by J. D. Mason
“You understand how hearing this makes me feel?” Lucy asked solemnly. “He told me that he’d never loved any woman the way he loved me. I was the love of his life, Marlowe. To find out that he was saying things like that to another woman not long after he’d married me is mind-boggling.”
It’s flattering to a woman when a man professes his love to her, but desperate and anxious love, which was what struck Marlowe about Eddie, was the kind that should’ve sent her running away screaming in the opposite direction. Instead, it had pulled her in, tethered her to him until she believed she couldn’t live without him, only to regret saying the words I do almost as soon as she had. She’d made the biggest mistake of her life, which was saying a lot, because Marlowe had done some fucked-up shit. Nothing as bad as marrying him, though. Nothing so bad that it could cost her her life, which was on the line because of the mistake she’d made in marrying Eddie. And it shouldn’t have been this way. The punishment didn’t fit the crime.
“Roman told us about the account numbers, Lucy,” Marlowe abruptly brought up.
Lucy stared wide-eyed back at her. She had to know that that’s why Marlowe wanted to talk to her.
“We—I mean, Plato Wells, a man who’s been…” Lucy didn’t know anything about Plato. It didn’t matter. “He found one of those tiny, portable drives in my house. It wasn’t mine. I’d never seen it before,” she explained. “But there were numbers on it. Roman and Plato seem to think that they’re PINs that go to those account numbers that you have.”
Lucy nodded. “Roman told me.”
“Then you have some idea of where I’m going with this. Right?” Marlowe cautiously asked. When Lucy didn’t respond quickly enough, Marlowe decided to make it clear for her. “That information needs to be turned over to the authorities. As soon as they realize what we have, they’ll know that Eddie is the criminal here and not me. They’ll see that he was embezzling or laundering or whatever all those stocks, and they’ll turn the focus of this murder investigation from me and start looking for him, Lucy. Hopefully, they’ll find him, and they’ll arrest him and get him off the streets, find out that he killed that man, and put him under the damn jail.” Marlowe passionately laid out a very reasonable scenario to Lucy so that even she couldn’t deny that it made sense. “And we can feel safe again, get on with our lives, and erase him from them like he was never part of either one of us. This can be over.”
Marlowe half expected the woman to leap from her seat, clap her hands, and shout a few hallelujahs or something, but Lucy just sat there.
“There is one more option, Marlowe,” she eventually said.
Marlowe immediately tensed up and shook her head. “There are no other options. We need to go to the police station and turn over this evidence. That’s our only option, which doesn’t make it an option at all. Does it?”
“We could keep it,” Lucy said without hesitation. “We could just take it, split it, and go. Twelve million dollars, Marlowe,” Lucy whispered, glancing over at Belle. “That’s how much money you could walk away with, and you could go anywhere, do anything, and be anybody. You’re not under arrest, Marlowe. Legally, they can’t make you stay here. We could get money that technically doesn’t exist and really make over our lives, not just get on with them or pick up where we left off. We can re-create ourselves.”
“We?” Marlowe asked, still stunned by what this woman was saying to her.
“Me, you, Roman, and your friend.”
Marlowe felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach. This woman couldn’t be serious about this. Not when Marlowe’s life was on the line here. Not when this one thing could set her free from all this bullshit.
“It’s not you they’re thinking killed a man, Lucy,” Marlowe reminded her. “It’s not you they’re trying to put in prison.”
“I know, Marlowe, but they haven’t arrested you. You still have time. Everything they have is circumstantial in a big way. It’s so fucking circumstantial that they can’t touch you.”
“Not yet. But they’re working on it,” she said bitterly.
“And by the time they figure it out, you could be gone.”
“For how long? How long before they decide to press charges and then put me on the FBI’s most-wanted list, Lucy?”
“Change your name,” Lucy said matter-of-factly. “Change your identity.”
Was this fool serious? “This isn’t some crime show, girl. This is real life, and people don’t do that shit and get away with it.”
“They do it all the time, Marlowe,” she argued. “You’ll have twelve million dollars to reinvent yourself. Nobody ever has to know who you are.”
Lucy wasn’t just offering a suggestion. Marlowe could see in this woman’s eyes that she’d already made up her mind that this was what she wanted to do.
“We are going to the police,” Marlowe said, struggling to remain calm and not jump across this table and maul this woman. “And we are turning over this evidence to them. I plan on going there this afternoon, and you’re going with me.”
“I’m trying to help you, Marlowe,” Lucy shot back. “I’m trying to help all of us. Ed wants this money, too. And if he gets it, what do you think he’s going to do? He’s going to take it and vanish and nobody will ever see or hear from him again, and he’ll go on living his fucking life with no regard for what he’s done to ours.”
Was that really all these people cared about? Money? Lucy could dream about getting her hands on it all damn day, but the truth was, she couldn’t touch it without those PINs that Plato was carrying around in his pocket, and he wasn’t giving anybody a gotdamn thing.
“You’ve got account numbers,” Marlowe said. “I have the key to opening those accounts, and I’ll be damned if I give you my key.” Marlowe picked up her purse, preparing to leave. “Are you coming with me this afternoon or not?”
