by Isabel Wroth
“I’m sorry, honey. I was in the shower. Was the bakery open after the storm? I was really hoping to bring Mia some cupcakes.”
I lifted my brows in silent question, asking Mrs. Decker if I was doing it right, and she gave me a tart nod, glaring at me down the length of her bony nose.
For a long moment, there was silence, and Mrs. Decker shifted on her seat, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
It’s a fact: I have a shitty poker face. Does she know what I’m up to?
“Callum? You there?”
“Yeah, baby. Sorry, the phone cut out a little. Could you say that again?”
“I said, was the bakery open? I want to bring Mia some of those cupcakes we saw yesterday for her birthday.
“She’s really into dragons right now, and the way they were iced looked like scales. It would make her day really special.”
It was all I could do not to bite my lip or look nervous, and just when I thought the ruse was up and Mrs. Decker was about to shoot me right then and there, Callum came through for me and played along like this was a normal conversation.
“No, the bakery wasn't open. There's a road closed down here; a tree is down across the main thoroughfare. I'm going to help Davidson and his guys clear it, and we'll figure something out for Mia's birthday. Shouldn't take me more than an hour, but I'll text you when I'm on my way, okay?”
Mrs. Decker probably thought I was crying silently because I thought I wasn't going to get to see Callum again, when in fact, I was crying because I knew he got the message.
“Sounds good. I love you.”
“I love you, too. See you soon, baby.”
I dashed my tears away and made a show of ending the call and blacking the screen before I put it back in my pocket.
“So, obviously you're going to kill me, Mrs. Decker, but you've worked in the Sheriff's Department for a while now. You must know—especially now that Callum called—making it look like a suicide won't fly.”
My brother's murderer gave a careless shrug, but her expression was rife with bitter frustration.
“I do know. Fortunately—as you say—I've worked for those bumbling buffoons long enough to have picked up a few things.
“An accidental death is what I'd planned, but now I only have an hour to make it look right. Electrocuted in the bath is out, so I suppose a fall down the stairs will have to do. Up! Let's go. Turn around and don't try to run.”
You're out of your goddamn mind if I'm going to let you kill me. Not today, Satan.
I almost whooped with joy when my phone vibrated again. The text alert was a lot softer than the persistent buzz of the ringer, so thankfully Mrs. Decker didn't notice.
I stood up slowly and turned around, giving Mrs. Decker time to get up and come toward me.
The press of the gun against my spine finally made a slither of real fear race across my skin, but I kept it together.
I had to.
Callum told me the worst thing people did during an attack was panic. I needed to keep my wits about me if I wanted to make it through this.
“Walk slowly."
We headed for the stairs, and I wondered how long it would take for Callum to get here.
The text meant he was on his way, but I didn't know how far from the mansion he was.
“May I ask you something?”
“I suppose so.”
The press of the gun dropped away as I started my climb up the stairs, and a glance behind me revealed that Mrs. Decker was three steps behind me, with one hand on the banister for balance.
She couldn't see my right hand, or that I reached into the right-side pocket for the stun gun Callum had given me, with express instructions to use it only in defense of my life.
I think this counts, honey. You better get here fast. Otherwise, I'm saving myself and you'll just have to clean up the mess.
My thumb flicked the safety off the weapon, the sound muffled against the terrycloth of my robe.
“You said you already took care of Janet and Aaron. How?”
She chuckled from behind me.
I am really going to enjoy watching her drop and seize in a few minutes. The landing was coming up, and I knew that was my chance.
“I have keys to the station house. I come in at odd hours all the time, and with prisoners in-house, one deputy has to stay overnight.
“I came in last night, disrupted the video feeds, made coffee for the foolish boy, chiding him like I always did about putting his boots on the damn desktop, and put a sedative in his mug.
“Janet and Aaron were shocked to see me, and so easy to fool. They thought I was really going to help them escape.
“I said I had to wait for the deputy to fall asleep—he was already out cold by then—and gave them some water.
“Unfortunately, there was a little potassium chloride in the water. Well, more than a little. I haven't checked on them, but they should be dead as doornails by now.
“Can't have them ruining years of hard work to keep under the radar by running their mouths, and it was only a matter of time. You and I both know how weak and greedy they are.”
I couldn't feel anything other than surprise, and I'm sure the emotions would come later, but now was all about me. I had too much to live for to let this old bitch take me down.
“How much did they pay you to keep quiet?” I asked, five steps from the landing.
“Half a million dollars. I've been frugal and made no large purchases, except to buy myself a new car and a little house.”
“That's nice. Mrs. Decker?”
“What?”
“Fuck you.”
I threw myself down on the landing and rolled, lifting the stun gun as I came over on my back.
The prongs fired with a loud pop and hit Mrs. Decker, one in the belly, the other on her left thigh, and stuck.
She didn't have any time to react as the weapon automatically started to pulse fifty thousand volts into her body, and I was glad I was lying down.
Her body seized immediately, every muscle and joint locking up, which meant her finger squeezed down on the trigger of her revolver.
