As she dried off, she tried to come to grips with the fact that she had to leave him. She’d already known that, on some level, when he’d texted her from the police station about a half hour ago. He’d asked if everything was okay. And she hadn’t bothered to tell him anything about the woman next door or his daughter running away. She’d just answered with an apathetic “fine” and “hurry home,” or something along those lines. She didn’t care anymore. If she did, she might have called him back and screamed at him or cried.
Sheila heard her cell phone ringing in the bedroom. Throwing on her bathrobe, she wondered if it was Dylan, or maybe his daughter.
Sheila opened the bathroom door and froze.
Steve sat on the bed. A woman, wearing Sheila’s missing purple coat, was beside him. Gazing at Sheila, she held a gun to Steve’s head. She flicked his earlobe with the barrel.
Wincing, Steve tapped his foot, the way he always did when he got nervous. He had tears in his eyes.
All Sheila could do was shake her head. “Please . . .” she whispered. She couldn’t say anything else. She could barely breathe.
“Fetch the Ambien out of the medicine chest for me, Sheila,” the woman said quietly.
On the nightstand, Sheila’s phone stopped ringing.
She remained paralyzed in the bathroom doorway. Behind her, steam wafted into the bedroom. She didn’t know the woman. But with the coat and the hair, it seemed the stranger was trying to look like her.
“Top shelf, Sheila,” the woman said. “Get the Ambien.”
Sheila realized Eden must have told her where it was. She wondered if maybe Eden’s surrogate mother was alive after all. “Cassandra?”
“Get the goddamn Ambien!” she barked. She jabbed Steve with the gun. “Now!”
Steve let out a startled cry.
Sheila retreated into bathroom. Her hand shook so much that a couple of bottles fell from the top shelf and clanked into the sink as she grabbed the prescription bottle.
“A glass of water, too,” Cassandra called from the bedroom.
Sheila filled a glass with cold water and then hurried back to the doorway. In the bedroom, both Cassandra and Steve were on their feet. Sheila noticed the woman was wearing surgical gloves. She still had the gun pressed against Steve’s temple. “Get in there with your mother,” she said to him. “I want you to take three of those pills.”
“No,” Sheila said. She quickly drew her hands in toward her stomach, spilling some water down the front of her robe. The bottle of pills rattled in her unsteady hand. “What for? Why are you making him take sleeping pills?”
“Three won’t kill him,” Cassandra said. “It’ll just put him in a deep, deep sleep. Or would you rather have him awake to see what’s going to happen to you?”
Sheila backed up to make room for them in the bathroom. She handed the water glass to Steve. Then she struggled with the bottle of Ambien. She finally got it open and shook out three pills.
On the nightstand, her phone rang again.
“Let it ring,” Cassandra said. “In fact, bring the phone to me.”
Biting her lip, Sheila handed Steve the three pills, then hurried to the nightstand. She set down the prescription bottle and retrieved the phone. She kept thinking that, so far, none of the kids had been hurt. All of Eden’s and Cassandra’s malignant labors had targeted her, not the kids. There was a chance she was still their sole target, and Steve might survive this.
At the bathroom doorway, Sheila handed the woman the phone, still ringing.
With a little smirk, Cassandra slipped it into her coat pocket. “That’s probably your husband, saying it’ll be another hour or so before he comes home. Right now, he’s got something—someone—more important to tend to.”
The phone stopped ringing.
Steve stood trembling in the bright light of the bathroom. He held the pills in one hand and the glass of water in the other. For a moment, he furtively looked at Cassandra as if he might have a chance to catch her off-guard. Sheila almost hoped he’d make a move now. He could smash that glass into her face—or into her neck.
But Cassandra turned toward him and tickled his ear with the gun barrel again. “Swallow the pills, Steve,” she whispered.
From just across the threshold in the bedroom, Sheila watched and winced.
Steve locked eyes with her, and she nodded. He swallowed the three pills with a couple of loud gulps of water.
“Look at me,” Cassandra told him, pulling the gun away. When Steve turned toward her, she stuck the barrel under his chin. “Open up.”
