by Joy Fielding
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t.” Warren sank down into the chair beside Casey’s bed. “I have enough to worry about at the moment. Wouldn’t you say, Casey? What with old Nick screwing up again.” He began stroking her hair. “I called him earlier. He was full of his usual excuses: I hadn’t warned him anyone else might be here; what was he supposed to do? he’d had no choice but to kill Patsy.” His hand stilled, resting on her forehead. “And now he expects to be paid double. Can you beat that? He screws up, and I end up having to pay for his mistake. What the hell was Patsy doing here anyway? Stupid girl.”
Casey opened her eyes, saw Warren staring back at her. Who is this man? she wondered, watching his image split in two, then double up and circle around her head.
“ ‘You always see what nobody else sees,’ ” she heard Janine read.
“Stop trying to fight it, Casey,” Warren was saying, his voice low and warm as a kitten’s fur. “You’re only making things harder for everybody.” He leaned over, resumed stroking her hair. “This really has to be the last of our little chats, I’m afraid. What was it you said to Janine? That it was time to move on? Well, it seems it’s almost that time again.”
Casey watched two Warrens kiss the backs of two pairs of hands as her eyelids grew increasingly heavy. “ ‘Yet you never see what is quite plain,’” she heard Janine read. Seconds later, her will alone no longer enough to sustain them, she gave in to their weight.
“Thatta girl,” Warren said as her eyes closed.
Casey fought to remain conscious. Stay awake, she told herself. Don’t make it so easy for him. He’ll just wait until Drew passes out, and then … what? Throw her down the stairs and somehow make it look like an accident? Or would he smother her with a pillow, perhaps even strangle her with his own hands, all the while finding a way to place the blame on Drew?
I’m so tired.
He hadn’t realized the extent of Drew’s enmity toward her sister, she could hear him tearfully telling Detective Spinetti, all the while berating himself for his stupidity. Drew had obviously gotten tired of waiting for the inheritance she considered rightfully hers, especially now that Casey was showing real signs of improvement. And she’d been drinking—she was so drunk, in fact, he’d insisted she spend the night. How could he have been so careless?
Drew would be too wasted to remember much of anything. And even were she to turn around and throw the accusations back in Warren’s face, it would be her word—the word of a drunken party girl with both motive and opportunity—against his, a lawyer with an impeccable reputation and an airtight case of reasonable doubt.
Drew didn’t stand a chance against him.
And neither did she.
You have to keep fighting. You can’t let him win.
He’d won already, she realized. He’d won the minute Drew took her first sip of champagne.
Warren suddenly jumped from the chair and walked to the door. “Drew,” he called out, as if she’d spoken her sister’s name out loud. Had she? “What are you doing down there? Drinking the whole bottle yourself?”
“I’m coming,” Drew called back. “Ready or not,” she sang out from the stairway seconds later. “Here I am.”
“What took you so long?”
Drew was chortling as she walked back into the room. “Did you miss me?”
“I missed Mr. Pérignon.”
“Then it’s a good thing I found him. It wasn’t easy either. He was hiding way at the back of the fridge. Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“It looks like Casey finally settled down.”
“Looks that way. Stand back,” Warren said. A loud pop followed, like the pop of a gun.
“What are we toasting now?” Drew asked.
“How about world peace?”
“Always a favorite. To world peace.”
“To world peace.”
“And Madonna,” Drew said.
“Madonna?”
“She’s my idol, the way she keeps reinventing herself.”
“To Madonna,” Warren said, with a laugh.
“And to Angelina Jolie. That woman’s a saint.”
“To Angelina.”
Drew stumbled against the side of Casey’s bed, falling into the chair Warren had formerly occupied. “Whoops. Somebody spilled champagne on Casey’s blanket.”
“Here. Let me pour you some more.”
“To Casey.”
“To Casey,” Warren said. Then, “Drew, what’s that on your nose?”
“My nose?”
What? No. Please, no.
“What exactly were you doing downstairs?” There was a smile in Warren’s voice.
“You know what I was doing,” Drew said defensively. “I was getting the champagne.”
“Champagne produces bubbles, not white powder.”
Casey felt her sister pull back as her husband reached his hand toward Drew’s face. No, Casey thought. No, no, no.
“It’s just baking soda,” Drew said, sniffling loudly. Casey pictured her covering her nose with her fingers.
“Baking soda? You really expect me to believe that?”
“Maybe I was baking a cake.”
“What have you been doing, Drew?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re just getting yourself all worked up over …”
“Nothing?”
“Okay, so it’s a little something. Just to take the edge off. A lot’s happened. And what is it they say? Things go better with …?”
Oh, God, Drew. What have you done?
“How much did you do?”
“Just a couple of lines. It’s no big deal.”
“Drew …”
You played right into his hands.
“Honestly, Warren. It’s no big deal. Come on. We’re supposed to be celebrating. Let’s have another glass of champagne.”
You signed my death warrant.
“I think maybe you’ve had enough.”
“Are you kidding me? This is nothing. Come on. Don’t be a party pooper. Pour me another glass.”