The bang of the gun firing was ten times as loud as my Taser, but the way her body jerked made the bullet fly wild, missing me by a mile.
Mrs. Decker fell forward, right as Callum kicked in the front door, rushing inside with Davidson and three deputies hot on his heels—all of them armed with guns drawn.
I sat up with my fingers wrapped around the stun gun, my finger on the trigger to hit Mrs. Decker with another round of electricity, taking no chances that she'd pop up like a horror movie daisy or be able to find the strength to lift her gun again.
“Hey, honey. That was fast,” I managed to say, watching Callum take the stairs three at a time until he got to the old woman convulsing and making deep, animalistic sounds of agony four feet below me.
He kicked the gun out of reach before coming to kneel in front of me.
“You did good, baby. It's okay; you can let go of the Taser. Let go, that's it. Come on, shh, I'm here. I got you.”
I didn't start crying until he pulled the stun gun out of my hands and wrapped his arms around me.
All the tears I’d been holding onto for weeks—years— came pouring out in gut-wrenching sobs, and Callum held me through the storm.
IN ANGER AND GRIEF, I'd spent a good thirty minutes sobbing in Callum's crushingly tight embrace. By the time I was able to put a coherent sentence together, he'd carried me back down the stairs and into a bathroom.
He washed my face with a washcloth, poked his head out to get a deputy to fetch the bag of clothes he'd gone out for, and I was shaking so badly Callum had to help me dress.
Callum told me he'd been calling to say Janet Beauchene mysteriously died in custody last night, but Aaron was still alive—barely—and on his way to the hospital.
My question about cupcakes for his dead sister's birthday sent him racing back to me.
He'd only been five minutes awa
y, but to each of us, it may as well have been a lifetime. Him, not knowing who was in the house threatening me, and me, not knowing if I'd pull off my own rescue to be able to see him again.
The matching sweatpants and sweatshirt I had on were a savage pink, the Pine Hill Country Club logo emblazoned on both.
I'm sure Callum purchased them as a joke, he still loved to occasionally razz me about my monochromatic wardrobe, but I wasn't laughing.
I was just glad to be warm, and the thick wool blanket the paramedics wrapped around me helped stem some of my post-traumatic shivers.
Davidson put his pen and paper away as I finished giving my statement, and with Callum still at my side, I sat on a stone bench out of the way of all the activity happening, not far from the fountain where Mrs. Decker had dumped Elliot's body.
Watching her be loaded into the ambulance with her hands cuffed to the railings on either side of her was intensely satisfying.
She'd pissed herself, made a mess all down the front of her nice trousers when I'd tased her.
The thought of her having to wear her urine-soaked pants all the way to the hospital for all to see, had me smirking into the coffee cup I held in both hands.
It was a short-lived smile because I still couldn't understand how a baby making a mess was enough of a reason to hold his small, helpless body down in the bathtub and watch him drown.
The act was unspeakable. Unimaginable.
But it was well and truly over. Twenty years after the fact, my brother’s murder was solved.
Aaron would be prosecuted for the murder of my biological mother and was also being charged with accessory to murder for helping cover up Elliot’s death.
Mrs. Decker would spend what time she had left in jail. I’d never been to jail, but I couldn’t imagine it was a very clean or tidy place.
A fate worse than death. Torture by dirt and untidy cell-mates.
I imagined Mrs. Decker trying to browbeat a woman named Large Marge into picking up after herself or ordering her to stop farting from the top bunk in the same tone she’d used when expressing her distaste for Elliot’s toddler messes.
She deserves whatever she gets.
With his arm around my shoulders, Callum dropped a kiss on my hair.
“You okay, Jo?”
I snuggled my cheek against his chest, watching the ambulance followed by a long line of Jeeps and squad cars drive off.
“Not really. But I will be. Guess what?”
“What?”
“I can finally sell this terrible house.”
Callum gave an amused chuff, rubbing his chin across the top of my head. “Yeah, baby. You can. Davidson gave me this.”
This was an ornate gold cross on a simple gold chain. Katya’s necklace.
He gently spilled it into my hand, and after rubbing my thumb across the smooth figure nailed on the cross, I closed my hand and brought it to my heart.
“Ready to go home?” Callum asked me softly.
“Yes. Home.” I answered, just as quietly. It’s finally over.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“This just came via courier for you.” Nigel held up an envelope with my name on it, and when I turned it over, my stomach hit my boots to see ‘HM’ stamped in block letters on the back.
It’s been three weeks since I'd painted Helena's Portrait of Death.
To my knowledge, none of the victims I'd painted lived past seven days. I'd spoken with Helena almost every other day, and though she'd gotten another creepy photo from her would-be-killer, she had nothing new to report.
But, from our conversations, I finally understood how she’d come to have such a close-knit relationship with John and Marcy Graham.
After Mia’s disappearance began to lose steam in the media, Helena called in every favor she had across every news platform she’d ever worked with, and some she hadn’t, to keep Mia’s face on the front page.
“Below the fold,” Helena told me with dissatisfaction, “but it was something. Most cops won’t work with reporters, and John was always good about keeping his word and giving me exclusives before anyone else. ‘The devil I know,’ he always said. It was the least I could do.”
