30
A flatbed truck loaded with lumber rumbles past Bianca as she walks along the side of the road.
It’s hot, and the vehicle leaves exhaust fumes in its wake, but she sucks gratefully on her cigarette.
She wishes she wasn’t wearing these ridiculous gloves in the midday heat.
She wishes she was lying by the pool, enjoying a leisurely smoke, instead of hiding her habit from Sydney.
Bianca would love to drop the silly accent that Damian had suggested, too.
But they can’t. Not yet. They still have to play along.
She’s not sure if it’s the effects of the nicotine, the intense sex, or the progress of their plan, but Bianca feels jittery and on edge.
In a few days, the game will be over. Curtis will have lost everything: his dream house, all his money, his perfect lawyer wife…
Bianca had nearly laughed when Sydney confessed that Curtis had cheated on her.
His infidelity is the tip of the iceberg.
If Sydney only knew what he’d really done, she’d be horrified.
Repulsed. She’ll find out soon enough. If Damian doesn’t fuck everything up.
Flicking ash into the gravel, Bianca reflects on her partner’s concern for Sydney.
Damian’s taken to his role as strong, protective he-man with relish.
But the lines of reality and role-play seem to be blurring.
She’s watched Damian soften toward Syd, treating her with a tenderness unusual for him.
Last night at the club, she’d observed the way he touched her, the way he kissed her.
Damian has some kind of mommy-figure crush on the older woman.
He’s falling for her victim act. But Sydney Cleary is not a casualty of her evil husband.
She’s a moron. A pathetic, weak woman trapped under the spell of a monster.
She’s an enabler who allowed a predator to get away with murder.
If Damian tells Sydney to run, to save herself, she’ll go straight to Curtis.
Bianca has no doubt. But she won’t let that happen.
Stubbing out the cigarette with her heel, Bianca turns back toward the house.
Her jaw is tight with tension, so she opens her mouth wide, stretches out her tongue.
It sends a throbbing through her temples, a sweep of dizziness, and she stops, drops her head between her knees.
The pressure of keeping up the sweet and stupid facade is crushing her.
One more week, she tells herself. It will all be over, one way or another.
Damian is intent on the blackmail scenario, and Bianca wants it to work out, too.
Five million dollars will go a long way to healing her pain; she believes that.
And leaving Curtis broke, in debt, and with no way to pick up the pieces of his shattered existence has always been her goal.
But she’s not sure she can trust her partner anymore.
If Damian betrays her, chooses Sydney over Bianca, she will have nothing.
And no one. Bianca’s life will be meaningless.
And that means she’s got nothing to lose. The thought is strangely freeing.
She strolls back toward the van, pulling the leather gloves off finger by finger.
Her machete is in there now, concealed beneath the storage bins.
She’d first discovered it rummaging through the clutter clogging the basement rooms. While Sydney napped or surfed the internet, Bianca had gone downstairs under the auspices of painting prep.
She’d dug through boxes filled with books, old photographs, and Christmas decorations.
Sifting through the remnants of Curtis and Sydney’s privileged New York life had fueled her loathing. And her determination.
There were other miscellaneous items strewn about, likely remnants of previous owners: tangles of dusty cables, rusted tools, monitoring equipment for the broken security system.
Buried under a pile of fraying ropes was the machete.
It was a manageable size, meant for clearing brush.
Bianca had touched the blade, found it surprisingly sharp given its obvious neglect. It could be useful.
She’d slipped outside with the machete, hidden it in the tall grass behind the oak tree.
She had no concrete plans to use it then—unless a snake came along—but she felt better knowing it was there, that she was the only one in the household with access to a deadly weapon.
As she smoked behind that oak tree, she assessed what she’d be willing to do to exact her revenge.
She’d have to take Curtis out while he slept.
Sydney would wake up, of course, but she’d be easily overpowered.
Bianca wouldn’t hesitate to put her out of her misery.
But then Sydney found the machete and gloves and freaked out.
Bianca had savored the woman’s fear and unease until Damian had stepped in to assuage it.
He’d pretended to return the items to a neighboring farmer, said their presence was totally benign.
The weapon is now secure in the van, but Bianca needs to move it.
Hide it. Somewhere only she can get to it.
It’s not that she thinks Damian would use the machete against her.
She trusts her partner in that regard. He can be shady, manipulative, driven by greed, but he’d never hurt a woman.
In fact, Damian is softening before her eyes, weakening.
If he becomes a liability, she’ll have no choice but to rid herself of him.
If he backs out of their plan, she’ll do what needs to be done.
The lumber truck is parked in the driveway.
Damian and the driver are unloading the boards meant to build Curtis’s dream winery.
Curtis is nowhere to be seen, of course.
He and Sydney are so lazy and entitled. Bianca clocks the resentful scowl on her boyfriend’s face, but he’s focused on the task at hand.
He doesn’t notice her drifting down the path toward the van.
Slipping around the side of the vehicle, Bianca opens the panel door and climbs inside.
First, she mists herself with perfume to camouflage the smell of smoke.
Then she drops to her knees and pulls the machete out from its hiding place.
Her hands are shaky as she holds it, feels its heft and its potential.
Where can she put it? She needs a spot where no one else can find it but where she’ll have easy access if she needs to use it. If she needs to attack.
A dizzying wave sweeps over her, and she steadies herself with a hand pressed to the low ceiling.
How did she get to this place where she can conceive of pulling a Lizzie Borden?
She thinks of the blood, the bone, the gore, and she feels ill, lightheaded.
Bianca has always known she’s harder, tougher than the average person.
She’s had to be. But she’s only resorted to violence once, and that was justified, practically self-defense.
Curtis Lowe has turned her into this. He’s made her a cold-blooded monster.
A sob bubbles out of her when she thinks about Damian.
She loves him. At least, she loved him. She knows that what they had was real.
But he has his own agenda now. She’s watched him grow increasingly selfish, focusing on his own wants and desires.
If he gets in her way, he’ll have to be sacrificed.
Just like Sydney Cleary. She presses a fist to her lips to block her pathetic blubbering.
There is no room for emotion and sentimentality.
Hatred is all she’s allowed to feel; revenge is her sole mission. Sentimentality is for the weak.
Wrapping the machete in Damian’s dark blue sweatshirt, she climbs out of the van.
Her boyfriend is engaged with the delivery driver, a frustrating conversation about payment, no doubt.
Bianca hugs the bundle to her chest and moves around the side of the house past the pool.
No Sydney. No Curtis. She keeps walking downhill, away from her smoking spot toward the lower fence line.
The grass is tall and wild here. The trees are old and gnarled.
Ensuring no one is watching, she hides the machete next to a rotted log.
With a casual gait, she moves back toward the pool.
When will Damian notice the weapon has been moved?
What will he think? Will her partner confront her?
Assume she’s double-crossing him? Bianca’s not an idiot.
Of course she wants the money. She knows it will make her life exponentially better.
But most of all, she needs Curtis Lowe to suffer. She needs his entire life to crumble.
Or she’ll have to snuff it out.