Wishing Well(86)
Nodding, Vincent squeezed her hand. “It was wrong. What my father did was wrong. What I did following my father’s death even more so. I had one group of physicians and counselors telling me there was no hope for Maurice, and another set that told me he could live a normal life if he would just comply with a medication schedule and therapy, but I was too frightened for him. And that fear, that lack of trust rubbed off on him until not even he could believe in himself. Perhaps, if I’d made different decisions, Maurice could have lived a different life. I know for a fact it was my actions that kept him from becoming what he should have been. It was my fault he hadn’t reached his true potential.”
Tears streamed down Penelope’s face. “He was only trying to protect me, and now he’s dead and you’re being put to death because of it.”
Without responding to what she’d said, Vincent asked, “How did you become Meadow?”
“After the arraignment, after the belief was in my head that Maurice had killed Meadow and Barron out of jealousy, I bought a plane ticket and flew to Germany using her identification. I had her bag, and since we were identical, nobody questioned it. As far as the world knew, Penelope Graham had died that night, not Meadow. And since I had nothing - no family, no job, no money, no home - I took over what she had. I continued the education program she was in. I handled my mother’s estate and took the house and the bank accounts. I became someone else and forgot all about the mistakes I’d made as Penelope. I started over as my sister since she’d never had the same problems as me. And here I am. A journalist with a life in another country.”
He let the statement linger before asking, “But are you happy?”
“No,” she confessed, the one word a weight being stripped from her shoulders. Every day she tried to convince herself that it wasn’t true, that she had found happiness in a life she never wanted. But despite the lies she attempted to tell herself, Penelope knew she was miserable. “Being a journalist was Meadow’s dream, not mine. I absolutely hate it. Looking at the constant evils of the world is awful. And as for a personal life?” She laughed. “I haven’t been with another man since Maurice.”
Surprise drew Vincent’s brows together. “No one else? In the seven years since that night?”
“I loved him,” she said, sorrow coating every syllable. “Despite his problems, despite what he’d done, I loved him. I still do, and to find out he died alone, that he-“
Unable to finish the thought, she choked back a sob.
Releasing her hand, Vincent leaned back in his seat. “I’m sorry. For everything. For what you’ve lost.”
Slapping away tears, she laughed pathetically. “This is a really shitty fairy tale.”
Grinning, Vincent answered, “Most of the true ones are. It wasn’t until people sought a better ending and changed them that they had the characters riding off into the sunset to live happily ever after. Most fables and fairy tales were cautionary stories when first told. It makes this particular one fitting, don’t you think?”
“At least I get to walk away from all of this. You’re the one losing your life.” Panic tore through her, sorrow chasing its wake. “Why don’t you tell the truth now that Maurice is gone? Why don’t you attempt to save your own life? You shouldn’t have to die for what happened.”
His smile was full of melancholy and regret. “You’re upset for me instead of at me.” A statement more than a question, Vincent appeared amused by Penelope’s reaction. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
His green eyes softened. “Ma chérie, sois forte. Aie un peu de courage. ”
“I’m not strong, Vincent, and my courage is all tapped out,” she answered.
His laughter drew her gaze across the table. “So you have learned French? It’s about time. Your refusal always drove Maurice and I crazy.”
Weakly, she smiled. “And I learned German. It wasn’t easy.” Growing quiet, she asked, “Will you not try to save yourself?”
Vincent shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. I took the blame for those deaths in an attempt to save my brother, and I do not regret going to my death. If he had been blamed, his final years would have been more tortured than mine. They would have put him in a state psychiatric institution instead of a regular prison. I didn’t want that for him. And, in truth, those lives were lost because of me. Maurice’s life was held back because of me. He spent far too many years in that cage. I may not have killed those people myself, not your sister, not Barron, not émilie or the other woman that was found, but I was the indirect cause. Dying tomorrow is fitting for the mistakes I made, and for the crimes I committed. I’ll take my punishment without remorse for what is done to me.”
Penelope knew their time was quickly running out, that she would be asked to leave the prison so that they could begin the preparations for Vincent’s execution. She needed to focus on what was important, on the last questions she needed answered before it was too late.
“I would like to know one thing.” Sniffling, Penelope relaxed into her seat, her tear-swollen eyes lifting to meet Vincent’s stare. “Why did you give me to Maurice in the end? Especially after the sexual relationship we’d shared? Did I mean so little to you that you could just toss me off to him without being hurt by it? Was I just another one of your women?”