Lucy folded her arms and stared defiantly back at her. “You’re on your own.”
And there it was. Deep down, Marlowe had known that this woman would let her down. All the enthusiasm she’d clung to so desperately since finding out about all these numbers and accounts proving that Eddie was guiltier than she ever could’ve been was gone.
Marlowe tentatively stood up, clutching her purse close to her chest. “I could give the police what I have,” she said softly. But the truth was, she didn’t have anything. Plato had it.
Lucy’s smug expression taunted her. “And what do you have? A bunch of random numbers that you say belonged to Ed. Think they’ll believe you?”
It took every ounce of restraint in Marlowe not to swing her purse against that bitch’s head. But Marlowe had one last card to play. “Whether they do or not, without me, you can’t get your hands on that money, and Eddie’s still out there, Lucy.”
Color washed from Lucy’s face.
“Yeah,” Marlowe said, walking away. “We in this together, like it or not. You need me as much as I need you. Do the right thing, Lucy, and go with me to the police.” Marlowe walked away, leaving Lucy alone to think on the only option that made any sense for either one of them.
To the River
“EXCUSE ME, SIR,” an officer said to Plato as he was leaving the coffee shop and heading toward his car. “Mind if we speak to you?”
He stopped and stared back hard at the man. “About?”
“Would you mind accompanying me to the station, sir?”
“Are you arresting me, Officer?” he challenged.
“No, sir. We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
All of a sudden, Officer Whoeverthefuckhewas pulled back his narrow shoulders, stuck out his bird chest, and looped his thumb in his belt, positioning his hand extremely close to the weapon in the holster on his hip, sending a clear message that if Plato flinched or coughed or blinked too damn hard, this mother fucker would suddenly be “afraid for his life” and would likely draw that weapon and start shooting. Or at least he’d try.
Plato smiled. “Should I follow you?�
� he asked politely.
The officer nervously nodded. “That’d be fine,” he said, not quite certain, but it was also clear that the dude wasn’t so sure that he wanted Plato riding in the same car with him either, especially seeing as how he wasn’t under arrest, the officer couldn’t cuff him.
“Lead the way, Officer,” he said cordially, walking over to his vehicle.
* * *
He’d given his name when they arrived at the station. Plato found this whole situation laughable and had pretty much surmised why they’d asked him to come in even before he’d turned off the engine of his car in the station parking lot.
“Mr. Wells,” the short and chubby police chief said, coming into the interrogation room and sitting across from Plato. Quentin Parker. Plato knew his name before he’d even come into the room. “Thank you for coming in to see me,” he said, clasping his hands together and resting them on the table in front of him. Next to him was a yellow legal pad and a pen.
“Mind telling me why I’m here?” Plato coolly questioned.
“Certainly,” he nodded. “Tell me, what’s your relationship with Mrs. Marlowe Price?”
He’d said the magic words. Marlowe and Price.
“Acquaintances.”
Parker waited for him to elaborate. Plato didn’t.
“We are investigating a murder,” he explained. He stopped and stared at Plato, probably looking for reaction.
Plato gave him none.
“So, you’re a professor in Illinois?” Parker probed.
“I am.”
“What brings you to Blink, Texas?”
“School’s out.”
Again, Parker waited. And again, Plato didn’t see any need to feed the beast.
“Do you know Ed Price?”
He shook his head. “Never met the man.”
“You do know that Marlowe Price is a person of interest in his possible death?”
“Yes.”
Plato could see the wheels turning in Parker’s eyes as he decided that he didn’t care much for Plato.
His expression hardened. “Can you tell me how you came to know Mrs. Price?” he asked point-blank. “How and where did the two of you meet?”
“I introduced myself to her in her front yard.”
Parker studied him. “That’s it? You just walked up to Mrs. Price, a perfect stranger, and introduced yourself?”
Plato grinned. “She is perfect, and yes.”
“Were you driving by, or had you gone to her house purposefully to meet her?”
Plato shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Parker challenged Plato’s gaze. “It could.”
Plate leaned back and sighed. “I was just passing through.”
“How long have you been in town, Mr. Wells?”
“Few weeks.”
“And before that? You were…”
“On the road.”
“Because school’s out?” he asked sarcastically.
“Precisely.”
“So you had nothing to do with Ed Price’s murder,” he said point-blank.
Plato pretended to think about it. “When was he killed?” he countered.
“Back in May. We believe between the tenth and fifteenth.”
“Ah,” Plato said as if he’d just been struck by a revelation. “Finals week.” He shook his head. “Nope. Couldn’t have been me. I was doling out tests to a bunch of mostly freshmen that week.”
It was the absolute truth.
Parker leaned back. “I’m going to have to ask you not to leave town, Mr. Wells.”
“Should I call my lawyer?” Plato asked. He didn’t have a damn lawyer, but he liked how threatening it sounded.
Parker’s face flushed red. “No need. Not yet.”
“Then why do I need to stay in town?”
“I might need to ask you some more questions.”
“About the dead man or Marlowe?”
