Chapter 33 #2
She greeted him with tears in her eyes, begged him to reconsider, drew him under the shelter of the umbrella, all the while
moving toward the alley.
“Please, let’s not talk out here,” she had pleaded, tugging him by the arm.
“Please listen to me, I can’t go in the hotel yet, there’s something I need to show you, something to give you, it could change your mind.
Come in here with me, just for a moment, away from other people.
” She babbled without stopping, not giving him time to reply or protest.
What did he have to fear from a woman caught in his trap, a woman desperately trying to save herself? Her entreaties only
added to his enjoyment. He let her draw him under her umbrella and into the alley, followed her all the way to the pile of
crates stacked by the side door, the crates that hid them from anyone walking along the street. He even took her umbrella
when she pressed the handle into his hand so that she could open her bag.
“Something I need to show you, give you,” she repeated, and put her free hand against the crates as though to steady herself,
her green eyes holding him with their beseeching gaze. He’d smiled, then stumbled backward in astonishment against the brick
wall when she pushed the knife between his ribs. He reached for her with one hand, the other still holding the umbrella, but
she stepped away and Grey fell against the wall, slid down to the mud. He made a yelping sound when she yanked the knife from
his chest and plunged it into his throat. Blood spurted onto the hem of her oilskin raincoat. She turned Grey over so he lay
face down in a puddle, then wiped the knife on Grey’s jacket before dropping it in her bag.
Then she picked up the umbrella and walked out of the alley, just a woman caught in the rain, hastening to her destination.
It had been so surprisingly easy, had happened so quickly. Easy because not for a moment, not until it was too late, had Andrew
Grey believed she was a danger to him.
She crossed the street but couldn’t bring herself to leave, not just yet.
She had an irrational fear that Grey might come staggering out of the alley, the same look of astonishment on his face, blood dripping from his throat.
So instead she waited across from the hotel, moved along from shop to shop, until the man rushed out of the alley shouting for help and people ran outside to gather on the sidewalk. Only then did she leave.
In the cold downpour, even Shanghai’s tenacious beggars weren’t making an attempt to beseech for coins. She slipped off the
raincoat and flung it over a woman huddled under a piece of cardboard, hurried away before the surprised woman could look
up and see her. She turned the corner onto Avenue Paul Brunat and she was Caroline Stanton again, dressed in an expensive
coat, on the way to her jeweler.
Back home, back inside her room, she washed the knife and hid it in the bag. One night, when she was sure Lisan had gone to
bed, she climbed up to the attic and returned the knife to its box.
Getting rid of Andrew Grey, that had been preparation. Preparation and playacting, making him feel overconfident when she
begged him for mercy.
But with Thomas, it had been luck and opportunity. Luck that Thomas had come down with intestinal parasites, which had opened
up the opportunity. Luck again that Dr. Ellis had been too inept to recognize his original diagnosis was no longer the cause
of Thomas’s illness, and too stubborn to reconsider. She might’ve felt more kindly toward her husband if she hadn’t overheard
Mason commenting that he’d advised Thomas to marry Caroline for her money. She did not like being used. In a way, it was too
bad. Thomas had been an indulgent husband. It had been a good life.
But no husband was best of all. She’d known since childhood that love and friendship meant little to her, although she could
feign both quite well when needed. Personal attachments were useful when convenient. When there was opportunity.
After Lisan mentioned that the servants had noticed Thomas’s hair falling out, she knew she couldn’t have all the houseboys there as witnesses. It was so easy; they were so superstitious. Just the mention of objects being moved around and full-grown men panicked.
What sort of risk was she running now by continuing to impersonate Caroline Stanton? It was a risk, but one that diminished
with each passing year. People’s memories would dim, her own features alter with age. She would travel constantly, never stay
too long in one place, perhaps hire a companion to fend off unwanted attention.
Now that she thought about it, perhaps it was just as well Lisan hadn’t come with her. A wealthy American woman with a Chinese
maid-companion, that was rather too memorable. It was too bad she couldn’t travel alone, but that would attract too much attention
as well. She’d find someone older, middle-aged and compliant, too timid to rock the boat.
Still, Lisan’s reaction had been disappointing, especially when what she had offered was so generous. She empathized with
the girl, an orphan. She had even admitted to being an impostor, proving to Lisan how much she was willing to trust her. In
her own way she had been as fond of Lisan as she was capable of such emotion. She had felt strangely regretful to read in
the Shanghai newspapers that the two bodies found in the burnt ruins of Lennox Manor were those of Mason Burnett and Liu Lisan.
In fact, when she drove away from Lennox Manor that final time, there had been a moment when she rather hoped Lisan would
survive the fire. She had been fond of the girl.