55
Sydney is lying awake in the dark, her mind racing as it tries to slot all the pieces into place.
Her body is tense, a block of stone against her husband’s touch.
And then she hears it: the distant cry of a tortured beast. The sound rolls over her like a wave, a cold chill pricking her skin.
It’s a moan of anguish like she’s never heard, the guttural cry of an injured animal.
Or it’s Damian, dying on the bathroom floor.
“Curtis,” she says, shaking him awake. “What’s wrong with him?”
Her husband sounds fully alert when he answers. “I have no idea.”
“I’ll go check on him.” Syd twists her legs out of bed, but Curtis stops her with a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll go.” He climbs out the other side in his boxers and T-shirt. “This could be messy.”
Sydney waits, her pulse skittering, her mind running over the possibilities for spontaneous and excruciating pain.
It could be a twisted bowel or a kidney stone.
Damian could have had a preexisting condition that’s just flaring up now.
His moans continue, and she grabs her phone, considers calling 112 for an ambulance, but she waits for Curtis to return.
“Seems like a case of food poisoning,” her husband says, climbing back into bed. “He’ll be fine in a few hours.”
“What did he eat?”
“I don’t know. They probably had something spoiled at lunch today.”
“Is Bianca okay?”
“She’s not there.” He fluffs his pillow, sounds remarkably unconcerned. “She must have slept in the van.”
“We should check on her.” Syd moves to get up. “She might be sick, too.”
“Give her some privacy. If she’s puking and shitting herself, she may not want witnesses.”
Sydney pauses. He has a point.
“Besides,” Curtis continues, “she’s not as dramatic as her boyfriend.” Damian’s moan, quieter but no less agonized, punctuates the sentence, and Curtis snorts. “He acts like such a tough guy, but a few bad mussels and he wails like a baby.”
Disdain drips from her husband’s words. He’s more than indifferent to their guest’s suffering; he’s enjoying it. The picture begins to form, a puzzle she’s been trying to solve all evening.
“Did you do something to them?”
“What?” Curtis sounds incredulous, offended. “Like what?”
“I don’t know… Did you feed them something that was off? Or spoiled?”
“Are you serious?” He sits up. “Why would I want them to be sick in my house? That makes no sense.”
Syd’s confidence wobbles in the face of his outrage. But she won’t be manipulated, not anymore.
“Don’t lie to me, Curtis.”
“I’m not lying.” He reaches out, touches her hair. “I’ve always been honest with you, babe. Even about the affair.”
“But you didn’t have an affair, did you?”
His hand falls from her hair, and his eyes turn wary. “How much did you have to drink tonight?”
He’s trying to gaslight her now. But she knows more than her husband realizes, the information festering inside her. It’s time to let it out.
“Collette Jasper doesn’t exist. You made her up.”
“You saw her Facebook page, Sydney.”
“You created that Facebook page using someone else’s photos.
You knew I’d be curious and try to search for Collette online.
” She watches his expression for traces of guilt, but Curtis’s face is closed, a mask.
“I wondered why the page disappeared, but Meta must have taken it down because it was fake.”
He shakes his head, like he’s shocked and confused. But it’s a ploy. “I don’t get it, babe. Why would I admit to an affair I didn’t have?”
“Because you were covering up for something else. Something worse.”
He reaches for her again, his eyes pleading. “What could be worse than cheating on the woman I love? You know how much I adore you.”
Her stomach churns at his words, and she recoils from his touch. Because there are worse things. Far worse things. “Come with me,” she commands, sliding out of bed.
“Where are we going?” he grumbles, but he trails her through the house, Damian’s agonized groans growing fainter as they move toward the stairs. They descend silently to the basement. Syd had spent much of the day down there under the auspices of painting prep, but she’d been otherwise engaged.
The antiquated security system had been ignored since they moved in, its wires tangled, the console covered in dust. At first, video surveillance of their private oasis had seemed unnecessary.
Sydney and Curtis had felt so safe and comfortable in their idyllic hideaway.
After they discovered the machete, the video cameras had felt insufficient to protect them from a lurking psychopath.
So the system had remained untouched, inoperable.
But it had been included in the real estate listing as an asset.
If it couldn’t be made functional, why would José have mentioned it?
Sydney had approached the system with patience, determination, and a pair of pliers.
She’d painstakingly untangled the cords, snipped the wires that needed repair, and carefully reconnected them.
Her first attempt had been unsuccessful, and she’d felt a swell of panic, of desperation.
She knew her husband and her houseguests were hiding things from her, keeping dark secrets.
The surveillance cameras felt like her only hope to learn what the hell was going on in her own home.
In the distance, she heard a car chugging up the steep hillside.
Could it be Damian and Bianca returning from their rained-out beach day?
Her heart pattered in her chest, and her fingers slipped on the wires as she heard the Citroen lurching up the driveway.
Above her, the front door opened and closed.
Curtis was going to meet the guests outside, away from Sydney’s prying eyes.
She had mere moments to make these cameras operational, to capture their exchange.
The small screen flickered to life just as the car’s engine turned off.
The image was nearly obfuscated by dust, but she rubbed it clean with the side of her fist. For a moment, she worried that the cameras outside would light up, would catch their attention, but luckily, the rain obscured them.
And as Bianca and Damian huddled with Curtis, umbrellas sheltering them from the deluge, they were far too intent on their conversation to be distracted.
Sydney turned up the volume, strained to listen over the driving rain.
And what she heard made her cold. And ill. And desperate for answers.
Now, she presses rewind and plays the scene for her husband.
His face has gone pale, a sickish hue of gray as he watches himself on-screen with Damian and Bianca.
In the tiny room, his voice rings out loud and clear as he offers them five million dollars to make them go away.
And as he accepts responsibility for what he did to Lyric. A child. Bianca’s sister.
Curtis turns to face his wife, and she sees the defeat in his eyes. The game, his narrative, is over. It’s time for him to tell the truth. Sydney will not accept anything less.
“What the fuck did you do to that girl, Curtis?”