Speak of the Devil: A Psychological Thriller

by Britney King

  “It’s about Melanie. Can you come to my office?”

  “Now?”

  “No, next week,” he sighs, long and heavy and grossly breathy. “Yes, now.”

  “I can’t,” I tell him, keeping my voice calm and even. “Sean’s out of town, and Matthew’s asleep.”

  “Sean’s away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Golfing in California, I think…”

  “What do you mean you think?”

  “You know how he is. Sometimes he doesn’t say.”

  “Hold on a sec,” he says. When he comes back on the line, which seems to take forever, he clears his throat. “Huh,” he replies. “That’s interesting. He didn’t mention he was going out of town.”

  I let the silence hang in the air.

  “We’re supposed to meet tomorrow.”

  I force a smile. “Sounds like Sean.”

  “Fine,” Adam replies. “I’m coming over.”

  Fuck. This is bad. This is worse than bad. Sean has to die, and he has to die now.

  I have so many questions. How long does it take a person to die if you cover their face with a pillow? How long does it take for a dead body to start smelling? What’s the best way to dispose of a corpse? How deep does a grave need to be? What’s the best way to get blood stains out of cement?

  God, so many questions. Questions I can’t very well Google. I need answers, and somehow I don’t think Siri would be much help either. Quora, maybe? There are a lot of options. I can at least be grateful for that. I can’t imagine what they used to go through in the olden days.

  Now, I can probably even log on to Instalook and ask in one of the hundreds of groups New Hope insisted I join. Maybe I’ll even get one of those conversation starter badges. My post will read, “Vanessa Bolton is in need of recommendations. Help! I don’t know what to do with my husband once I make him dead. But I can’t leave his rotting corpse in the cellar either, now can I?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elliot

  This place is relatively nice once they ease up on the drugs. It’s not the Ritz, but I have a private room with a bath, three gourmet meals a day, and plenty of time to plot my revenge. They can’t legally keep me here; however, to enforce my rights, I’d actually have to have access to a phone in which to call an attorney—an attorney who isn’t the one I have on retainer, one who didn’t place me in here to begin with. He wants the deal done, no matter the cost. He’s willing to work with and for whomever to see that it happens. This has always been Nathan’s M.O. which makes him a good businessman but a terrible friend, and a frightening opponent.

  In addition, it would be helpful if I had parents not on board with institutionalizing me. I’d also have to have a wife who cares enough about my well-being to drop the charges she has against me, and so far that doesn’t seem to be the case.

  On my third day here, Nathan comes to visit. True to form, he doesn't show up empty-handed. He brings along the contract he wants me to sign.

  My disdain for Nathan is immediate. But I’m glad he’s come prepared. Why go search for something when you can get them to hand-deliver it to you? Conversely, I make sure he’s aware of my position on the matter has not changed. “I’m not signing anything.”

  “It’s for the health of the company, Elliot.”

  “The company is fine.”

  “This was what we agreed upon.”

  “What you’re doing is fucked up, don’t you think?”

  “We’re businessmen, Elliot. We specialize in fucked up.”

  He lets the idea rest in the air for a bit before making his next move. “It’s clear you can’t make decisions on your own—and if we need to go to court we will—however, I was hoping it wouldn't come to that.”

  “I’m afraid that isn’t a compelling enough argument to make me change my mind, counsel.”

  “You're sick, my friend. It's obvious to everyone. I’m just glad you're getting the help you need in here.”

  “I’m not signing,” I repeat.

  Nathan shakes his head. “Then you're not leaving any time soon either.”

  You can only create. What you cannot do is control what happens to that creation when it hits the free market. Try as you might, it is impossible. I know this. It has nothing to do with why I’ve refused to sign the deal. I refuse to sign the deal for a variety of reasons, the main one being that I intend to defund my wife. The divorce will be finalized before anything else. Aside from reasonably supporting our child, I’ll be damned if she’ll ever see another penny of my earnings. Secondarily, according to the contract, the buyers will essentially own me. Only a fool would agree to terms like that.

  When I awaken, there is a man seated in the chair opposite my bed. He introduces himself as Adam Morford.

  “I’ve come to make sure you’re enjoying your stay.”

