Girl Three

by Tracy March

  They sat at opposite ends of Sam’s couch, and Jessie had her feet up on the expensive coffee table. As difficult as it had been, they’d avoided any mention of Sam’s murder and its associated characters until they left the hospital. No telling who might’ve been listening, so they’d talked about other things—like Sophie and Nate. Nina had told her about some of the mushy e-mails Nate sent from Afghanistan. Jessie had shared funny stories about working for Franz.

  She’d been reluctant to spoil the mood with talk of murder and death, even on the way back to Sam’s. She understood why Nina wanted her to move on, to accept that she’d done the best she could for Sam, and to heal.

  “Philippe said there must’ve been a mistake in the lab.” Jessie talked quickly, getting the words out before she lost her nerve.

  Nina’s eyes filled with dread.

  Jessie didn’t blame her. “I’m not doubting you,” she said, even faster. “You weren’t responsible for all the testing. You just reported the results.”

  Nina looked defeated. Jessie admired her patience, but she was about to take advantage of it. “Remember how Sam’s original tox report was revised?”

  Nina nodded once quickly, as if she didn’t want to encourage her.

  “Then it would make sense that someone might’ve changed the serology report, too.”

  Nina frowned. “Yeah, it would. And I don’t know why that didn’t cross my mind at the time. So much of what you’ve gone through could have been avoided.”

  “Are you kidding? Do you think I would’ve been deterred by speculation? It hasn’t stopped me so far.” Jessie smiled. This might be the beginning of letting go. Giving herself credit for trying, even though she’d made mistakes. Even though she’d failed.

  Nina’s eyes glimmered with hope.

  “I’m ready to go home now,” Jessie said. “But I’ll miss you and Sophie.”

  And Michael.

  “We’ll miss you, too.” Nina glanced at her watch. “Speaking of the little one…” She got up and put on her coat and hat. “After six o’clock, the sitter charges a late fee.”

  Jessie stood, her thigh burning when she bent her knee and stretched the skin.

  “One last thing,” Nina said. “I think you should give Michael a chance.”

  Jessie regretted the distance that had grown between them, and she wondered sadly about what might’ve been. She struggled to keep the emotion from her face but knew it showed in her eyes. “No. Not a good idea.”

  Nina stared at her, incredulous. “The guy saved your life. He sat in that chair by your bed all night long.”

  Jessie shook her head.

  “He stopped in while you were taking a nap,” Nina said, “but he didn’t want to wake you. We went and got a cup of coffee, and he filled me in on what’s been going on with you two.”

  Jessie’s heart fluttered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “This morning, we agreed not to talk about a list of people. He was on the list.”

  “You and your protocol,” Jessie joked. “So he’s okay? I vaguely remember seeing him during the night—everything is kind of hazy.”

  “He looked more than okay to me.” She winked. “Even a little rugged with a couple of cuts and bruises on his face.” Nina looked at Jessie pointedly. “I think he genuinely cares about you.”

  “I’ve got too many questions about him.”

  Nina squeezed Jessie’s hand. “Stop running away from your feelings. Ask him your questions. Let him answer. Take it from there.”

  Jessie nodded, tight-lipped. Then she walked Nina to the door, remembering why she hated good-byes.

  Jessie waved at Nina as she drove away, her emotions raw. She closed the wrought-iron gate and noticed the white envelope jutting from Sam’s mailbox.

  Her stomach pitched.

  She glanced out at the street and sidewalks, but saw no one, even though she could feel someone watching. Her hand trembled as she pulled the envelope from the mail slot. This one felt different from the others. There was something solid inside.

  Back in the living room, she opened the envelope. No pictures, no note. Just a DVD without a label. She gazed at Sam’s television and DVD player. Did she really want to watch this?

  No.

  But she slid it into the player anyway, and turned on the television. She was about to press play when the doorbell rang.

  She went to the intercom. “Yes?”

  “It’s Philippe.”

