Chapter 60
CHAPTER SIXTY
Do I need to kill her? We’re sitting in the bar the next day, eating a late breakfast, and she looks astonishing.
I let her walk ahead of me from the room, overwhelmed by her beauty.
She’s wearing a flowing white dress that hugs her body.
I want to touch her. Hell, I want to grab her. Push her against the wall. Take her.
Soon.
She slept in my room last night, though she wouldn’t let me near her. The wrong time of the month, she said, though I knew better. She’s still not sure of me. She might even be scared of me. I need to tread carefully.
“How long will it take?” I ask over coffee. “What do I have to do?”
“What?”
“Till you forgive me.”
She sips her coffee, her eyes lowered, demure, innocent—how is she still so innocent, after everything that happened? How does she still have hope? Does she love me that much?
“What’s to forgive? It’s like you said. It was all an act. And it worked.” She looks down at the coffee, as if it contains some code that needs to be interpreted. “My ego is a bit wounded, though.”
“I thought you were going to kill me,” I say. “I thought you’d told Jesse the truth and were working together to get revenge.”
“I thought you were going to kill me, too,” she replies sadly. “You put a knife to my throat.”
“You scared me. Though I suppose you’ve been through a traumatic experience.”
“Traumatic is the right word. You were very convincing, you know.” She suddenly, miraculously, leans her head on my shoulder. “You’ll have to make it up to me.”
“I tried last night,” I joke.
“Tonight,” she says, her arm around my waist. “We’ve been through a lot. But it’s over now, isn’t it?”
“Of course, my dear,” I say, before drawing my trump card. It’s time. “I love you. I’ll never let you suffer again. Not one day.”
After saying those three little words, her mood picks up. I’m almost disappointed—I was enjoying the thrill of the hunt. In a moment, she’s transformed from prey to pet.
I tell her to pack and meet me in the lobby. I make sure the receptionist and security guard see us together in case they’re worried about my behavior. At worst, they’ll think my actions were a kink, role-playing to spice up a relationship. But at least they won’t call the police.
We leave the car in long-term parking at the marina and carry our stuff to the boat.
“Where are we going?” she says with excitement. She’s happy for me to lead, happy whatever happens, as long as we’re together.
“South. San Diego. We’ll camp out there for a month and take some lessons. I’m not an expert enough to take us too far from shore yet. Then, wherever you want. How’s a Pacific island sound?”
“Perfect,” she says, her voice quiet, dreamy. She looks blissful now. A week ago, she thought her life was over. She thought I’d betrayed her, set her up, and why wouldn’t she? All the evidence said that was the case.
She’s so desperate. All it takes is a few denials, a few declarations of love, and here we are. Why is it always so easy? Why so predictable? Why do people do what I want them to do, every damn time?
By mid-afternoon, we’re sailing out of the harbor, south along the coast. The weather’s calm.
Brie goes immediately into the cabin for a nap.
As I pilot the boat, I feel grateful that life has delivered me here.
Hard years, yes. Hard decades. But after all that suffering, I’m here, in the open ocean. Complete and utter freedom.
I feel a stirring. I won’t be able to hold off much longer. By early evening, I spot a bay and drop the anchor about half a mile out. We’re all alone.
“This is paradise.” Brie is climbing from the cabin, holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. “It’s about time we make the most of it.”
We sit on the nose of the boat, looking west over the Pacific. After a glass, I take her hand, and she leans into me. As I reach for the bottle, I hear a crash from below.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
“It’s my stuff,” she explains. “Sorry. It must have fallen off the bed.”
I feel Brie’s lips on my neck—a deer, nuzzling into me. I can’t take any more. The wine, the sunset, the dress, the hair on her shoulder, the fine bone of her shoulder, my soul is bursting, bursting.
“What about the time of the month?” I ask.
“False alarm.”
That’s all I need. I push her down flat against the deck and find her lips. I know I should move slowly, but I can’t; she’s too much. A stick of dynamite, lit, ready to blow. My hands reach under her dress.
“Wait,” she breathes.
“I can’t.”
“Not here. Not outside.”
I get it. Out here, it’s rough, animalistic, needy. Not what I want with her. Never with her.
“Come, then.”
I step across the front of the boat to the stairs.
Brie dances around me, and I pull her close from behind.
My lips on her neck. She lets out a soft moan and pushes against me so that I feel it.
Yes. Soon. I pull at her dress. She tries to keep it on, but I don’t give up, and it rips open and falls to her feet.
I remove my shirt and follow her down into the bowels of the boat. She’s inside the cabin, waiting. I never thought it could be like this again. Just her. Us. Later, I’ll see if the fire extinguishes.
And if it does, then I’ll plan the end, my last duchess.
But when I turn the corner and enter the cabin, I see she’s not alone.
Lying on the bed, stiff and white like Ophelia floating in the stream, is the corpse of Grace.
And then, the corpse rises.
“Hello, Bradley.”
That voice. No. It isn’t possible. I stumble backwards, like I’ve been hit by a car. This can’t be. She was gone. Washed out to sea. Is she real? Or a ghost? Grace, my love!
I turn, and then I scream. I scramble for the door, but Brie kicks it shut. I slam against it and then turn, because maybe it isn’t real. It can’t be real.
It’s Grace, risen again.
She’s holding a gun, and it’s pointed directly at my chest.
“It’s time for us to have a little chat, husband.”