Wishing Well(74)
Her shoulders sagged, and realizing she was taking out her anxiety on a man who didn’t deserve it, she forced herself to relax. “How much longer will his attorney be here?”
They’d reached the interior waiting room by the time he answered. “There’s no telling. Usually it’s a matter of deciding what will be done with the body following death, but in Mercier’s case, I assume there’s more to deal with, considering he’s rich and all. Just take a seat on the bench and they’ll walk you back once he’s done.”
Dropping her weight onto the uncomfortable bench, Meadow ground her teeth. She had only a few hours left to discover how Penny died, to determine whether it was actually Vincent that killed her sister. Memories raced back, sharp and jagged, the truth of the tragedy unfolding in her mind’s eye. She knew more than she was letting on, felt guilt for her role in it, wanted to stab a knife so deep in Vincent’s heart that the secret she revealed would be the last thought across his mind as he took his last breath.
And she wanted to cry.
While Vincent worked out the terms of his death and estate with some high-power attorney, Meadow fought tears of rage, of sorrow, of frustration. She had nothing left after this interview. Her sister was gone, her mother was gone, and except for the journalism career she didn’t love, she was without direction in her new life.
The tears fell despite her hatred of them. For her sister. For Maurice. For all the people who were caught in the web that Vincent had so expertly weaved.
A noise drew her attention to the gate, a man being allowed through in his slate grey suit, his pressed white shirt and red tie. A file folder was held loosely in his hand, plain durable paper in brown. Approaching her, he dared to meet her eyes with his own, the blue like a clear lake beneath the salt and pepper color of his hair.
Extending a hand, he introduced himself, not that Meadow hadn’t already deduced who he was. “You must be Meadow Graham. I’m Stephen Chase, Mr. Mercier’s attorney. It is Meadow, correct?”
Nodding, Meadow didn’t miss the odd expression on his face. “Of course. Are you finished with Vincent? I need to start the interview if I hope to finish today.”
Behind the attorney, two guards waited patiently by the gate, their eyes darting about as if they weren’t listening. Meadow knew they were.
“Yes, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to stop and talk to you before leaving.”
“Is he cancelling the interview? I have one day left!”
“No,” he answered, shifting the folder in his grip. “But Mr. Mercier explained to me that there are items at the Wishing Well he’d had stored that he would like given to you.”
“What kind of items?”
“Odds and ends. I believe some of the items were from Penelope’s room. I’m not sure what exactly. He explained there’s a list at the hotel. I’m hoping you’ll agree to meet me at the Wishing Well tomorrow morning following Mr. Mercier’s execution.”
Although the last place Meadow wanted to go was the Wishing Well, she couldn’t find it within herself to decline the invitation. Seeing the hotel, walking the halls would be the same as confronting a ghost, the same as confronting a nightmare she feared she could never escape. Perhaps looking the monster in the eye would be the only way to dispel it.
“Fine. I’ll meet you there once the execution is over.”
Standing from her seat, she gathered her recorder and blank tapes, a hand landing gently on her shoulder. Turning, she backed out of reach of Mr. Chase.
“There is one other matter we need to discuss.”
Staring at him, she waited for whatever bomb he would drop. The expression on his face was too apologetic for good news.
Taking a breath, he explained, “Although Mr. Mercier has agreed to conclude the interview with you today, he wishes to do so without the use of recording devices-“
“What?” Her voice echoed, the one question repeating through the halls. The volume of it had attracted the attention of the two waiting guards and they no longer kept up the appearance of not paying attention.
“What do you mean he won’t let me record this last part? I have no other way to take notes. I’m not allowed to take so much as a pen inside that room. Am I supposed to write stuff down with a fucking crayon?”
Anger was a pulse beneath her skin. How dare he? How fucking dare Vincent do this to her? He knew she needed these tapes, knew she was approaching the portion of his confession that mattered the most. All the rest of it was a method for him to brag, but this part - THIS admission - was what she needed to finally move on from the heartbreak of what her life had become.
The attorney didn’t react to her anger, his expression blank, his posture firm. “I apologize, Ms. Graham, but those are his wishes. He’s under no order compelling him to discuss this matter with you. He’s doing so voluntarily, but he no longer wants your recorder in the room. I can take it off your hands if you like, and return it when we see each other tomorrow. I assume the tapes you’ve brought with you are blank, and you won’t have to worry about losing the work you’ve already accomplished by entrusting the recorder with me.”
“That son of a bitch,” she cursed beneath her breath. But time was running out, the clock ticking forward, stealing the precious minutes she had to pick Vincent’s brain, to extract the truth she needed.