  “Funny, you should ask,” I say, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “I’m not particularly.”

  “Do you understand why you’re here?”

  “I figure you’ve come to enlighten me.”

  “A jokester,” Morford says. “I can appreciate that.”

  He crosses one leg over the other. “Although I have to say, considering what I hear they have on you, if I were in your shoes, I’d cut the bullshit.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Oh, you know, just a ton of instant messages that you sent your ex-wife and surveillance video to show that you’ve parked outside her home for hours on end, even with a restraining order in place. That’s pretty brazen, wouldn’t you say? And also very stupid.”

  “It expired.”

  “I don’t know about that. But what I do know is you’re looking at house arrest— at minimum— after the judge has his say.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Let’s just say I know the judge.”

  “Small world.”

  “I’d like to make an agreement with you, Mr. Parker.”

  “I assume this is the part where I’m supposed to be surprised.”

  “You can be whatever you want, but if I were you, I’d be all ears.”

  “Considering—”

  “You sign the agreement—contract to sell us your formula,” he says, cutting me off. “And we can make a few of your inconveniences go away.”

  “I don’t cut deals,” I tell him with the shake of my head. “It only leads to further concessions down the line.” I smile, remembering the night Vanessa told me that.

  He stands, walks over to my bed, and pats my arm. “Maybe I’ll pay you a visit a little later. See if you change your mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Vanessa

  I’m not immune to using my sexuality to gain favor. It is what they trained me for, after all. I don’t particularly like Adam, but he is the leader of the church, and if it helps me to not get caught with Sean in the basement—if it buys me freedom, if it saves my life, and protects my son—then I’ll do what I have to do.

  I know he isn’t coming to discuss Melanie and her antics, not really. Melanie craves Adam; she smothers him, and she demands from him. What he wants from me is someone who gives everything and asks nothing.

  “Matthew is upstairs,” I say, pulling him into the office.

  “Take me to your room,” he replies. “I want to smell you on the sheets.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He takes my chin in his hands, and this technique must be something they pull men aside in school and teach them.

  “I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had,” he says setting his laptop bag down. I assume he brings it to show this is official church business, but you never know. More likely, it’s to mark his territory. To show Sean, at least via the cameras, that he’s been here. “Since when do you question me?”

  “Would you mind grabbing a bottle of wine from the cellar?” I ask, pointing.

  I watch as he starts toward the cellar. “It’s locked
,” he calls.

  “Crap,” I say, stuffing the freshly cleaned and polished letter opener I used to stab Sean into the middle compartment. “Sean must have taken the key...”

  He appears around the corner, shrugs, and then follows me upstairs. “It’s too bad about the wine,” he says. I watch as he unfastens his tie and sheds his clothing, neatly hanging it over Sean’s favorite armchair. He smiles. “Always takes the edge off a bit, doesn’t it?”

  I don’t answer. I don’t know if he sleeps with all the Sirens, but it wouldn’t surprise me. This is just another form of control for him. “I want you on top tonight,” he says, and that’s how I know this isn’t going to end well. Adam likes no one on top—no one except himself.

  When I hesitate to undress, he takes care of it for me. All the while, I chastise myself for not running before he arrived. When he pushes me to my knees, I realize just how stupid I’ve been.

  He’s forcing his way into my mouth when he spots Sean’s suitcase in the closet. “I thought you said he was out of town,” he says, and I realize I’ve left the door open and invited the monster in, in more ways than one.

  “He is.”

  He turns my face toward the suitcase. “He has two,” I say. “That one is too small.” I turn back to him and do my best to divert his attention. “Can’t fit anything in it.”

  He lifts me by my hair and forces me onto the bed.

  “Sean gave his approval, in case you’re wondering.” I don’t doubt this.

  “He says whatever I want. And you know what that means? In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of the church, you’re his property.”

  “Adam. Please.”

  “Come on,” he smiles. “You know the drill.”

  The clock beside the bed reads 9:28 p.m.

  “I watched the tapes,” he says, pushing into me.

  “With Elliot Parker. Your performance was pretty good.”

