by Greta Boris
When the news came out that Art had beat the Real Estate Killer to a pulp and delivered him to the police, he became a local celebrity. That was just the kind of publicity St. Barnabas needed. Parents had pulled their children from the school because the prior administration hadn't been able to protect them from sexting and bullies. Now they had a bona fide hero on their hands.
"I have mixed feelings," Art said. "I hate to leave the people who need us."
Gwen knew he was referring to Olivia and Brian. His prognosis was good, but recovery would be a long road. Olivia's mother had been given temporary custody. He would be staying with her until the court decided if Olivia was a fit parent. Mike and Art were rallying a group to speak on her behalf. Gwen wanted to help. It would be a penance of sorts.
"You and the kids are my priority. I want what's best for us," Art said.
Gwen closed her eyes. Sunlight turned her lids crimson. She listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore below and remembered.
In her mind's eye, she stood on the cracked patio of the Laguna Beach house before it became a place of nightmares, and listened to the surf from that high vantage point. It was a dream then. A dream of things she wanted so badly she almost lost herself. As painful as it was, it was good for her to revisit this memory often. There were lessons to be learned there.
She opened her eyes and looked at Art. "We don't have to decide tonight, do we? I feel so content. Right here. With you." She reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Epilogue
French is the language of wine. I've been studying it since I now have some time on my hands. It makes me regret I never left this bourgeois republic for the eminently more civilized country of France. Oh, well. Que sera sera, as Doris Day sang.
My study of the language is how I happen to know the French word for dungeon. It is oubliette. It comes from the verb oublier, which means "to forget".
In the Middle Ages when one was thrown into the black underbelly of the castle, the trap door was dropped and the prisoner forgotten—not very humane. He was left to rot in the dark and feed the rats.
The state has deemed my extermination of some of Southern California's vermin as a crime. I see my actions as a public service. We disagree but, unfortunately for me, might makes right.
I've been tossed away like so much rubbish into the oubliette of San Quentin. They say it will be for life, if you can call this a life.
My sister sees it as divine retribution for my sins—my own personal Inferno. Like Dante, she hopes I will descend deeper and deeper discovering ever more horrific punishments. But unlike Dante, I won't be an observer. I will feel the pain.
I believe, in her heart of hearts, she thinks my incarceration will assuage her own guilt and embarrassment. She is miserable in the knowledge that someone who shares her DNA has snuffed out a few real estate agents. She must accept I am her family, and she hates it. That's a comfort to me.
I should have been my father's heir. I was never understood or appreciated by him, or anyone else for that matter. I've always lived in a black hole. Fiona sucked up all the light.
It's interesting to me that wine, my passion, is treated in much the same way as I have been—buried in damp basements away from the sun. Out of sight, out of mind.
This is where I find my hope. My raison d'etre, as the French say. The richness and complexity of a wine comes during its time in the cellar.
So I sit and write my story. I study French and history and weaponry and herbs and potions and poisons. I learn the ways and wiles of man and woman, and I mature. I prepare myself for the day I'll emerge from the oubliette. And I will. And when I do, my sister will drink the wine I've made in dark.
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to publish a book. Here's to those who've populated mine.
Jodi Thompson, my encouraging publisher, Mary-Theresa Hussey, my tough-love editor, and Michelle Fairbanks, my talented cover designer, thanks for making this novel better than I knew it needed to be.
Lt. Matthew Barr, Laguna Niguel Chief of Police, thanks for taking the time to help me understand the ins and outs of the Orange County Sheriff's Department.
Dan Boris, husband and Commercial Real Estate Broker extraordinaire, thanks for answering all my real estate questions and restricting yourself to minimal teasing about my inclusion in the book of a Laguna Beach house with a cellar. Honey, I know So. Cal. oceanfront homes don't have basements constructed from caves, but how cool would it be if one did!
Gayle Carline and the Orange County Chapter of Sisters in Crime, thanks for bringing in such inspiring and informative speakers.
DeAnna Cameron, mentor and friend, Megan Haskell, partner in crime, and all the members of my very own O.C. Writers community, thanks for being there.
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Coming Soon!
The Scent of Wrath
Seven Deadly Sins Book Two
Ten-year-old Brian McKibben is a wanderer. Eight months ago he wandered into the street and was hit by a truck. Olivia Richards, his newly divorced mother, was accused of neglect by Child Protection Services. She's doing her best to prove them wrong, keep Brian safe, and help him heal from brain damage caused by the accident. She creates an airtight schedule to ensure he's never alone. She researches essential oils, and consults an herbalist, a descendant of the medicine women of San Juan Capistrano, for holistic remedies.
But her carefully laid plans begin to unravel when it becomes apparent Olivia's CPS caseworker isn't the only one who's watching her. The walls of the Pilates Studio she co-owns seem to have eyes, especially at night. Cryptic messages of death and danger begin showing up in unlikely places. Someone is stalking her.
Who can she turn to for help? The authorities would inform CPS, and she might never be free of the County's intrusion into her life. She suspects her ex-husband of trying to scare her into giving up custody of their son. Her new relationship is complicated. And old suspicions haunt the herbalist.
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