Chapter 53
Chapter Fifty-Three
JULIET
Ihail a taxi outside Southampton Hospital, the yellow cab pulling up with a brake squeak under the floodlights. The driver—a middle-aged guy in a Yankees cap—glances back as I slide in. The leather seat feels tacky from the day's humidity, and the radio plays country music.
I give him the address, and he nods. It turns out to be an old farmhouse in Riverhead on Long Island's North Fork. Soon, we’re on our way as he merges into sparse traffic, the hospital lights fading in the rearview as we head west. The road winds through dark fields and woods, and my mind spins the whole way.
Why now?
Why this?
The party's probably still going, guests making bids at the auction under string lights, oblivious and sipping champagne. And here I am, racing to the woman who started it. I’m eager to meet with her not because of the money.
I don’t want her money now. It’s blood money.
But I need answers—what's going on? Why the syringe?
Why Frances? Guilt chews deep and bitter.
And heartbreak tangles with anger. That craving for Blake's arms makes breathing hard, like I’m tearing away a part of me.
The drive drags on, about forty minutes through North Fork suburbs, past sleeping vineyards and rows of grapevines under the moon's pale glow. Air slips in through the cracked window, fresh with damp earth and faint fermentation from harvest. Finally, we pull up, and I see a sprawling old farmhouse, gray clapboard weathered by coastal winds. A wraparound porch sags slightly, lights glowing warm in the windows like watchful eyes. Gravel crunches under the cab’s tires as the driver stops.
I pay with Carolyn's credit card from my purse, the plastic slick in my sweaty palm. I tip him extra. Like double. Fuck her. The driver can’t believe his luck. He asks if he should wait.
“Yes,” I tell him.
I step out into the night, the cool air brushing against my bare shoulders and raising goosebumps along my skin. A distant owl hoots from the trees as I approach the door, my heels sinking a little into the soft, dew-kissed ground.
She opens it quickly. Carolyn stands in the doorway, the wood creaking as the door swings wide.
Her face looks sharp under the hall light, that sleek bob framing features so much like mine.
She's dressed in the same black gown as me, and her eyes calculate everything, sweeping over me.
Her mouth lifts in a sarcastic smile at my shock.
“You can go. I’ll give her a lift back,” she shouts to the cab driver.
The cab drives off, and she gestures for me to come inside with a tight smile.
The house smells of aged wood and faint dust, the kind that settles in places left alone too long.
Off to the side, the living room waits with its mismatched furniture—a faded floral sofa, a scarred oak coffee table, and a stone fireplace that's cold and empty.
There have been no ashes in there for a long, long time.
"Wine?" she offers, holding up a glass of deep red wine. It swirls darkly in a crystal glass, and makes me suspicious it might be poisoned. Her voice comes out smooth and casual, like we're old friends catching up, but the tension in her posture gives her away, her shoulders staying rigid.
"No," I say, my voice steady but edged with the anger I've been holding back. I pause by the doorway for a beat, the floorboards creaking under me as I step further in. My gown feels too tight now, too formal for this raw face-off, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
"What really happened tonight? With Frances—the syringe, all of it. Tell me the truth."
She sets the glass down on a side table with a soft clink. Her smile fades into something colder, more calculated, and she leans against the mantle, arms crossing across her chest.
“You want the truth? The real reason I wanted you to impersonate me?
" she asks, her tone matter-of-fact, almost bored, but she doesn’t fool me.
I can see frustration flickering in her eyes.
Her plans went seriously off-track tonight.
"You were my alibi. No one would suspect me of killing the old bitch if I was seen at the party.
You being seen at the party was my perfect cover. "
She pauses, her gaze narrowing as she watches my reaction.
Shadows from the lamp play across her face, making her look like a stranger wearing my skin.
"It went wrong when that stupid housekeeper spotted me and nearly ruined the whole thing.
But anyway, the job's done. The old bitch is dead. No more interfering in my life. I’ll never have to suffer another disapproving look from that hateful hag.
From this moment on, I will do what I want to do, and I will become the mistress of the house.
All the servants will obey only me. All the family properties she owns—the mansion, the apartments in the city and the villa in Italy, everything— will go to her son now.
Which means half of all of it will be mine when I divorce that cold fish. "
Her words slam into me like a knife; the cruelty of calling poor, hurt Frances "old bitch" and her evil intent to kill that kind old lady turn my stomach.
I stare at her, the room tilting just a fraction, the empty fireplace gaping like a dark mouth.
Realization crashes down—this was the plan all along, me as the unwitting pawn, the alibi for murder.
"This was what you planned from the start?" I whisper, my voice cracking. Emotion chokes me up, anger and horror mixing together. My hands tremble as I back up a step, the door feeling way too far behind me.
She nods, that smug twist to her lips making my skin crawl, and leans against the mantle. Her eyes gleam. They look dark and triumphant. "From the very beginning," she says softly.
I shake my head slowly, disbelief mixing with the rage bubbling up, my breath coming short as I process her plan—Frances, that kind, old lady who just wanted me to stay, was her target all along?
But she's not dead, I think. The truth burns in my chest, though I don't dare say it, not yet. Carolyn is dangerous. Now that she has told me her plans, I’m in grave danger. Fear holds my tongue.
"You're... you're sick," I manage, my voice trembling, and my hands clenching at my sides. I can feel my nails digging into my palms as I take another step back, the floorboards groaning under me like a warning.
Her laugh is short, bitter, echoing softly in the quiet space as she pushes herself off the mantle.
“And now that your work's over," she murmurs, her tone shifting to something final and chilling. Her hand dips into her pocket slowly. She pulls out a small black gun and aims it right at me. The barrel stays steady, pointed at my chest with deadly accuracy.
The world narrows to the dark hole of that muzzle as fear floods cold through my veins, and makes my legs feel like lead.
"It's time you were disposed of too," she says, her voice calm, almost regretful, but her eyes are hard, unfeeling, like she's already pulled the trigger in her mind.