  Jessie hurried to let him in, her thigh stinging with every step. He carried a potted blue orchid and her purse. Even though his hands were full, they shared a long embrace, the tight, sincere kind that comes after people experience a trauma together.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay.” She backed away from him and smoothed her hands down the front of his coat. “But your yacht…”

  He shrugged, his face weary and drawn. “It was just a boat,” he said, sounding devastated. “There’ll be others. The most important thing is that you’re alive.” He took a long look at her. “But not so well? I heard you were burned.”

  Jessie pointed to her thigh. “Just a little,” she lied, not wanting him to know how painful it was. “And we both got to take an icy swim.” She shivered at the memory, hardly believing they’d survived the frigid water.

  “I’m so sorry.” He handed her the orchid with a please-forgive-me look on his face.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” She tipped her head and smiled. “But thank you. It’s beautiful.” She smelled one of the orchids and put the plant on the coffee table.

  He set her purse next to it. “And you probably missed this.”

  Jessie had never been happier to see her purse. “I’m so glad I left it in your car.” After all she’d done to settle Sam’s accounts and get her business in order, the last thing she wanted to face was replacing all the ID and cards in her own wallet. And her gun. “My phone is probably a soggy, melted puddle of plastic.”

  But she’d found a positive in that, too. At least Talmont couldn’t call or text her.

  Philippe frowned. He held out his hands, palms up, one smeared with dirt from the bottom of the orchid pot. “Mind if I wash up?”

  She gestured toward the half bathroom off the foyer. “Right there.” He strode into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Jessie sat down and picked up her purse. Quickly rummaging through, she checked her wallet. Everything appeared in order. Next, she found the zippered leather pouch that held her gun. It felt weighty and solid in her hand as she unzipped it. The revolver gleamed, the scent of gun oil oddly comforting. She checked the chambers. Still loaded.

  Satisfied, she set her purse on the coffee table and knocked the remote to the floor. She heard Philippe turn off the water in the bathroom sink and figured he’d take another moment to dry his hands. Jessie picked up the remote and pressed play.

  A dimly lit scene appeared on the screen, date stamped January 17, 1:04 a.m.

  The night Sam died.

  Jessie recognized the decor in Sam’s bedroom and the black headboard of the bed. Sam lay there naked and glassy eyed, her hair draped across the pillow.

  A dark figure moved into the frame, stood next to the bed, and gazed down at Sam. A tall man, well-proportioned, fit, and also naked. Sam reached out and stroked him. He brushed his hand through his hair—a gesture familiar to Jessie—and faced the camera as he crawled onto the bed.

  Philippe.

  Jessie’s heart faltered, then surged double-time.

  Out in the foyer, the bathroom door opened.

  Jessie scrambled for her gun. She wiped her clammy hand on her pants and clutched the revolver with a death grip.

  She glanced at the television. On the screen, Philippe spread Sam’s legs, climbed between them, leaned forward, and fondled her breasts.

  Jessie couldn’t watch any more. She looked away from the video but kept it running.

  Philippe stepped out of the bathroom.

  “I’m in here.
” Jessie’s voice quivered with rage.

  He walked into the living room, smiling. She held the gun at her side and didn’t know if he could see it. Didn’t care. Her face burned with fury.

  His smile pressed into a tight line. “What—”

  “It was you.” She raised the revolver and aimed. “You raped and murdered Sam.”

  He held up his hands and looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What are you saying? I know you’re in shock, but—”

  “Shut up,” she said. “Look at the television before you say another word.”

  He shifted his gaze to the screen but didn’t move his head.

  His entire demeanor changed as he realized what he was watching. He lowered his hands and his body tensed, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

  “What is that?” His lilting accent went flat.

  “That’s Sam, drugged. And you, forcing yourself on her. Just last night you criticized Ian for murdering her and being too much of a coward to face what he’d done. I guess you were talking about yourself.” Jessie took short, shallow breaths—all that her lungs would allow.

