The Situation Ship (Dangerous Harmonies #3)

Prologue

‘Murder’ is such a harsh word. Is it really murder when my aunt, Martha Roe, took my life first? But this is a confession, not a justification for my actions.

On that fateful night, I waited for my aunt –the Hollywood legend Martha Roe – to complete her nightly routine, comprised of colourful pills washed down with a glass of vodka.

Of course, she liked to pretty up her drinking by using a martini glass with an onion instead of an olive.

She said ‘one’ helped her sleep– one being a bottle, between you and me – and went to bed.

Being a night owl, I started playing my favourite Beethoven piece on the grand piano.

(Martha hated it when I played late. She said it gave her headaches.) I waited for her to appear at the top of the stairs with that pinched expression – a look I share, along with her cosmetically perfected nose and jawline.

I was her mirror image, if forty years younger.

I used to have a little bump on my nose that I got from my dad and a dimple in my chin like my mum. Both were long gone now.

But when Martha looked over the balcony at the top of the stairs to scold her darling niece for playing during her ‘quiet time’, I wasn’t sitting on the stool in front of the Steinbeck.

I’d used the back stairs that was only meant for the maid and kitchen staff to catch her at the top of the stairs.

Thirty minutes after her routine, she was more than a little unsteady, and when she heard me approaching, she tried to strike me for sneaking up on her.

She missed and lost her balance; it could have been her low kitten-heeled slippers on the perfectly cream carpet, or the ‘one’ drink. Who’s to say?

When I saw the terror in her eyes as she started to fall, I realised it was the first time that I’d seen her scared. She reached out for me to help her, but how many times had my pleas for help gone unheard? I repaid the favour. I let her fall.

It felt like she was falling forever, but then I heard the sickening relief of the thud as her body hit the marble floor of the foyer. I walked down the stairs, lingering an extra second or two on each step before I reached her.

As a pool of blood formed at the back of her head like a crown, she took her last breath, and it felt like I took my first.

Not wanting to linger, I dashed for the phone.

I howled, real tears pouring down my cheeks as I pleaded for help from the 999 operator.

I wouldn’t want to disappoint her with a bad performance– not after all the acting classes she’d paid for.

I cradled my aunt’s body to my chest, making sure to get just enough blood on me.

I did the chest compressions as instructed (though the bent angle of her neck told me there was no coming back).

I had to make sure the autopsy showed how desperately I’d tried to save her.

In the hospital, the moment the doctors confirmed she was gone, I sank to my knees and prayed for them not to give up.

My aunt always said I’d never be an actress, but this performance would’ve earned me an Oscar.

The officer at the hospital offered me a ride home, and I accepted, sitting numb in the car, not uttering a single word.

When the investigators were gone, I cleaned up the blood.

I didn’t want to traumatise the maid; my aunt had done that enough while she lived.

I snapped the locks off the food cabinets in the kitchen, finally ending the diet she’d had me on for my latest tour.

Also, I didn’t want those calling to offer their condolences to notice.

The house was clean and quiet, but I still feared that she would come out of her room and scold me for killing her.

I considered burning the house down, but that seemed too dramatic.

Selling it and all her possessions was a much better idea.

I said I wouldn’t try to justify my actions, but you could argue that if she hadn’t tried to strike me, she wouldn’t have lost her balance and taken that fatal tumble. Did she fall? Did I push her? I can’t quite recall. You can make your own deduction.

You might be asking yourself why I am writing this letter.

The problem with fame is that someone will write my story one day.

They’ll talk about the tragic loss of my aunt, how I couldn’t bear to sing after her death, and how I started acting to pay homage to the Queen of Old Hollywood, who so selflessly raised me after my parents tragically lost their lives.

This letter will set the record straight.

Martha Roe was a monster, and since I killed her, she raised one too.

This letter will remain buried in the lockbox of an overpriced bank vault in Switzerland. I’ve left instructions for it to be delivered to a news outlet upon my death. My only comment on the above matter is that I won.

I’m free.

Poppy Roe