Steve opened his mouth. She quickly glanced inside to make sure the pills were gone. “All right, hand the glass to your mother.”
He did what he was told. Sheila looked down at the glass, still about half full.
Cassandra poked Steve’s shoulder with the gun. “Let’s get you to your bedroom and have you lie down,” she said, almost sounding benign. “Those pills work fast for beginners. C’mon, Sheila, you lead the way.”
In her darkened bedroom, Sheila stopped to glance at the closed curtains.
“What—are you wishing the curtains were open so Leah could see us?” Cassandra asked, practically reading her mind. “If she was watching right now, do you think she’d call the police? She wouldn’t lift a finger to help you. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Leah is dead.”
“The gunshot,” Steve murmured.
“That’s right, Steve. Now, let’s get you ready for a nice, long nap.” She glanced at Sheila, then over at the nightstand. “Grab those pills and hold on to that glass of water. We’re not done with them yet.”
Sheila hesitated before hurrying over to the nightstand and snatching up the prescription bottle. She slipped it into the pocket of her robe.
She led the way as the three of them moved down the hall, past the stairs to Steve’s room. Cassandra was behind him with the gun at the back of his neck. As she stepped into her son’s room, Sheila reached for the light switch beside his door.
“Leave it off,” Cassandra said.
Sheila stepped aside and watched as Steve and Cassandra came through the doorway. Steve was teetering. “My legs feel funny,” he muttered. “Is this happening already?” His speech was slurred.
Sheila started to reach out to him.
“Leave him be,” Cassandra warned.
Sheila helplessly watched her son weave toward the bed. She remembered the first time she’d taken an Ambien. She’d felt it in her legs first, too. That had been only one pill. She couldn’t imagine what three pills felt like.
Steve looked dazed as he sank down on the edge of the bed. He didn’t seem aware that anyone else was in the room. He went into a coughing fit. He covered his mouth. Sheila thought he was choking. She started to offer him the water. “Here, honey—”
“Stay where you are,” Cassandra said, the gun still trained on Steve.
Sheila backed away. After a few moments, Steve stopped coughing. He shook his head over and over, as if struggling to stay awake. “Mom . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry . . .” he murmured, his eyes closed.
“Go ahead, lie down, Steve,” Cassandra whispered.
“Just . . . for . . . a second.” He fell back onto the mattress and curled up in a fetal position. “Mom . . . don’t let her . . .” But his voice faded, and then he sighed.
“Let’s just watch him for a minute or two,” Cassandra whispered.
Bewildered, Sheila glanced over at her. Cassandra had a smile on her face.
“They look so sweet when they’re sleeping. It didn’t matter how much of a little shit Eden could be, she always looked like an angel when she was asleep.”
She turned the gun on Sheila, and the smile was gone from her face. “Where are the pills?”
With a nervous sigh, Sheila pulled them out of the pocket of her bathrobe.
“Your turn,” Cassandra said. “Just one pill for you.”
“Why? What for?”
“Something to take the edge
off,” Cassandra said. “If you’re drowsy, you won’t be able to resist much.”
“What are you going to make me do?”
“You won’t have to do anything, Sheila. I’ll do all the work—all the staging.”
“Staging?”
“I want it to look like you were a kind, thoughtful mother, and you drugged your son before putting a bullet through that little angel’s head.”
Horrified, Sheila stared at her.
“Then you’ll shoot yourself in the head, too, Sheila,” she whispered.
“Why are you doing this?” Sheila asked, tears in her eyes.
“It’s nothing personal. You’re merely in the way—just like Antonia was. Now, c’mon, take the pill.”
Sheila suddenly hurled the glass at her. Water doused the bed. The glass completely missed Cassandra and smashed against Steve’s desk. Steve barely stirred. Shards of glass covered the floor.
Glaring at her, Cassandra aimed the gun at Steve’s head. “All right, fine,” she breathed. “We’ll do it without the pill. It was just a whim. I wanted it to look like you had to drug yourself to pull off this murder-suicide thing. But the truth is you wouldn’t need a pill to take the edge off, would you, Sheila? You’ve already had some practice in killing. After all, didn’t you murder your own sister?”