  He brushed his hand through his hair, just as he’d done on the video, his face stricken. His shoulders slumped and he sank onto the couch. “You’re right, I was.”

  His confession disoriented her. She lowered the gun to her side but kept her distance and remained standing, expecting some kind of trick.

  With his elbows propped on his knees, he dragged his hands down his face. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I didn’t know.” He stared at the video, dazed.

  Jessie refused to look.

  “Please turn that off.”

  She picked up the remote and turned off the television. “What didn’t you know?”

  “That she had a heart defect. She’d tried drugs like that before—she told me. So I never thought—”

  “That’s right, you never thought.” Whatever his defense, she didn’t feel sorry for him. “What happened before…that?” She pointed to the television.

  “We were at the fundraiser.” His voice sounded listless and dull. “Talmont was supposed to take her home. But his wife called with an emergency, and he had to leave. Sam was upset and kind of drunk.”

  She let him talk.

  “Elizabeth had already gone, so I gave Sam a lift. I lucked into a parking spot so I came in with her. We had some wine, and I remembered her telling me about the drugs, about the sex games she played with Talmont.” His nostrils flared and his lips curled when he mentioned Talmont. “I asked her if she had any drugs—told her Elizabeth and I wanted to try them. You should’ve seen the look on her face.” He shook his head, his mouth quirked up at one corner. “She brought out four Rohypnol caplets and handed them to me with a knowing smile. I put them in my pocket. When she went into the bathroom, I put three of the caplets in her wine.”

  “Why would you take advantage of her like that?” Jessie asked, disgusted. “You were supposed to be her friend.”

  “Sam was…difficult to resist. She had magnetism and sex appeal and a passion for life. But the real reason,” he said, “was that Sam was the mother of my son.”

  Stunned that he knew this, Jessie thought it better not to reveal that she’d known it, too. “What?”

  “Elizabeth is infertile. She didn’t want me to know that she had ovarian failure.” He shrugged. “She thought I’d think of her as less of a woman. But Ian told me in confidence that she could have a baby using donor eggs and in vitro fertilization. Sam’s eggs, my sperm. That’s how I got my precious Liam. Ian said that Sam agreed to the arrangement—she even signed a release form—as long as it remained confidential. Neither of us ever mentioned it.”

  Wide-eyed, Jessie waded through the mystery. Which story was true, Elizabeth’s or Philippe’s? One thing was certain: Ian had been a master manipulator.

  “So I couldn’t resist making love to Sam. Experiencing how it would’ve felt to father my son. Ian made embryos in a test tube. But Sam and I could make life through energy and joy and passion. I had to touch her…possess her.”

  Was he mentally ill? She tightened her grip on the gun.

  “Afterward, I kissed Sam and left, thankful to her for sealing my bond with my son. I didn’t intend to kill her.” He shook his head, looking pathetic. “I loved her.”

  This had gone from a nightmare to a tragedy. Jessie feared it was about to get worse. She braced herself. “What really happened to Ian?”

  A diabolical spark ignited in his eyes, and they burned with intensity. “I killed him,” he said. “Murdered the son of a bitch.”

  Jessie’s stomach twisted. “To frame him for what you did to Sam?”

  He nodded. “And because he fucked my wife. Over and over and over. And still shook my hand and smiled at me. And had the nerve to call me a friend.”

  Jessie bit her lip. Philippe had known all along. “What about Elizabeth?”

  “I can never forgive her for her lies and infidelity. And for not being the woman I married. But my son loves her. He thinks she’s his mother. And in a way, she is. She betrayed me, but I can’t take her away from him. So I took Ian away from her.”

  His reasoning sent chills through Jessie.

  “What about the arsonist who attacked your yacht?” she asked. “Did you hire him? He’s dead, and I could’ve been killed, too.”

  “That would’ve been unfortunate,” he said unconvincingly, and she knew he wasn’t going to give her an answer.

  “What happens now?”

