Chapter 38
Vanessa
Vanessa’s hands rested on her lap beneath the table in the cramped, dirty client consultation room in Center Street courthouse.
‘There’s something we just need to let you know,’ said Eddie. ‘Bloch and a colleague are on their way to Patrick’s house in the Hamptons. They’re looking for something which might help us in this case.’
Underneath the table, Vanessa’s fingernails bit into her thighs. She squeezed and felt the sharp points of her manicured nails in her flesh.
What she had learned about lying was that sometimes, to keep the reaction from your eyes, from your face, you have to let that expression come out somewhere else. Lies build pressure. The facade that she wore could crack if someone hammered on it hard enough. That pressure had to be released.
‘What has the Hamptons house got to do with anything?’ Vanessa asked.
‘Maybe nothing, maybe everything,’ said Harry. ‘We just have a duty to tell you we’re carrying out investigations. Just in case you have any objection.’
She tensed her core, used her diaphragm to help keep the tremors from her voice. ‘No, not at all. I’m just amazed Patrick let you into the house,’ she said.
Flynn said nothing. But in that silence he told her everything. He had lied about this to someone, but he wasn’t prepared to lie to Vanessa.
‘Well, he knows we’re there, but I may not have explained the real intent behind the visit to his lawyers.’
‘I thought so. Look, you do whatever you think is best. I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me.’
Harry smiled and said, ‘No need to thank us. Better get ready to go back inside in a few minutes.’
‘I just need to use the bathroom,’ said Vanessa, and it had taken every part of her will not to wince at the urgency of how she had delivered that line.
But from their reaction, they had probably thought it was just the anxiety at having to go back into that courtroom.
Relaxing her hands, she smoothed down her pants, stood and then followed the two men into the hallway, turned and headed toward the ladies’ room, went inside and checked the four stalls.
Empty.
She stood at the sink on the right, furthest from the door, and stared into the smeared, cracked mirror. The woman in the mirror stared back. Somehow, she was different. Her eyes looked harder. Her skin paler. She believed in the soul, and wondered how much of hers was left.
Death changes people. She wondered if she was the woman in the mirror now, or if there was a way back. Only time would tell.
Her hands trembled as she took her phone from her purse and opened the secure messaging app. She typed with her thumbs. The message would be sent securely and would disappear within the hour. But it would be read.
And it would be understood.
Flynn’s people are searching the Hamptons house.
She hit send, dropped the phone back into her purse and looked at her hands. They were clean.
In the mirror, those same hands looked dirty.
She hit the hot water faucet, held her hands beneath the running water then pumped soap into her palms and worked it in between her fingers. Using her nails, she scrubbed her knuckles, her cuticles, every inch, and then rinsed.
The water was too hot, and her skin burned red.
And she held her hands beneath it, biting her lip against the pain.
She had to be clean. She had to wash off the dirt.
Somewhere either in Vanessa, or in the woman in the mirror, she knew her hands would never be clean.
Because she understood one thing now above all else.
You can’t get away with murder on your own.