Sheila automatically glanced over at Steve, still not moving. It was like a kick in the stomach to hear her refer to Molly. “I—I didn’t kill my sister,” she whispered.
“I hired a private detective to dig up everything he could on Molly,” Cassandra said. “Your sister might have fooled some of her school friends about who she was seeing, but she wasn’t very skilled at covering her tracks. When did you discover Dylan was screwing her? Was it the night she died? The newspapers said you two argued on the roof about caring for your mother. Your mother’s nurses said that was an ongoing problem—not exactly a strong motive for killing your own sister. I’m guessing that’s one reason why the police never went after you. But you and I know what the argument was about. After tonight, people will reexamine what happened in Portland seventeen or eighteen years ago. Some will say you’ve killed before for the same reason you killed tonight: an unfaithful husband. Others will just say that suicide ran in the Driscoll family.”
“How much was Eden in on all this?” Sheila asked.
“She’s always been good at following orders and not asking questions. She suspects certain things, but I’ve kept her in the dark about a lot of it. She tries to act tough, but she lacks the killer instincts you and I have, Sheila.” She raised the gun. “Now, c’mon, I want them to find you in the bedroom. Let’s move.”
Sheila took a last look at Steve on the bed and reached to touch his face.
“I said move it,” Cassandra growled.
Tears in her eyes, Sheila headed to the hallway. She desperately tried to think of a way out of this. Maybe she could talk her into letting Steve live. She glanced over her shoulder at the woman. “Listen,” she said, “If you really—”
“No, you listen to something,” Cassandra interrupted. With a forceful shove, she pushed Sheila across the threshold into the master bedroom. “In all his time married to you, Dylan hasn’t changed one bit. You just weren’t woman enough for him, Sheila. You failed. Do you know how easy it was for me to hook him? I got that dimwit Brodie to nearly run him down in his car at a crosswalk one afternoon, and I was right there to save Dylan’s life. And he needed saving—from you. Dylan and I talked for only few minutes. But three weeks later, when I arranged our next ‘accidental meeting,’ this time at the gym, he still remembered me. Dylan asked me out right there. He wanted me. And it wasn’t just sex, Sheila. He cared about me. I told him some bullshit story about a son I had who died, and Dylan lapped it up. I knew I had him that night. You want to hear something funny? We haven’t even fucked yet, and he’s already mine. He should have been mine seventeen years ago. Toni had no right . . .”
“You killed her,” Sheila said.
Cassandra laughed and nodded. “You’re not as stupid as you look. But then, I guess that’s not fair. You’re actually very pretty, Sheila. I guess in my mind, I had to make you out to be a frump, unworthy of Dylan’s love. But you’re not so bad. Neither was Toni. But you’re just like her in the sense that you’re in my way—you and the boy sleeping down the hall. Once the two of you are gone, I’ll be on my way to becoming Mrs. Dylan O’Rourke. Dylan and I will move away with our three children. He’ll want to move—too many bad memories here. Don’t worry. I’ll be a good stepmother to Hannah and Gabe. And if it turns out your children don’t like me, I can always arrange for an accident . . .”
Sheila shook her head. “Your grand scheme isn’t going to work, Cassandra. Dylan’s not going to fall for—”
“Dylan’s already fallen,” Cassandra interrupted, “He’s in love with me! You should have heard him just a couple of nights ago, explaining to me how much I matter to him, how you’re no longer any fun. Do you know where he is right now, Sheila? I can tell you one thing. He’s not coming to your rescue.”
She reached into the pocket of Sheila’s purple coat, pulled out the phone, and tossed it to her. Startled, Sheila almost dropped it. She backed up until she bumped into the foot of the bed.
“Play back that last message you missed,” Cassandra said. “I know who it is—and what he’s going to say. It’s your husband. Dylan’s going to be late tonight because he’s supposed to meet me. He doesn’t care about you, Sheila. You poor, pathetic thing. I’m the one he really loves. He’s waiting for me right now. Go ahead and turn it up so I can hear, too.”
