Wishing Well(88)

I had been a game when he pulled me from the streets, a means to earn some easy money and keep himself entertained. I was only supposed to be a trophy he could set on his shelf and allow to collect dust until some other person came along to dust it off.

But Vincent, despite his selfish ways, had a weakness in his brother, Maurice. It was the only reason Vincent would deign to give up the world he believed he owned, to give up the life he’d built on the backs of every person he’d used to achieve his ridiculously lavish dreams.

As usual, however, Vincent was right in what he said. If Maurice had been dragged into the fray, if the police had suspected his part, they would have locked him away in a state psychiatric facility with all the other criminally insane. His last years would have been horrendous. He would have suffered those years even more bitterly than he suffered his basement prison beneath the lobby of Wishing Well.

Vincent seemed convinced that the bulk of Maurice’s problems had been the fault of his family and him. And I didn’t doubt that Vincent would walk into that execution room this morning believing he was dying not just because he’d attempted to save Maurice from being blamed, but also believing he deserved to die because he felt guilty for having screwed up his brother’s life by never believing Maurice could have been more than he was.

The first belief was an act of pure love for his brother. The second, well, that was simply a man atoning for his sins. He was sentencing himself to death for not knowing the best thing to do for Maurice, even if he’d spent his life trying to do what was right.

The thought broke my heart, splintering it into a million pieces and scattering the shards.

Regardless of how I felt, I would be there until the bitter end, just to ensure that Vincent didn’t die alone.

The first mist of fire on the horizon had me standing from my seat to walk inside and get dressed. Only two hours remained of Vincent Mercier’s life.

Despite knowing that it didn’t matter how I looked for this event, I still took the time to select nice clothes - a white flowing top with a navy blue skirt - to stuff my feet in heels and twist my hair up into a professional knot. I took the time to hide my swollen, red eyes beneath a generous amount of concealer, and took the time to apply mascara and lip gloss to finish the look.

To everybody in attendance, I would look like the unaffected journalist, there to record the facts and nothing more. But to Vincent and me, I would be the Dirty Girl from the streets whose heart was breaking.

The drive to the prison didn’t take long, the morning so young that traffic hadn’t yet accumulated on the streets. Approaching the gates leading to the parking area, however, was a different story altogether. The addition of rides, game booths and food vendors would have been a nice touch to make it look more like the carnival it was.

News vans filled the parking area, their floodlights glaring, their antennas scratching the sky as the reporters, cameramen, sound engineers and other technical crew littered the grounds around them.

I guessed it wasn’t too often that the world got to witness a millionaire being put to death. Driving past the chaos, I realized quickly how much I hated those people, the vultures as Vincent had so accurately described them.

After flashing my credentials to one of the prison guards, I was directed to park in a smaller lot reserved for the people who were being allowed inside. A line had formed outside the door, two grieving parents holding each other as they waited, several high power reporters watching them from feet away wondering if they should allow them privacy or approach. In the end, I knew those assholes wouldn’t be able to help themselves to the feast of heartache and pain the parents would give.

Not me. I was there for one purpose alone, even if it wasn’t the purpose I’d intended before starting the interview. Originally I’d wanted to stare Vincent in the face as the puppet who’d broken free of her strings, but now I would watch as they stuck the needle in his veins and let him know there was at least one person who would grieve.

As I approached the line, I was reminded of one other role I’d originally intended to play: that of the grieving twin sister.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t grieving for the loss of Meadow, it was simply that I didn’t blame Vincent for it. The only person I blamed for that was Barron. So when his parents glanced up at me, and when the reporters came rushing forward, I simply glared in their direction, even if they didn’t deserve my anger.

“Ms. Graham!” the reporters shouted, “How does it feel to know that your sister’s murderer is being put to death today? Are you looking forward to the execution? Is it true Vincent Mercier spent the past three days giving you an exclusive interview?”

Fucking vultures...

Pasting on a professional smile, I answered, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to keep to myself at the moment, as I’m sure you all can understand. Perhaps after the execution, I’ll be better able to answer your questions.”

They backed away, but only after one of the guards came over to direct me to where the other family members were standing. We would be afforded a front row seat, as if that would make up for the losses we’d suffered.

After a few minutes, we were allowed inside, and after passing through two large, heavy gates and two sets of doors, we entered a room with three rows of folding seats facing a large glass window with the partition pulled closed. Lucky me, I was given the seat that was front row center, stuffed between two sets of parents who would be cheering the executioner on.