38. Cass
CASS
A week can be a very long time.
The Monday after the wedding, Raymond came home from the St. Regis at noon, smelling of someone else’s perfume and his own bourbon-soaked sweat. He kissed my forehead in the kitchen, asked if I’d slept well, ate his soft-boiled egg, and then set off again. For “meetings,” he said.
He didn’t mention Matvei. He neglected to mention the wedding at all, actually. It was as if Tabitha DeMaris and her four-tier buttercream had simply never happened. Like there’d been a glitch in the simulation and Saturday night had vanished from the history books.
Which, of course, scared the hell out of me.
I spend the rest of the week in a panic, but nothing seems amiss. Raymond is more distant than usual, and more absent, but since when is that something I’d complain about?
I try to keep myself busy. Daydreaming of a post-Raymond future is too optimistic for my liking, so I just focus on the next steps.
The plan, as Matvei lays it out in increments over the burner across the week, is brutal in its simplicity.
I’ll slip a sleeping pill into Raymond’s nightcap.
It guarantees he’ll be soundly asleep before midnight.
Once that’s handled, I’ll take a pill of my own and pass out in the guest room.
A tox screen will prove my alibi, if it should come to that.
Meanwhile, with both of us unconscious, Matvei will let himself into the penthouse and do what needs doing.
In the morning, there will be a flight to the Caymans, but neither of its two key passengers will be on it.
The Vainakh people will think their man got cold feet, or that something has gone awry, and they’ll scatter or scramble.
Matvei’s uncle Afon will be there to mop up whatever runs.
Just like that, Cassandra Snyder will die.
Cassandra Madden will be reborn.
And Giana will get the justice she deserves.
I’m not entirely sure how it’ll go after that. Any plan with more than two steps is doomed to fail, or so the saying goes. There will be a media circus, I’m sure, but that’s survivable and the sleeping pill I’ll take myself will ensure I stay safe, legally speaking.
So that’s that. My entire future has crystallized in the form of two little pills, safely hidden inside my tampon box.
On Saturday afternoon, I do my normal things. Pilates, shopping, dry cleaning, errands, this and that. I need to appear like I’m in a normal state of mind. Why would I be worried about a little Caymans vacay? Why would an otherwise unremarkable Saturday night be triggering my anxiety?
If Raymond sees even a hint of a crack in me, there’s no telling what will follow. Better not to give him anything to suspect whatsoever.
By six P.M., I’m in the kitchen in a dress, salting a tenderloin. Raymond likes his steak rare, his wine red, and his wife quiet, and I am happy to oblige on all fronts tonight. Stevie Nicks on the playlist is my only subtle form of rebellion.
My husband comes in at quarter to seven, freshly showered, hair damp at the temples. He pours himself two fingers of Blanton’s into the heavy crystal tumbler and props his hip against the counter to watch me cook.
“You’ve been very quiet this week,” he says.
I don’t look up from the cutting board. “Have I?”
“Mm. I don’t dislike it.”
“Then I’ll keep it up.”
He chuckles, then sips his bourbon as he watches me chop a shallot. Then, to my surprise, he raises his glass to me. “Let’s toast,” he suggests. “To witnessing.”
I glance up from the shallot, knife paused in mid-air. “Witnessing?”
“It’s easy in a marriage to forget to watch your partner, to let the world distract you and blind you from seeing them for who they truly are,” he explains. “Let this be a reminder for both of us: Never stop watching.”
The shallot stings. My eyes water on cue, thank God, because that’s a convenient excuse for whatever’s happening in my face.
“Well?” Raymond prods. “Are we toasting or not?”
He’s still watching me. Witnessing, as he would say. My wineglass is sitting two feet away on the counter, half-full of a Barolo I have been carefully dumping into the sink every few minutes to pretend nothing is amiss. Pregnant? Who? Not me, that’s for sure.
But the baby, I think, will forgive me one tiny little sip .
The baby will absolutely not forgive me if I out us right here, right now, in the final hour.
I pick up the glass and tap the rim against his with a tiny, civilized clink . “To witnessing,” I echo. I bring the wine to my mouth, part my lips, and let the smallest possible amount touch my tongue.
Raymond watches me swallow. Then he grins and saunters away, whistling as he goes.
I plate the food shortly after. Tenderloin medallions, roasted fingerlings, haricots verts. I light candles, he joins me, and we start eating in relatively easy silence for the better part of ten minutes.
He’s on his second bourbon by the time he sets down his knife and burps. “So. Cassandra. I need to talk to you about tomorrow.”
My throat tries to close. I take a sip of seltzer and remind it that it has a job to do. “Okay. Talk away.”
“The car’s coming at eight in the morning. The flight’s at eleven out of Teterboro.” He picks up his glass and swirls the bourbon. “I’d like you to be ready and downstairs by seven-forty.”
“Alright.” Bless my calm, even speaking voice, the most normal thing that’s ever passed my lips. “I’ll start packing after dinner. Should I bring formal dresses, or?—”
“Don’t bother.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Don’t bother packing.” He takes a long pull and sets the glass back down with a clean little click, then swallows and smacks his lips. “We’ll get you everything you need when we arrive. I’m sure there’s a boutique at the resort or something.”