“Both.”
Quentin Parker was under the gun to make an arrest. Marlowe dangled in front of his hungry eyes like a helpless fish on a hook, and dammit if he wasn’t looking for a way to get her off that hook and into a frying pan. Honestly, his heart sank for her. Was that sympathy snaking up his back? This dude was probably married to the sister of the prosecuting attorney, and over fried chicken and biscuits on a Sunday afternoon, they’d put their little heads together trying to figure out a way to pin this on her.
“I can’t leave town, but can I least leave this room? Police stations make me itch,” he said, giving his body an exaggerated shake.
“Of course,” Parker said dryly.
On his way out, everyone in that room stopped and stared at him. Plato didn’t like that kind of attention. His time was running out on this assignment.
* * *
He walked into Marlowe’s house greeted by an assault on his senses. Incense burning. Music blaring. Marlowe pacing. Angry frustration radiated from her, so potent that it almost had color. Marlowe wore a long skirt that dragged the floor, but it was split up the middle, showing off impressive leg, and a fitted cropped T-shirt clinging to every damn thing above the navel, with the Superman S on the front.
“What’s wrong?” he asked over the music blasting through that house. She didn’t seem to notice that he was even in the room. “Marlowe!”
Suddenly, she stopped and stared back at him for a moment like she didn’t recognize him.
“That bitch wants to keep the money,” she blurted out.
He had no idea what she was talking about. What bitch? What money? “Turn that down,” he said, referring to the music.
Reluctantly, she did.
“What did you say?” he asked, walking over to her.
“Lucy wants to keep that money, Plato,” she repeated. She looked like she was fighting a losing battle against some bitter tears. “I told her,” she said, clenching her jaws. “I told her that we need to turn over those account numbers and those PINs to the police. That’s the only way I’m getting out of this,” she said desperately.
He took hold of her hands, led her over to the armchair near the couch, and pulled her down onto his lap.
She looked at him and shook her head in disbelief. “Can you believe that? She wants us—you, me, her, and Roman—to take that money out of those accounts, split it, and vanish,” she explained as if it was the most ridiculous notion in the world. “Who does that? What fucking criminal shows has her dumb ass been watching that would make her think that people actually do shit like that and get away with it?”
He watched the tears start to fall.
“I am so tired of this shit. I just want it to be over. I want my life back. And she wants to play fucking games.”
Marlowe broke down in his arms and sobbed into his shoulder.
“I can’t keep doing this!” she cried.
He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the side of her face. “No, you can’t, baby.”
“How can she think that doing something like that is okay? All we have to do is turn in everything, and it’s over, Plato.” She raised her head and stared into his eyes. “It’s so simple.”
Plato couldn’t help himself. He felt compelled to kiss those beautiful lips, possibly for the last time. Too bad he was who he was and that he could never be the kind of man she needed. Too bad that Plato always thought the notion of love was a silly thing and that he’d never given it much thought. She was unique, beautiful, and magical, which he’d never believed was even a thing until he’d met her.
“I need you to stay,” she whispered, taking hold of his hand, raising his palm to her lips, and kissing it. “I need you close to me.”
To be needed by this lovely woman was an honor. To be desired by her, a privilege.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he whispered, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Possibly for the very last time.
* * *
Marlowe spread her legs, and he pushed two fingers into her, lubricating her, getting her ready to take him, all
of him.
Marlowe fucked his fingers the way he wanted her to fuck his dick. She was so caught up in the frenzy of making love that the transition between fingers and cock was almost seamless—almost. She opened her eyes at the sensation of him pushing into her, spread her thighs and raised them even higher, and cried out as Plato thrust deeper and deeper into her sweet pussy as far as her body would allow him to go. He pushed and pulled with long, deep, sweeping thrusts, filling every inch of her. Marlowe grabbed him by the waist and held on. She cried out and mouthed words that never made it past her lips. But eventually she did manage to say something.
“I’m c-coming! I’m … ohhhhhh!”
She grabbed the back of his neck, pulled his face to hers, and filled his mouth with her tongue until she finally collapsed underneath him. He let her rest, slowly eased out of her, and then carefully rolled her over on her stomach, reached around underneath her, raised her up on her knees, and pushed into her from behind. Marlowe tried to raise her upper body up on her arms, but he pressed between her shoulder blades and pushed her back down on the bed. That smooth ass butterflied in front of him, making him even harder than he already was.
He made love to her from behind, and she begged him to stop, but he knew better. Plato drove into her with a purpose, wiping clean from that pussy any memory that Ed Price or any other man had ever come inside it. Marlowe came again. Now it was his turn. Plato sat down on the side of the bed, coaxed her up and onto his lap, pulled her beautiful mouth to his, and filled it with his tongue to the same rhythm of their sex.
Their bodies were sticky with sweat. He had her come all over the front of him. She was sore, she said. But he didn’t give a damn. He’d given her hers, twice. Now it was his turn. The pressure of his orgasm had been building for too long. His dick bucked inside her, determined to get its release. Marlowe’s arms were wrapped around his neck as she held on, until finally … fuckin’ finally!
