Chapter 65 #2
It was ten feet to the bathroom, in the corner of the landing. She entered, closed and used the key to lock the door. She placed her glass of champagne by the sink and stared into the mirror.
Her jaw trembled.
If she didn’t get a hold of herself now, Julian would realize something was wrong. Yes, he would expect her to be nervous, but not shaking with fear. He had a better sense of her true self than her husband ever had.
Another hit from the champagne.
That would help.
She had a plan. One that had been adjusted recently, but everything was in its place. There were things that had to be done, right now.
There was no going back.
She opened her purse, took out her perfume bottle, carefully pulled off the atomizer from the top and tipped enough liquid into her champagne glass that it would appear level to when she had come into the bathroom.
It would be enough. The liquid was powerful.
She replaced the atomizer on the top of the perfume bottle.
She put her perfume back in her purse, then knelt on the floor in front of the toilet.
Reaching around behind the cistern, her right hand searched, feeling along the cold, dusty porcelain until . . .
Her fingers touched the handle of the flathead screwdriver. She pulled, twisted, and yanked it free from the duct tape that had held it in place. Still on the floor, she placed the head of the screwdriver into the shut-off valve for the water supply.
Turned it off.
There was now no water coming to the toilet or the little sink.
She put the screwdriver in her Gucci purse, stood and flushed the toilet.
She listened.
No sound of the cistern filling. The water at the bottom of the bowl sank until it all but disappeared.
Vanessa lifted her dress, peeled the baggy containing the bracelet from her belly, and adjusted the hem back down, smoothing out the fabric.
She chanced one last gaze in the mirror.
This was it.
She unlocked the bathroom door, took the key, put it in her purse and shut it. Then bracelet in one hand, champagne flute in the other, purse over her shoulder, she left the bathroom.
Julian had got up from his seat and stood now a few feet from Patrick. Waiting for her. Patrick’s eyes met hers, and she read the alarm in his expression.
At first, she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Then, she saw it.
Julian held one of his expensive cigars in one hand, and a mother-of-pearl-handled cigar cutter in the other. He clipped the cap off the cigar as he watched her come closer. He put the cutter in his pants pocket, then patted his jacket for a lighter.
‘Do you want this?’ she asked, and tossed him the bracelet.
He caught it with his free hand, then placed the cigar between his teeth while he held the bracelet and baggy in both hands, turning it over, then holding it up to the light. Once he was satisfied, he took the cigar from his lips and held it, unlit in his right hand.
‘Seinfeld’s have some lovely pieces. This one is a little more expensive. I can give you fifty for it,’ said Julian.
‘I thought we had an agreement,’ said Vanessa sternly. She would have liked to work up to this moment, to argue and allow the situation to become increasingly intense, but now Julian had the cigar in his hand she had no time.
‘We had a deal,’ she said.
‘You didn’t really think you were going to get three billion dollars, did you?’ he said, smiling.
Now was the moment.
She flung the glass at him, holding on to the stem, making sure that the liquid hit his stomach and chest and didn’t go anywhere near his skin or eyes. Then let the flute fall to the carpeted floor.
‘You’re a real bitch,’ he said. ‘You’ll do well to walk out of here alive.
Patrick, get this fucker out of here. She gets nothing from us.
’ He pushed her out of his way, then gripped his wet shirt and tuxedo, pinching it so that the soaked fabric stayed off his skin.
He strode into the bathroom and closed the door.
Vanessa took the bathroom key from her purse, ran to the door.
Carefully, silently, she inserted the key.
And locked the door.
She heard him inside, swearing, and then, the sound of the cold-water faucet running. It wouldn’t take long for whatever residual water there was in the system to drain away.
She took the key from the lock.
Held it in her hand.
And stared at her husband, maybe for the first time.
He was trembling. Tears streaked his face.
Vanessa listened to the pipes groan as air was forced through them, the water almost gone.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Patrick.
‘I know. I’m sorry too.’
She walked forward, gave him the key and said, ‘I can’t do it. It has to be you.’
He stared at the black key in her palm.
His shaking hands reached for it.
Vanessa was transported back, months before, to the last night she had spent in the house in Manhattan.
She was headed up the staircase, away from Patrick, away from his questions about the bracelet, when he said to her,
‘There’s something I need to tell you . . .’
She had later told Flynn that Patrick had confessed to her that he had killed Molly. Another lie. But a necessary one, just like all the others.
What Patrick had told her that night was very different. And Vanessa had no doubt that it was the truth.
‘There’s something I need to tell you . .
. I didn’t kill Molly. And you might not believe me, but for the first time in my life I’m going to tell you the truth.
The whole truth. Yes, I was sleeping with her, and I’m sorry, but I swear I didn’t kill her.
I found her journal and I panicked. She wasn’t who she’d said she was.
Her real name was Willow Chase. She was out for revenge.
She got close to me so that she could ruin me, ruin my political career.
Maybe even worse. Maybe kill me. I thought .
. . I thought I loved her. I told her I’d found her journal, that I knew she had been lying to me, and that I now knew who she really was, and I stormed out of that apartment without another word and called my dad.
I told him what had happened, and he said he’d take care of it.
Like he did with Teresa, only, I swear, Teresa was an accident.