Her hands still shaking, Sheila clicked on the Messages icon and turned up the volume. Cassandra was right. It was Dylan’s voice:
“Honey, it’s me. I’m on my way home.” It sounded like he was crying. “I’m so worried about you and the kids. Steve called a little while ago, something about a gunshot. And now, neither of you is picking up . . .”
Sheila saw the stunned, horrified look in Cassandra’s eyes. Then her expression twisted in anger as the message continued.
“Please, call me back as soon as you can. I’m in the car, speeding home. I should be there in ten minutes. I love you.”
“That bastard!” Cassandra slapped the phone out of Sheila’s hand. She had tears in her eyes and she shook violently. She looked like a madwoman. “This isn’t right! He’s supposed to be in love with me! Goddamn it, he can’t be coming here . . . he can’t . . .” She kept shaking her head over and over. “This can’t be happening! That motherfucker hasn’t even bothered to call me to say he’ll be late . . . or . . . or . . .”
Grimacing, she let out a furious scream. She raised the gun over her head.
Before Sheila realized what was happening, the gun butt came down and bashed her across the temple.
With a startled cry, Sheila crumpled to the floor. The pain was excruciating, but she was still half conscious. Blood trickled down her cheek from just above her ear. She couldn’t lift her head from the carpet.
Sheila opened her eyes. Everything was a blur.
But she could hear the woman stomping down the stairs—and the sound of a car in the distance speeding up the street.
*
That son of a bitch had said he was in love with her.
But when push came to shove, the wife and kiddies always came first.
She’d loved Dylan for seventeen years. She’d raised his bastard daughter. She’d sacrificed for him and killed for him.
One distress call from his kid, and he forgot all about “Brooke” and all the feelings he claimed to have for her. If he truly loved Brooke—if he truly loved her—he wouldn’t be rushing home to his wife and child right now.
At the very least, he could have called her and asked her to wait for him. She’d made it very clear that Brooke desperately needed him. She’d even hinted that Brooke might be in danger. But he’d just blown her off.
How could he?
Cassandra marched out of the house with Sheila’s purple coat flapping open and what looked like Sheila’s hair tousled by the wind and rain. She clutched the gun in her gloved hand.
She heard the squeal of tires as Dylan’s car turned the corner at the end of the block.
He just couldn’t wait to get to the wife and kids.
Enraged, Cassandra bolted down the walkway toward the wet, shiny street. Past the tears in her eyes, she saw the BMW speeding toward her. She thought she saw Dylan behind the wheel. But then the headlights blinded her for a moment.
“Son of a bitch!” Cassandra screamed.
She raised the gun and fired four times. The shots rang out over the sound of screeching brakes.
Dylan’s BMW swerved, jumping over the curb and smashing into an elm tree. There was a deafening din of glass shattering and metal twisting. The car horn blared. The tree rained branches and leaves onto the mangled, smoking wreck.
Dazed, breathless, Cassandra stared at her handiwork. She couldn’t see past the smashed windshield. But she noticed blood on the splintered glass.
All she could think was, Serves him right.
Cassandra realized the sound of the crash and the incessantly blaring horn would get the attention of everyone on the block. But if anybody saw her, they’d glimpse a woman looking like Sheila, in Sheila’s coat. Later, they’d think they saw Mrs. O’Rourke—just moments before she ducked into the house to kill her son and herself.
But they wouldn’t see her slipping out the back door and cutting through the side alley before the police arrived.
Cassandra couldn’t make out anything inside Dylan’s demolished BMW. She couldn’t even see if the airbag had deployed. But nothing seemed to be moving in there. Smoke continued to spew from under the smashed hood. Beneath the chassis, a puddle of greenish fluid bloomed on the wet pavement.
For a moment, she was overwhelmed with regret. Seventeen years of loving a man, of feeding her obsession for him, and now he was completely lost to her. But she refused to dwell on that. She had her own survival to think about.
The Betrayed Wife Page 38
