We’d get there early just to get the best seat in the house, which was only a few feet away from the biggest slide in the water park. From that special spot, there’d always be a cool mist to shoot on us from all the people who’d go down the big slide while screaming their hearts out. Plus, it was a shady spot, not too much sun, just enough to soak some of it in. My mother would squirt and smear cold sunscreen on my back as the sun beat down on us. She always wore this white sun hat with an orange ribbon, and my father always had one of those old fishing hats on to block the heat. As Mama rubbed sunscreen on my back, Daddy rubbed it on hers.
I looked forward to those summers. Our water-park escapes happened every single summer since I was five until one day it just stopped. I had turned fourteen, and long gone were the days when I was an only child with loving parents.
My parents could no longer take me to the water park. I could no longer suck on fruity freeze pops or feel the coolness of the sunscreen on my back colliding with my mama’s soft hands.
Daddy couldn’t watch me do cannonballs at the deep end of the pool, or teach me how to hold my breath under the water anymore. Those precious memories had ended—stolen away from me as quick as night and day, and it was all because of Lola.
Now, Lola was rubbing sunscreen on my back, talking about her rich people problems, and I was trying my hardest not to say anything I didn’t mean. Memories like that don’t just fade away, Marriott, especially not when you had a good life before.
By no means were my parents rich. For the most part they lived paycheck to paycheck, but they always provided for me, always took care of me. They saved up every summer just to create those memories at the water park, and even though some of the slides would be out of commission and the concession stands always ran out of snacks, it didn’t matter. We had one another, and it was fun.
Sometimes I looked at Lola and wondered how she could live with herself after what she’d done to them. How could she continue smiling? Living a grand ol’ life when she’d destroyed another?
Did she not feel guilt? Shame? Hurt? Did she not realize how much she impacted my life, created all this mental blurriness inside me?
I am the way I am because of what happened to my family, and how my childhood flipped upside down overnight. I had no family in Florida. My parents had no siblings and my grandparents were dead. Whatever kin could be found had no idea I even existed, so they didn’t take me in.
I was left alone.
Lost.
Confused.
Crushed.
I watched Lola dive into the pool and resurface. Her hair became curlier, water dripping from it and running down her chest. I wanted to jump in on top of her and shove her head under the water . . . but I knew better. She had house staff on duty, and not only that, but it would have been too quick and way too easy for her. I spent years suffering because of her. It was her turn to suffer now.
I walked into the pool in my white bikini, allowing the cold water to wrap around me. Lola smiled from the other end of the pool and I forced one back at her. Then she sank under the water and swam my way. As she resurfaced, she laughed in my face, droplets trickling over her lips.
“I needed this,” she breathed out.
“It’s the perfect day for a swim,” I said in agreement.
“Right? So, I told Georgia to make chicken for you tonight, and I’m going with a strawberry walnut salad. Is that okay? If you want a salad, I can tell her.”
“No, chicken is okay. I’ll take it.” I didn’t need to starve myself like she did to feel good about my body. Unlike her, I didn’t mind eating.
After our swim, we took showers in her mansion—me in my new, favorite guest room and her in her bedroom—and then met for dinner on the deck on the second floor.
The sun was setting behind the horizon, the water in the bay sparkling like wet gems. A warm breeze blew by every once in a while, carrying the salty scent of the ocean with it. I cut into my baked chicken with grilled pineapple as I looked over the itinerary for the gala, all the while curious as to where Corey was.
Was he not coming home tonight? Did he have plans? I needed to see him.
As Lola went downstairs to answer a call from Olivia by the pool, I pulled out my phone and checked Instagram. I went to Corey’s profile and saw he had a new story up. A video played of him recording one of his buddies throwing a dart at a dartboard. From the looks of it, he was at a bar. That explained why he wasn’t around.
I picked up the bottle of wine and poured myself another glass. I refused to go home tonight without seeing him, and if I needed to pretend to be too drunk to drive again, I would.
Lola returned to the deck as I finished my last bite of chicken. “Someone was hungry,” she noted, smiling.
“I was. Swimming always leaves me starving.”
“So, the itinerary looks good? Not too overwhelming?” she asked, picking up her raspberry cocktail.
“No, I think it’s fine. There will be food, and unlimited drink cards, and gambling. No one should complain.”
“I agree.” Lola took a sip of her drink, quiet for a moment. “So, I should probably tell you now that some of the donors attending the gala can get very handsy. Especially the men.”
“Really?” I asked, amused.
“Yes. Last year Gary DeAngelo had one too many drinks and kept trying to kiss Olivia on the cheek during dinner. It wasn’t a fun night for her, but it did result in a two-hundred-thousand-dollar donation from him.”
“Really?” I choked on a laugh as Lola smiled. “Well, I’m sure I can handle it. I’ve dealt with my fair share of assholes.”
She was quiet again. “If any of them do seem a little infatuated with you, just try to get them to spend as much money as they can, if you know what I mean.” She winked.
“You mean act like a hooker for the night?” I asked, cocking a brow, smiling only a little.
“No, no.” She giggled, and I forced a laugh. “I just mean while you have them like putty in your hands, you may as well use that to the charity’s advantage.”