Warren sighed. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“I’m sure. And pour yourself another glass while you’re at it.”
“I’ll make you a deal. We finish this bottle, then we go to our respective rooms and try to get a few hours’ sleep. How does that sound?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Sometime in the next hour, her sister and her husband still noisily toasting her recovery, Casey gave up the fight, gave in to the inevitable, and surrendered to unconsciousness.
THIRTY-THREE
When Casey woke up some time later, she was alone.
What time is it? she wondered groggily, turning her head toward the clock on her nightstand.
2:07, the large red numbers announced.
Two in the morning, she thought, allowing the numbers to sink in and wondering what had woken her up.
And then she heard it—the gentle squeak on the stairs that warned someone was approaching.
Who would it be this time? Casey wondered, stiffening beneath the sheets. Warren, or the man he’d hired to do his dirty work? Was her husband even now asleep in his bed, waiting for Death to pick her up and hurl her down the stairs like so much soiled laundry? Or maybe it was Warren himself, having easily seduced Drew into a drugged and drunken stupor, come to finish the job himself.
Casey strained through the darkness toward her bedroom door, the light of the moon through the window cloaking the room in a gentle mist. A figure appeared in the doorway, filling the frame. He paused for an instant, then crept quickly across the carpet like a large cat. Tears filled Casey’s eyes, causing her vision to blur. Would she have enough strength to scream? she wondered as the man reached the bed, his arms extended. Would it do her any good if she could?
“No!” Casey heard herself cry, her heart thumping wildly, threatening to explode in
her chest, as a large palm quickly covered her mouth. Her eyes opened wide, unable to comprehend what they were seeing.
“Shh,” the man whispered.
Was she dreaming? How was this possible?
“It’s okay,” the man said soothingly, slowly alleviating the pressure on her mouth. “Don’t scream. It’s okay.”
What was he doing here? How had he gotten inside the house?
The man pulled back her covers and lifted her carefully out of bed.
Jeremy.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” he said.
We?
It was only then that Casey became aware of a second figure watching from the doorway.
“Hurry,” Drew whispered, urging him on.
Drew. My God. It’s Drew.
“Hang in there, Casey,” Jeremy said, carrying her into the hall.
“I’ll get Lola,” Drew said, leaving their side as Jeremy headed for the stairs.
And suddenly there was a third figure. He stepped into the hall, blocking their path.
Warren.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, almost casually. He was wearing the same blue-and-white-striped shirt and denim jeans he’d been wearing earlier, and even through the darkness, Casey could plainly make out the gun in his right hand.
Her mother’s gun, she recognized. He’d found it.
“Put my wife down,” Warren directed Jeremy. “Now.”
Slowly, Jeremy lowered Casey to the floor, resting her back against the wall at the top of the stairs. “Easy, man….”
“Shut up,” Warren said. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re taking my sister out of here,” Drew said defiantly.
“You’re kidnapping my wife?”
“We’re getting her away from you.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because it’s what Casey wants.”
“I see. And you know this how?”
“Because I know my sister. And I know you,” Drew continued after a pause.
“And what is it you think you know?”
“I know you’re up to something. I don’t know what it is, but I do know you deliberately tried to get me drunk.”
“I don’t recall twisting your arm.”
“You almost had me fooled, you know. I was starting to doubt my own instincts. I was actually feeling guilty about having given such a sweet guy such a hard time. But then you suggested we celebrate, and I thought, why is he offering me champagne when he knows what will happen if I start drinking? Although what you obviously don’t know is that it takes a whole lot more than a couple of bottles of champagne and some stale baking soda to knock me out. And it really was baking soda, incidentally. I found it at the back of the fridge when I was looking for the champagne.”
“You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”
“Just trying to be as convincing a fuckup as possible.”
“And Jeremy?”
“I phoned him after we went to bed, told him I’d come up with this really unusual idea for a first date.”
“Put the gun down,” Jeremy urged. “We walk out of here. Nobody gets hurt.”
In response, Warren aimed the gun directly at Drew’s head. “I don’t think so.”
“You’re going to shoot us all?” Drew asked.
“If I have to.”
“You’ll never …”
“I’ll never what? Please tell me you weren’t going to say I’ll never get away with it. Because aside from being a trite and overused turn of phrase, I absolutely will get away with it. I mean, clearly you haven’t called the police, because you knew there’d be no way they’d allow you to remove Casey from the house without any evidence of wrongdoing. So there’s no chance of the cavalry riding to your rescue. And just off the top of my head, I can come up with any number of scenarios to offer Detective Spinetti when I call him later. How’s this for one? Jealous cokehead enlists the help of a disgruntled former employee to help murder her sister. The brave and selfless husband, still coping with the tragic accident that left his wife in a coma, confronts the two killers as they try to sneak out of the house and is forced to shoot them dead. What do you think? Think the good detective will buy it? It’s not perfect, I know, but by the time the cops get here, it will be.”
“Oh my God,” Drew muttered, her eyes traveling between Warren and her sister. “Detective Spinetti was right—what happened to Casey was no accident.”
