“I told you, murdering grandmothers,” he said. “And we haven’t been doing it in God’s name at all.”
He moved closer to her, so close she could smell the very expensive aftershave he favored. She had bought it for him herself one Christmas, back when Isabelle had first married him and everything had seemed to be fine. She wanted to vomit.
She pulled together the last remnants of calm. She had lived with dignity, she would die with it. She was tempted to ask Marc why, but she controlled her curiosity. In a few more moments it wouldn’t matter anyway, and she could tell he longed to brag. She wouldn’t ask, she wouldn’t fight, she’d keep her contempt intact. “What are you waiting for?” she demanded.
“In a hurry?” he purred. “I don’t like to be rushed.”
“If I were you I wouldn’t linger too long. People come and go around here.”
“I won’t linger. I have to be gone by six o’clock, and I have only a few minutes left. Long enough to take care of you,” he said gently, “and then go out to the kitchen and find who’s hiding there.”
“There’s no one in the kitchen.”
“Really? I’m afraid I’ll have to check for myself.” He leaned closer, so that his scent filled her nostrils, and she felt as if she were choking. She shut her eyes, trying to still the uncontrollable shudders that were wracking her body. Her ancestors had died on the guillotine, died with grace and dignity in the face of a howling mob. She could die just as well.
She felt the shock of his wet lips on her withered, dry ones. His tongue entered her mouth at the same moment the knife entered her heart, and she sighed. So very easy after all.
He laid her out very carefully on the chintz sofa, folding her hands across the neat wound. How many times had he seen her, sitting on that sofa, staring at him with stony contempt? Her early attempts at graciousness had been even worse, burning an implacable hatred into his soul.
How fitting to lay her out on the chintz, with her blood staining the soft pink upholstery. He’d harbored a small wish that she would fight him, but deep down he’d known better than to hope fo
r that. She knew him too well, knew what he wanted from her and refused to give it. He looked down at her, into the milky, staring blue eyes, and smiled.
Five minutes to six. He didn’t have much time. If she wasn’t found within ten minutes his careful planning would help no one. He couldn’t afford to dawdle.
On silent feet he moved to the kitchen door. Pushing it open, he looked into the empty, brightly lit interior, and whispered, “Nicole.”
There was no sign of her, but he knew she was there. The back door was bolted on this side, she couldn’t have made her escape, and the only other exit would have brought her past him. Granted, he’d been preoccupied for the last few minutes, but even at the point of orgasm he would have noticed his precious little stepdaughter tiptoeing past.
He tried it again, his voice a soft croon. “Nicole,” he cajoled. She wasn’t under the table, he could see that much, or hiding behind the door. With seeming unconcern he walked over to the sink and began washing the blood from the knife.
Still no sound. If she could see, she would have betrayed herself. A child of nine doesn’t view her grandmother’s blood lightly. Perhaps he’d been mistaken.
But no, his hearing was more acute than others’, honed by years of working in silence. He’d heard that tiny, scuffling noise, and seen Harriette’s reaction. He finished cleaning the knife, washing his hands carefully before turning to survey the blank wall of cupboards in front of him.
“I know you’re there, Nicole,” he said gently. “Come out.”
Still nothing. He crossed the room and began opening cabinets, methodically, peering into the neatly arranged interiors. China, casseroles, copper cookware, but no nine-year-old. He slammed the doors shut in fury. There was no need to make it painless with Nicole. She wasn’t part of the covenant—he could do whatever he wanted with her, and he would take great pleasure in doing so. He would cram a lifetime of emotion and sensation into her last few hours on earth. Indeed, it would be a kindness.
She wasn’t in the cupboards. Maybe he was wrong, maybe in his heightened state he’d only imagined the sound. Or maybe not. If she’d been in the kitchen she was gone now, how he wasn’t quite certain.
She usually left quite promptly at five. Chances were she’d done so today, was safely back with Claire, never realizing her beloved grand-mère was breathing her last in the arms of her stepfather.
He needn’t worry. He could make his plans carefully. Tomorrow he would return to the bosom of his makeshift family, and the first chance he got he would take care of Nicole. And he would take his time doing so, savoring every moment.
The kitchen door shut behind him. The sound of footsteps died away, but still Nicole didn’t move. He was clever, he was hideous and mean and clever, and he knew how to make the right moves, the right noises to make it appear one thing when it was the other. He could be right outside the door, waiting for her to move. She wouldn’t.
When she’d seen the knife she’d hidden in the first place she could find. She crawled under the sink, pulling back against the pipes, wrapping herself up in a tight bundle, and waited, silent tears streaming down her face.
There had been no outcry from the front room, not as there was on TV. No screams, nothing but the quiet murmur of voices and then silence. She’d pulled back out of the way when he’d walked in the door, not even breathing as he called her name. All he had to do was squat down and he would have seen her. But he didn’t. His legs were only inches away from her nose as he ran the water in the sink. One of the pipes grew very hot, burning her arm, but she still didn’t make a sound.
When he began opening the cupboards she knew she was lost. She knew he was going to find her, going to drag her out from under the sink and kill her with the knife he still held. She’d shut her eyes, bit down hard on her lip, and waited.
And then he was gone. Nicole’s tears dried on her face, and she felt her heart grow small and hard within her. She waited, unable and unwilling to move, waited for someone to find her, hoping against hope that Claire hadn’t abandoned her after all.
* * *
“Don’t look at me like that.”