I tried to keep an even face, but she had no idea how ignorant and selfish she sounded. She was probably kidding, but I couldn’t ignore the swirl of urgency in her eyes.
Let these rich men take advantage of the simple, pretty girls so she could raise as much money as she could for her stupid charity? That’s what she was saying, and even if she wanted me to believe it was a joke, I knew she meant it.
I glanced at my wine. “I think I’m starting to get a little headache,” I murmured, rubbing my forehead with the tips of my fingers.
“You are? Did the swim wear you out?”
“Just a little.”
“Do you want to go inside? Lie down in one of the guest rooms?”
“Only if you don’t mind. I would drive home, but I’m worried this might shift into migraine territory. My mom used to get them really bad.” And she did. My mother had a condition where her migraines would sometimes morph into seizures if they ever got too bad.
“Your parents are no longer with you, right?” Lola inquired. “I never have gotten around to asking about your parents, have I? Do you remember them?”
I froze in my seat as Georgia appeared and began taking away some of the empty dishes. Damn it. I shouldn’t have mentioned my mom. My eyes swung up to Lola’s, whose were sympathetic but burning with curiosity. I couldn’t back myself out of this one. I’d brought it up, after all.
“They passed away when I was twelve,” I said. “So, yes, I remember them pretty well.” Twelve was what I’d told her purposely, Marriott. I didn’t need her putting my age together with her past.
“They passed away at the same time?” she asked, her head tilting.
“Yes. It was during a . . . really bad fire. I was at a friend’s house when it happened.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Ivy.” Lola reached across the table and rubbed my hand. I had the urge to snatch it away, but I remained perfectly still.
“My parents weren’t the greatest,” she declared with a dry laugh. “My father was a drunk and my mother was . . . well, let’s just say she always had a new partner when I was growing up. Never a dull moment with that woman.”
“What happened to them?”
“My father died from a heart attack and my mother . . . she’s still alive. I just pretend she isn’t because she’s a very entitled woman. She sees or thinks of me and only wants money.”
I nodded. I didn’t know how to respond positively to that, as she was one to talk about entitlement. Lola pulled away and grabbed her wineglass again, sipping slowly, and for a moment I could feel for her. I’m not completely emotionless, you know.
With our parents, we could relate. Though the situations were different, and it was her fault mine were taken away from me, we grew up as teens in a cold world without parents, and that was never easy for anyone.
So, I decided to ask her a question—one that I’d hoped would change my mind about her. It wouldn’t change my motive, but maybe it would change the way I felt about her in the long run.
“I have a question,” I said as a warm gust of wind bristled by. The sun was sinking now, replacing the daylight with inklings of night.
“Yeah?” Lola’s eyes latched on mine.
“Do you have any . . . regrets?”
“Regrets?” she repeated, confused.
I nodded.
“Like . . . with life in general or with my parents?”
“For anything,” I said firmly. I needed to calm down. I couldn’t get too defensive or she’d likely catch on. I relaxed my shoulders a bit.
She seemed surprised by that question and sat back in her seat, swirling her wineglass so the liquid moved. “Well, I do regret not being there when my father died. He’d called me the day he passed. I was sixteen, but I didn’t want to see him, so I stayed at my cousin’s house often so I could avoid his drunken mishaps.”
Okay, and?
“But I chalk that up to something that was meant to happen. He was unhealthy. Ate lots of red meat.” Well, that explained her vegan diet. “Other than that, though . . . no. I don’t have any regrets. Everything I’ve done and have gone through was either supposed to happen or was a lesson in my life. I don’t regret those things.”
Wow.
Wait. Was this a joke?
She had to be kidding, right, Marriott?
All I could do was stare at her. I mean, she couldn’t have been serious. So, she didn’t regret killing two people? She didn’t regret covering it up and lying about it? Paying off the police so her name wouldn’t be put in the system so no one would ever know and confront her lying ass about it? I knew that was what she’d done. She paid them. Why else would Detective Shaw have been so unyielding about her name? He was bought.
I pushed back in my chair a little too abruptly, and Lola’s forehead creased with confusion as she looked up at me. “Are you okay?” she asked, her face etched with concern.
“Yeah—I’m okay. I think I just really need to lie down. My head is throbbing.”
“Of course, Ivy. Don’t let me hold you up. Go ahead.”
I turned and walked away quickly, through the kitchen and up the stairs to the guest room. I shut the door behind me and pressed my back to it. My breath came out heavy and hard, and for a moment it felt like the room was spinning around me.
I needed to get my breathing under control. Get myself under control. What was that thing you used to make me do, Marriott? Count to ten and then think of my favorite song?
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I felt silly doing it, but I had to admit it worked. Then I hummed “Glory” by Dermot Kennedy and slowly opened my eyes.
The song stopped. I took a look around the guest room. I wanted to break every single item in it, from the shiny, dust-free lamps to the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall.
That bitch had no regrets about what she’d done. None. But I knew she did it. I could see it in her eyes. There was no way she felt nothing . . . and I was going to prove it. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but I would make her confess. That lying, stuck-up bitch.