“On the contrary,” Warren corrected. “Your sister’s coma was very much an accident. She was supposed to die.”
“That’s what she’s been trying to tell me.”
“And damn near succeeded. Not very nice keeping things from your husband, Casey,” he said, waving the gun in her direction.
“Come on, man,” Jeremy said. “Put the gun away before you hurt somebody.”
“That’s the general idea, isn’t it?” Warren pointed the gun at Jeremy and squeezed the trigger.
“No!” Casey screamed, Drew’s cries echoing her own as shots rang out and Jeremy collapsed, bleeding, to the floor. Drew immediately ran to his side as Warren calmly pointed the gun at her head and prepared to shoot again.
“Mommy?” a little voice asked from somewhere behind Warren. “What was that noise?”
Warren swung around. In the next second, Casey watched her sister literally leap off the floor and propel herself toward Warren, her hands and legs thrashing out in all directions at once, her feet kicking at his shins, her fingers clawing at his eyes and throat. The gun flew from his hands and spun down the hallway toward Casey, landing several feet from where she sat propped against the wall.
Slowly, her fingers stretched toward it.
You can do this. You can do this.
After several failed attempts, Casey managed to make contact with the cold metal of the gun’s handle, her finger-tips dragging the weapon closer, inch by inch, until it was almost within her grasp.
At the same time, Warren succeeded in pinning Drew’s hands behind her back. Lifting her into the air, he hurled her against the wall, as easily as if she were a tennis ball. Drew crumpled to the floor in a shapeless heap, gasping for breath.
“Mommy!” Lola cried, rushing to her mother’s side.
Warren strode purposefully toward Casey just as her fist closed around the handle of the gun.
“Give me the gun, Casey,” he said, lowering himself down and balancing on the balls of his feet.
Casey lifted the gun from her side, pointing it directly at her husband’s heart. Does he even have one? she wondered.
“You know you don’t have the strength to pull the trigger,” Warren said.
Was he right?
“Tap once for yes, twice for no,” she heard Drew say.
“Even if you had the strength, you couldn’t do it,” Warren said, his voice as soothing and hypnotic as a lullaby. “I’m your husband, Casey. I love you. You know that. And you love me. You know you do. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve put you through. You know that in your heart, don’t you? You know how much I love you. It’s not too late. We can start over. Please, let me make it up to you.”
“Tap once for yes, twice for no,” she heard Drew say again.
“You don’t really want to shoot me, do you, Casey?”
“I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place. You always see what nobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain.”
Casey looked into her husband’s warm brown eyes, seeing the cold-blooded monster behind them very plainly indeed. As he reached for the gun, she tapped her finger forcefully against the trigger.
Once for yes.
THIRTY-FOUR
“ ‘She did not move, and he came towards her with more doubt and timidity in his face than she had ever seen before,’ ” Janine read. “ ‘He was in a state of uncertainty which
made him afraid lest some look or word of his should condemn him to a new distance from her; and Dorothea was afraid of her own emotion. She looked as if there were a spell upon her, keeping her motionless and hindering her from unclasping her hands, while some intense, grave yearning was imprisoned within her eyes.’ Are you okay?” Janine asked, laying the book across her lap and reaching out to take Casey’s hand in hers.
“She’s great,” Gail said from her chair next to the fireplace. “Aren’t you, Casey?”
“She just wants to get the hell out of Middlemarch,” Drew said, leaning over to stoke the fire, several errant sparks shooting from the fireplace toward the dark hardwood floor of her living room. Drew immediately stamped them out with the soles of her black high-heeled Manolo boots. “I can’t believe you still haven’t finished that book.”
“Just twenty-three more pages to go. Come on, you want to find out what happens. Admit it.”
“You mean something happened in the first six hundred pages?” Drew said. “Okay, I admit it. I’m enjoying it. God, does that mean I’m maturing?”
“It happens to the best of us.”
“I’m far from the best.”
“And far from the worst,” Gail said.
“Thanks for noticing.”
“You’ve come a very long way these last four months,” Janine commented.
“So my therapist tells me.”
“Casey says she’s terrific,” Gail said. “That she’s really helping the two of you reconnect.”
The women turned as one toward Casey, smiles filling their faces.
“We’re working things out,” Drew said. “Aren’t we, Casey?”
“How about some tea?” Gail asked.
“Sounds great,” Janine said.
“I’ll make it,” Drew offered.
“No, I’ll do it,” Gail said. “Just tell me where you keep everything.”
“Tea bags are in the pantry, mugs are in the first cupboard to the right of the stovetop, kettle’s on the burner,” Drew said. “Can you believe I’m so domestic?”
“What I can’t believe is how cold the weather’s gotten all of a sudden,” Janine said.
“It always gets cold for Halloween.” Gail pushed herself off her chair and headed for the kitchen. “Those poor kids freeze their butts off every year. Stan says his kids end up wearing their coats over their costumes, so nobody ever knows what they’re supposed to be.”