I let my fork settle on my plate. I can feel a thrumming start up at the base of my skull. “All of it?” I ask lightly. “What about?—”
“All of it. Toothbrush, swimsuit, sundresses. Don’t bring a thing.” He waves a hand, as if he’s being generous and spontaneous. “Travel light, for once. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Nice? No, that does not sound nice at all.
It sounds, I think, like a husband telling his wife she won’t need her own clothes because she will not be alive long enough to need them.
“Sure,” I hear myself say from very far away. “Light is nice. That sounds lovely, Raymond. Thank you.”
“That’s a good girl.”
I lift my seltzer instead and smile at him over the rim. He nods in satisfaction, then goes to pour himself a third bourbon from the decanter at his elbow.
Which is perfect timing, really. A third bourbon is exactly what I needed him to pour.
“I’ll get you some water with that,” I say sweetly, rising. “You’ll want to be hydrated for the flight.”
He grunts in response, already having moved on in his head, it seems.
I clear our plates. In the kitchen, I run the tap, fill a tall glass, set it on the counter, and then I take the little pill out from where it’s been living all afternoon—not in my tampon drawer anymore, but in the pocket of my apron, taped to the inside, where my fingers have brushed it over and over again this evening to make sure it’s still there.
I crush it up on the cutting board and sweep the powder into the glass. Then I use the espresso milk frother to stir it all up until, presto change-o, the medicine is invisible to the naked eye. Simply a glass of water again.
The last glass he’ll ever have.
I bring it out to him and set it down. “Water for the gentleman,” I joke.
He eyes me strangely. “How unusually attentive of you.”
“I’m allowed to be attentive to my husband, aren’t I?”
He looks at me for a long time. The candlelight does strange things to his face.
It scoops the shadows out from under his eyes and pools them in the hollows of his cheeks.
In this light, I see him for what he is, which is a man who killed my sister and would kill me, too, without losing a wink of sleep over it.
He picks up the glass. He swirls. He sniffs.
In the interim, I die briefly and come back to life.
Then, at last, he drinks.
I have to retreat back into the kitchen to hide my relief. For the next five minutes, I busy myself with torching the tops of the ramekins of our crème br?lée, watching as the sugar bubbles up into a fine amber gloss.
“Here you are, honey,” I say as I float back out. He doesn’t look any different to me, but these things aren’t immediate, especially not for a man with his bulk.
But then, with each successive bite of dessert, he starts to slow down.
His spoon scrapes a little less neatly. He blinks a little longer than normal.
He sets the spoon down halfway through, reaches for his water glass ,and misses by an inch, knocking it sideways with his elbow instead.
Water spreads across the walnut in a clear, glossy puddle.
“Hm,” he says, with mild surprise, glancing down at his own hand in confusion. “I missed.”
“Let me get a towel.”
“No, leave it. Leave it.” He stands and sways, coughs, lurches. His hand finds the back of his chair to brace himself, and a brief frown carves itself between his eyebrows. “I think— Cassandra, I think I might be coming down with something.”
“You’ve had a long week, Raymond,” I say calmly.
“Have I?” He squints at me. “Yes. I suppose I have.”
“Let me get you to bed.” I stand up to cup my hand under his arm, guiding him along. He sags against me with a vulnerability and docility I’ve never seen in him before. It’s oddly childlike. “Come on. There you go. One foot in front of the other.”
“You’ve been a good girl,” he murmurs into my hair as I walk him through the dining room. “Did I ever tell you that, Cassie?”
Cassie. I hate that so much. I never want to hear it again. “You did. Many times.”
“Good.” His head bobs. “Good.”
I get him to the bedroom, then sit him down on the edge of the mattress and crouch in front of him to untie his shoes. I don’t want to—fuck knows I never want to kneel in front of this son of a bitch again—but I have to, because I need this to look exactly the way it would look on any other night.
I get everything off him, shoes and socks and outer clothes. His watch and cufflinks go onto the bedside table. “Lie back,” I tell him, and then I tuck his legs under the duvet.
I stand over him and gaze down for several long minutes. His mouth is slack. His eyes flutter once, twice, and then close. His chest rises. His chest falls.
When I’m sure he’s finally out, I let my mask drop.
“I hope you dream about her, motherfucker,” I spit down at him. “I hope she’s the last thing you ever see.”
Then I leave the room.
In the kitchen, I clear the dishes into the sink. I rinse Raymond’s bourbon glass and his water glass. I run them under hot water until the inside of the bourbon glass is clean of any residue at all.
I take the other pill out of my apron pocket. Half a milligram—just enough to put me under, but not enough to hurt the baby. Or so Matvei promised.
I’m trusting you, I say to him silently. I know you won’t let me down.
I change into a pajama set, then walk down the hall to the guest room and close the door behind me. Once I’m in there, I throw back the pill and swallow it dry. When it’s down the hatch, I rest one hand on my stomach as I settle back onto the pillows and gaze up at the ceiling.
I spent so many nights like this, looking up at the dark ceiling and wondering when my nightmare would end.
Now, we’re here. Right at the cusp of the end.
Not far away, a man in a long black coat is moving across rooftops and through service entrances, getting closer. I can feel him coming. He’ll be here. He said he would be, and Matvei would never lie to me.
Not about this. Not about anything that matters.
I let my eyes fall shut.
Mat is on his way, I think. Mat is on his way. Mat is…