Wishing Well(89)

Already, their whispers were making me bite the inside of my cheek to keep from telling them how wrong they were about Vincent. Was he a jackass? Yes. Did he deserve this? No. Not at all.

I guessed some would argue that he buried the bodies of both Candace and émilie. He stole from them a proper burial. And with Candace, at least, his actions had left them to suffer not knowing what happened to their daughter. But, even in that, he was protecting Maurice. He made stupid decisions, but he hadn’t been a heartless monster.

Barron’s parents could just fuck off for all I thought about their son, and keeping myself from turning to them and admitting the truth as to what he had done was extremely difficult. Not that anybody would believe me if I came out with the truth. There was no evidence to prove Vincent’s claims of what occurred that night to set off Maurice’s fury.

The partition opened revealing a sterile room with a medical bench, a machine with several dials and tubes, and three plain white walls with a steel door set into one of them. I closed my eyes, tried to hide from what was happening, attempted to breathe when I knew who would soon walk through that door.

Fuck, I wasn’t sure I could watch it. Not without screaming, not without banging on the glass and telling them to stop. Vincent hadn’t been walked inside the room and I was already crying.

A hand patted my back. “I know it’s hard, honey. But it will be over soon.”

I opened my eyes to see Candace’s elderly mother attempting to comfort me. Slapping away a tear, I forced as much of a smile as I could and redirected my eyes to the window.

The steel door opened, all six foot five inches of Vincent’s muscular frame being led through, his hands locked behind his back, his shoulders pulled wide and his hair a dark, wavy mess dusting his white prison jumpsuit ... his green eyes locking on me where I sat.

A sob shuddered through me, so violent it shook the legs of my chair. Candace’s mother took my hand in hers, patting the top like a mother would to comfort an upset child. She meant well, so I didn’t snatch my hand away. I pretended it was my mom or sister sitting next to me and comforting me to watch this event.

Led by two officers to stand in front of the glass window, Vincent was positioned in the center, an intercom turning on with some quiet static. When the warden at the back of the room starting speaking it was a jolt of harsh noise against the silence of where we were seated.

“Vincent Mercier, you have been sentenced to death for the murders of four people. Having been found guilty by a jury of your peers, your punishment for those crimes will be carried out today. Prior to the execution, are there any last words you would like to say?”

My eyes locked to his, and it felt like I was the only person in the room. The usual glitter was in the green of his gaze, the humor, the arrogance, the laughter I remember seeing in him when we’d both shared in the joy of seeing Maurice improve. Despite knowing he would take his last breath, he didn’t beg or cry, didn’t lose any part of who he’d always been. Vincent stood tall, and he stood proud.

Still watching only me, Vincent opened his mouth to say, “Tu faites un v?u, et espérons que cela devienne réalité. ”

It was exactly what he’d said to me at the well in the garden on the day he told me we would take Maurice out to see a sunset. Back then, I’d had no clue what it meant, but I knew now.

You make a wish, and hope it comes true...

My tears wouldn’t stop falling, my entire world crumbling down on top of me as they led him away from the window, laid him down on the bench and hooked him to the drip line.

He didn’t fight. He simply closed his eyes.

And at 6:27 a.m., on a chilly Thursday morning, Vincent Mercier was officially declared dead.

I felt like I’d died beside him.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


It was nine in the morning before I was in my car again, emotionally stable enough to leave the parking lot and make the hour and a half drive to the hotel where all of this had started. Just like I felt seven years ago after my sister was killed, I had no desire to walk into the Wishing Well, to see the opulent interiors, to meet the eyes of the employees or Vincent’s attorney. But he had my recorder, and I couldn’t contain my curiosity as to what items Vincent had set aside in the belief that I’d want them.

I couldn’t turn on the radio without having to listen to all the news reports concerning Vincent’s death, so I listened to the smooth white noise of the tires rolling over the asphalt. My thoughts were in the past, my mind conjuring images of happier times, and my quiet meditation didn’t end until the noises of the city drew my attention. I turned off the freeway exit to drive down the main boulevard. Finding parking at a public lot a few blocks from the hotel, I walked slowly to approach the six story structure that stood tall in the bright sunlight. It was just as I remembered it, surrounded by a beautiful stone wall that held all the secrets of the garden behind it.

Entering beneath the large wrought-iron courtyard gate with purple and pink wisteria that hung down in a breathtaking display, I strolled up the cobblestone walkway to the front doors, smiling at the doorman as he opened them for me. My heels clicked across the gold scarred marble floors, the white shined to a brilliant polish. Above my head, the crystal chandeliers cast their light is a prism of color and at the large front desk that stood to my left, three impeccably dressed employees waited to welcome me to this heavenly place.