I shut off all the lights in the room and walked to the window, watching Lola pick up her wineglass and the half-full bottle of wine as she stood on the deck. She carried them away from the table with a small smile on her lips.
Did she not realize just how similar she was to her father? He was a drunk, and all she did was drink. No matter how much she tried to escape it, she would always have parts of her parents in her. Things like that were engraved in your DNA. No matter how hard you tried to run from it, a person would always develop the habits of their parents.
Lola’s entitlement came from her slutty mother, her drinking came from her alcoholic father, and yet she thought she was better than them just because she could wear flashy clothes and shoes and drive a Tesla? She was a fucking joke.
I heard her heels click as they came up the stairs, and I cracked the door open, watching as Lola walked down the opposite end of the hallway to get to her bedroom, still with her wine and her glass.
The door snapped shut behind her, and as soon as it did, I hurried out of the room and went across the hall to her office. One of the double doors let off a gentle creak as it opened, and I closed it quietly, going to her desk. This was something I’d wanted to do for a long time.
I sat in the leather chair and opened the first drawer. I had no idea what I was looking for, but there had to be something here that proved she was responsible. A journal, maybe, or some kind of letter.
I know what you’re thinking. Something along the lines of But the incident happened thirteen years ago. Did Lola even live in that mansion then? I don’t know, Marriot. And for all I knew, all evidence was long gone. Buried deep or burned in a fire. But I had to at least try to find something.
I got to the bottom drawer and shuffled around, and then I came across a little blue book. It was a hardback journal, but the edges were peeling, and it was bent at the spine, as if it’d been used many times. Lola’s name was monogrammed on the front of it. I held my breath as I pulled it from the drawer and placed it on top of the desk.
I couldn’t read it in there. There was no telling whether Lola would make a visit to her office to work, or if Georgia or someone else would pass by, so I picked up the journal, tucked it under my arm, and pushed the chair back under the desk.
I left the office, tiptoeing back to the guest room and locking the door behind me. I climbed on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp, opening the journal and flipping through it.
It was her journal all right. Her cursive script couldn’t be mistaken. The first few pages were dated all the way back to February 2005. My parents died in April 2007. She’d had this journal way before they died.
I flipped like a madwoman when I found the dates, skipping over the parts about Lola’s worries, her new marriage, her wonderful sex life.
Then I reached April 12, 2007, a page where Lola mentioned it was a good day and that she couldn’t wait to see a Dr. Gilbert.
And then I flipped to April 13, 2007, the day my parents died . . . only there was no April 13. There were no more journal entries at all after April 12, 2007.
They’d all been ripped out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I ran my fingers over the ripped edges in the book. What had she done with the entries? My guess was that she’d torn them out in a drunken rage, hoping to rid herself of her imperfections. Of proof.
A door slammed in the distance and I looked up. I tucked the journal under my pillow and hurried to get up from the bed. I cracked the door open, but the hallway lights were off now and the hall was empty.
I walked quietly out of the room and went to the railing near the stairs, leaning over it as I heard footsteps below. I saw someone pass by, catching only their feet, and from the polished shoes, I knew exactly who it was.
My heart galloped as I slowly took the stairs down and checked the kitchen, but no one was ther
e. I looked out the window to see if he’d be near the pool, but he wasn’t there either.
Leaving the kitchen, I ventured down the hall and went past the staircase, peering up to make sure Lola wasn’t around.
A door creaked on its hinges on the other side of the hall and I followed the noise. But as soon as I stepped around the corner to find the creaking door, a hand cupped my mouth, while another snaked around me from behind and reeled me back.
I started to scream, but then I smelled his cologne, Bleu de Chanel, and instantly relaxed. I knew it was his. I saw it on the sink of their master bathroom. I felt his solid body against my back, his breath running down the curve of my neck.
My back hit a wall and the hand around me was gone, but the front side of his body pressed against me, pinning me there.
It was dark inside the room, minus one floor-to-ceiling window that allowed the moon to shine inside, creating a cool, white glow. I focused on the dark silhouette in front of me, locking what I could make out of his eyes.
“Why the hell are you following me?” Corey asked gruffly.
“I’m not,” I said.
“You were waiting for me to get home,” he said, and he wasn’t wrong. I’d been waiting for him all day.
“So what?”
“I’m married, Ivy.” He sounded exasperated. But I wasn’t the one who’d brought someone into a dark room on the opposite side of the house.
“And yet you’re sneaking around with me right now.”
“This isn’t sneaking around. I need to talk to you. I haven’t seen you in weeks. It’s like you’re trying to avoid me now after what happened by the pool that night.”
I lifted my chin defiantly. “Nothing happened.”
“I wasn’t that drunk and neither were you. You remember what happened.”
“Yeah, well, I regret it. Lola is my friend. I shouldn’t have done it. I was stupid and drunk and she’s not worth losing for that mistake.”
Corey pushed in, and I felt something hard dig into my lower belly. “Mistake?” he mumbled on my mouth. “What happened to doing whatever I want? Giving me whatever I want?”
The Perfect Ruin Page 16
