father. “Was your dad abusive to you and your brother?”
The shadow was gone, there and then no longer an obvious mask over his skin. “Not to me. Possibly to Maurice, but with his fits being as violent as they were, there was never any telling where he got the bruises. He wasn’t an easy person to handle. But we loved him. We cared for him and we kept him as comfortable as possible.”
Not wanting to drop the subject, Meadow asked, “Where is Maurice now?”
His jaw ticked. “Shouldn’t we be talking about Penelope? That is what you came to discuss, is it not? I’d hate to run out of time over trivial things so that you never discover the full story.”
Expertly, Vincent deflected the question, changing the subject as smoothly as night becomes dawn.
“Yes. I guess you’re right. What happened next?”
Satisfied that they’d turned back to the story of the wicked game played against Penny, Vincent answered, “For the next two weeks, it was business as usual. I made it a point to remain busy, while managing to always be within sight of Penelope. She’d acted strangely at first, but as the days wore on, she warmed to me again, smiling when she saw me, her cheeks heating with color if our bodies brushed too close. I guess you could say I’d played a game of hard to get until she was chasing me down. It wasn’t until that beautiful day in the garden that I finally made a move.”
Running the tip of his finger down a scar on the table’s surface, he asked, “Did she talk about those weeks in her diary? Did she record what my lack of attention made her feel?” Lifting his gaze, he transfixed Meadow in her place, something raw and naked lingering behind those eyes of startling emerald green.
“Penny did,” she managed to say. “While reading the diary for the first time, it was during those pages that I wanted to scream for her to run away. I knew that once you sunk your claws inside her, there would no longer be a chance for escape. I hate those pages most of all.”
“Will you tell me about them?”
In truth, Meadow hated giving Vincent Penny’s private thoughts, but she couldn’t deny she didn’t take pleasure in watching his changing expressions as she did so. Some parts obviously touched him, some words surprising him because they revealed the humanity in Penny that Vincent had so obviously avoided or ignored.
When she didn’t immediately answer, he offered, “If you’ll tell me what was written about that time, I promise to tell you exactly what happened in the days that followed. You should know by now that I am a man that keeps his promises.”