  He planted his palms on his thighs, looking as if he might stand. “I go home, and you go home. We leave all this behind us. Surely you understand that Sam’s death was an accident. And Ian deserved to die.”

  “Let’s call the police and explain it all to them, just like you explained it to me.”

  He stood. “Don’t patronize me, Dr. Croft. You’re smarter than that.”

  She raised the gun and aimed. God, she didn’t want to shoot him. But she would. “I have to call the police…or you can. But I won’t just forget about this. You and I aren’t the only ones who know what you did to Sam. Someone sent me that DVD.” She backed closer to the window. If he decided to make a move, he couldn’t get behind her. “You’re going to have to face justice for what you’ve done. Things will go better for you if you turn yourself in.”

  He stepped closer.

  Her finger twitched on the trigger.

  “Shoot me, chérie,” he taunted her. “See if you can live with the guilt. Add it to all the guilt you feel over abandoning Sam.”

  Jessie assumed a shooting stance, both hands gripping the revolver. Even so, the gun wavered.

  “Maybe shooting me isn’t your best option,” he said, his tone eerily calm. “Why don’t you turn me over to the authorities because it’s the right thing to do? Claim vengeance for your sister, even though I meant her no harm. But just so everyone gets both sides of the story, I’ll release the videos and pictures of Sam and the senators. They’ll be on the Internet tonight, and in the newspapers tomorrow. Do you really want to do that to your sister?”

  Stunned, Jessie braced herself against the wall. He had contingency plans. He’d thought it all through.

  “It would be ugly,” Philippe said. “For you, your father, Sam, the senators—a whole host of people.”

  “You’d make everyone pay for what you’ve done?”

  “I’d make everyone pay for what they have done,” he said. “Who on that list is innocent?”

  No one.

  “Put the gun down and let me go. Why waste everyone’s time and effort; why force me to reveal Sam’s pictures and videos…when I won’t be convicted, anyway?”

  “The evidence against you is pretty strong,” Jessie said, finally confident. “I’m sure there’s more than one copy of that DVD.”

  “There might be twenty copies,” he said, with a satisfied upturn at the corners of his mouth. “But with diplomatic immunity, I’ll walk.”

  “Canada would w
aive your immunity. You’d be prosecuted for both murders.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” he said.

  “I’m willing to take my chances.” Jessie sidestepped toward the cordless phone, relieved that she hadn’t yet had the landline disconnected. She had to call the police, even if Philippe had set up a mechanism to release the photos and videos of Sam.

  The question Michael had asked her scratched at the back of her mind. Don’t you think a lot of that will come out when we find Sam’s murderer?

  Philippe stood just feet away, watching her with a threatening challenge in his eyes. She steadied the gun in one hand and reached for the phone with the other.

  Philippe lunged for her, catlike, going for the gun.

  She pulled the trigger as he struck her arm and clamped his iron grip around her wrist. The bullet hit him in the thigh. He grimaced, but his grip became stronger, crushing her wrist. Jessie fought him, but she was no match for his strength.

  He snatched the gun, turned it on her, and backed away with a sneer.

  She grabbed the phone and pressed the power button. The dial tone sounded like a flat-line signal.

  “Put down the phone,” he demanded.

  Jessie pressed nine. She had nothing to lose.

  “Stop!” The gun wavered, looking like a toy in his large hand. A dark bloodstain surrounded the entry wound on his thigh, and continued to bloom on his slacks.

  Jessie moved her thumb toward the one key. She jerked her head toward the window, as if something had caught her eye. The moment Philippe followed her lead, she dashed for the foyer. She’d almost made it when she heard a muffled shot and shattering glass.

  She kept moving, bracing herself for a bullet. But then she heard the sickening thud behind her. She turned to see Philippe on the floor, staring at her with empty eyes. She couldn’t believe he’d shot himself instead of her. He lay among glinting shards of glass from the window he’d fallen against and broken, blood pouring from a bullet hole in his head.