“Helena. We talked a few days ago when she was entertaining the idea of writing her memoirs.” I told Nigel now, “She said she was going to take some time to think about it and approach a publisher. I haven't heard from her since.”
“Maybe it's a check. An advance from a publisher she wants to share with you,” Nigel replied me with an optimistic shrug.
“Can’t imagine why.” I drew away, went to the window, and took a seat on my old Victorian chaise in a spill of sunshine. Nigel hit the stereo, and Mindy Smith started to sing about the devil's inside.
I opened the letter, and a black card with the phases of the moon stamped in silver fell into my lap.
In old-world letters it said, St. Clairevoyance, and had a phone number with an address in SoHo on the back.
Wondering why Helena included the card in her letter, I set it aside and started to read:
Darling,
If you're reading this, I'm dead.
The breath heaved out of me on a shocked guffaw, my gut cramping as I quickly scanned the letter, then read it again slowly.
I didn't burn my favorite outfit like we talked about, but I thought about it for days after our interview aired.
It was an amazing interview, by the way. One of my best, if I do say so myself. Which, I do.
You made a comment to me about fate being what we make it, so I did a little experiment.
I put my red pants, my leopard blouse, every single piece of yellow jewelry I have in a trunk, and locked it up tight.
It sat on the floor of my apartment for days, staring at me every time I walked in the room.
I got another photo today with my eyes crossed out, and because Marcy is such a good woman who can't seem to keep pestering me, I took all the photos to Charlie Garmon at the 81st.
As predicted, he can't do anything because nothing has happened to me yet. But he has the photos, and I have a tiny wireless camera set up in the bridge of my glasses.
Even old bitches like me can learn new tricks.
Anyway, this letter is the only place I've confessed to having that camera, and the receiver is located in the wall safe behind my Warhol.
Code: 091586
Yes, that's your birthday.
I'm fed up with waiting around to test whether or not it's true. Fate is what we make it, so I'm trying another experiment today.
I'm unlocking the trunk and putting on my favorite outfit. I want you to know that I'm doing this under my own power, and if I die, you are in no way responsible.
I am completely to blame, and if you hear about my death before the lawyer sends you this letter, please know there wasn't anything you could have done or said to talk me out of this. I'm impatient, impetuous, and can't stand the suspense of not knowing.
Logically, I don't believe anything will happen. To that effect, I've signed a book deal to write my memoirs, but in case I'm wrong, in the safe along with the video receiver is a copy of my memoirs already written up.
If I do die, the experiment is still a success, as we will confirm that if I'd left the outfit in the trunk, I wouldn't have been killed.
Don't be sad or cry for me, because if I'm dead, I did it to myself by tempting Fate and wearing my favorite outfit.
Every day, I lived my life on my own terms, and that's how I'll go out.
My killer is in for a surprise when Callum Graham kicks in his door with a message from beyond the grave.
Whoever it is, tell the bastard I said, ’You’re on candid camera, asshole’.
~HM
I huffed a ragged breath, leaning back on the chaise to stare up at the ceiling. “Well. Shit, Helena. Message received.”
No sooner had I spoken the words than my watch started to vibrate on my wrist. Callum was still Detective Dickhead in my caller ID.
I fig
ured as we’re now living together, and as the home gym I'd put in for him as a surprise is finally finished, I should change it to something nicer.
I swiped my finger across the screen. “Hey, honey.”
“Hey, Jo,” he replied, and I knew from the seriousness in his voice, why he was calling. “I got some bad news just now.”
“Yeah, I know,” I murmured, giving another sad sigh. “Helena.”
There was a beat of silence before Callum’s voice came through in a lazy, sarcastic drawl.
“Psychic moment?”
He couldn't see my face, so I rolled my eyes and gave my watch the finger.
“NO! She sent me a letter that just arrived by courier, explaining how she was going to tempt fate by putting on that ugly ass outfit of hers.
“She said she put a wireless camera in her glasses, and if she was strangled the way I painted her, she caught her killer on camera.
“The receiver is in her safe behind the Warhol painting, and the code is my birthday.”
There was a beat of silence, and finally Callum said, “Well, shit. I'll call the detective on her case and tell him.”
“Good. She also left instructions, that after you kick in the killer's door, you're to tell him: You’re on candid camera, asshole. It's what she wanted.”
Despite having to notify me of Helena’s death, Callum chuckled.
“I'll do that. You okay?”
I looked at the letter again, rubbing my thumb back and forth over the raised bumps of the business card.
“Yeah. Helena lived life on her own terms and went out the same way.”
“She sure did. I'll see you when I get home tonight.”
“You will. Be safe. I love you.”
“Love you too, baby. I'll text you when I'm on my way.”
We hung up, and I turned the letter over to find another note from Helena.
P.S.
I found a woman in SoHo like you, and allegedly, she's the real deal. I spoke to a few of her clients and they all tell me she's legit.
I enclosed her card, and I hope if you decide to go and meet her, she can help you figure out what the hell it is that makes you so special, Josephine Beauchene.
