But you don’t know any of them, so you tell me to bring the best one.
So, I do. But oh—the wine bottle opener is in my bedroom. I tell you I had a glass in my room last night as I was packing. I go and get it, and as I round the corner and step into my bedroom, the pills come out.
And with one of the heaviest lamps on my nightstand, I quietly smash, smash, smash the pills, then scoop the dust back into the bottle. I do it as quickly as I can. Use all my strength. Can’t have you getting suspicious.
I return to the kitchen. You’re scrolling through your phone. Who are you texting, Faith? Are you telling people where you are just in case something happens to you while you’re with me?
Ah. That’s okay. I’ll take your phone, pretend to be you for a while. Make everyone think you ran off and got tired of your life—afraid of the divorce. Afraid of losing everything.
I pour your wine at the counter with my back to you, making chitchat about how heartbroken I am that you’d think I’d do such a thing to Lola. You are still smug. You don’t believe me. I really, really don’t like you, so I dump more of the pill dust into your drink than necessary, swirl it a bit, then pour another glass and turn around to leave the kitchen.
Why didn’t you watch me? You know how Lola died. She was poisoned. You are an idiot.
As I hand you your cocktail, I immediately sip from my glass so you won’t suggest that we swap, just in case maybe you were on to me.
You sigh, and for a moment I think that surely you must know deep down that I would never commit such a heinous crime—that I would never have killed Lola Maxwell—because you take a long sip.
Perhaps you think I just got something out of it but want to see if I’ll slip up, but if you knew for a fact that it was me—all me—you wouldn’t have come here. You wouldn’t be seated on my sofa, sipping my wine. You’d know I was dangerous . . . but you are just like Lola, I see. You underestimate me.
As you sip your wine and type in the passcode for your phone, I make a mental note of the six digits you plug in all while taking a moment to breathe. And then I tell you the truth—the whole truth—to waste time. To get you to stick around longer as the pills and alcohol settle in your veins.
And your eyes get bigger. You’re frightened, moving away toward the edge of the sofa. Your pupils have dilated. Your breathing seems much, much faster.
Goodness, Faith, you’re sweating now. Are you okay? You look sick. Pale. You’re up now, rushing across my living room to get to your purse on the counter. But before you can make it, you fall, and your body slams right down on my marble floor.
Your eyes are wide open, your mouth ajar. Just like Lola, your face seems a little blue now. Blood drips from your nose. Your lips. I get up and flip you onto your back. Can’t have too much blood that I have to clean up. Shit. I think I may have put a little too much dust in your drink. But that’s what happens when you piss me off.
I’ll miss my flight because of you, but that’s okay. I’ll just schedule another, and all will be well. No one will know about this because you will have disappeared—considered a grown woman who ran away from her life—and I will still be free.
Free, free, free.
Oh, finally.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Forgive me.
I have not wronged you or forgotten you. I’ve just needed time to think. Things like this require a plan, as you know all too well.
I feel awful, guilty, ashamed. The situation you’re in is all my fault. I have read every word you’ve written and taken it all in with tears in my eyes because I know you. I know you like a daughter. I know that deep down, you are good.
I’m going to fix this. My first step? Catch a flight to London. Get on the same plane she does.
The woman who framed you, she’s booked a flight. I’ll follow her. I’ll feed Detective Hughes as much intel as I can until we build a good case. You’ll get that damn appeal even if it kills me, and I know this woman is dangerous, so maybe it will.
Believe it or not, I think some of what you said to Detective Hughes about Georgia got to him, especially when he found out about the contract she had with Lola Maxwell. He dug and dug, and all of it led to dead ends, but something about that contract didn’t sit well with him, only he had no proof. No way around it.