  I push against his chest. I know better than to leave marks, but I try to fight him off nevertheless. He prefers it that way. Tears spill from the corners of my eyes. I don’t know if either one of us prefers this, it just is.

  “I expect you to be better,” he tells me breathlessly. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “You know I don’t want this,” I cry, and it’s the first true thing I’ve said.

  “In that case,” he says. “Let me show you.”

  The clock reads 10:42 by the time he finally stops.

  “Your guy is downtown,” he tells me afterward, as he buttons his shirt. “At the rejuvenation center.”

  “Sean?” I play stupid.

  “No. Elliot Parker.”

  “Elliot?” I swallow hard in a poor attempt to try to hide the inflection in my voice. “Why? He’s not a member.”

  “He will be before he leaves.”

  “Really?”

  “We’re changing things up. We can’t be so soft anymore.”

  I look away. The bruising on my thighs proves his point.

  “That,” he says, “And he did something—or rather Melanie did something.”

  “Melanie?”

  He cocks his head. He thinks I know something. “Are you surprised?”

  I shrug. “Kind of, yes.”

  His face falls. “We had eyes on her, and she slept with him.”

  “With Elliot?”

  “Yes, with Elliot,” Adam scoffs. “Jesus Vanessa. Are you even listening?”

  “I am. It just doesn’t sound like Melanie.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Surveillance says otherwise. She met him at that restaurant, same as you. On the same night you first made contact, in fact. Pretended her name was Jenny...”

  This does sound like Melanie. “Oh.”

  “I could tell she wanted in on the deal and I told her no. I told her it was too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous how?” I ask but then I back off knowing I’m skirting too close to a pain point for him. He wouldn’t have wanted Melanie anywhere near Elliot Parker for the simple fact that he would be exactly her type—gullible and lonely.

  “I just don’t know why she would do such a thing,” he says. “And it’s killing me.”

  She wants to beat you at your own game, I almost say. This is what you two do. You mess with people, you use them as pawns, and when they’re no longer useful, you rid yourselves of them. Problem is, you pull the rest of us in with you. The truth is, Melanie sleeps with a lot of people. But I don’t tell him that.

  After I’ve soaked in the tub, thoroughly soaked, until the hot water seeps into my bones, and I feel nothing, I can’t help myself. I recognize a test when I see one, so I check on Matthew, and then I dial Melanie.

  She answers on the second ring. “V?”

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you...”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “It’s nearly midnight. Jesus, Vanessa. When I saw your name, I thought something was wrong.”

  “No, we just haven’t really gotten a chance to talk and I was wondering how your date went the other night.”

  “You called this late to discuss my love life, V?” She seethes silently until she doesn’t. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?”

  Sometimes I forget we aren’t really friends.

  That well, huh? It’s the new vitamins, I want to tell her. They make me brazen.

  “Stop. I’m tired. I have ten thousand meetings tomorrow, and lunch with a potential donor.”

  She realizes I’m fishing, which is half the point. Typically, Melanie loves to talk about her dating life. Particularly if Adam or anyone who might relay information to him—which is everyone— happens to be within earshot.

  She lowers her voice, speaking so quietly I have to strain to hear her. “I had another proposal though.”

  “Wow.”

  “Not from the guy last week,” she continues. “He was a dud.”

  “The guy you met at that restaurant downtown?”

  “What guy?”

  “You didn’t say. You just said you'd met someone.”

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you about that guy.”

  “You didn’t tell me about him. You just mentioned you met someone. How else would I know?”

  She’s silent for several beats. The silence is quite clear. She can’t pinpoint which of us is lying. She’s right. She didn’t tell me about him. But it worries her too much to believe that someone else might have. “Anyway,” she says finally, “This makes fourteen…or something like that…who knows? I lost count.”

  I haven’t. “Sixteen,” I say recalling the last time she mentioned the subject. “This makes sixteen.”

  Honestly, I’d expected that Melanie would have remarried by now. We all did. Maybe this is what happens if you get too hung up on someone who already is.

  She’s good about picking a flavor of the month to play with. They never last long.

  Clearly, Adam has something to do with their expiration date. Melanie and Adam have a history of one-upping each other. All things considered, I’m worried for Elliot.

  It’s a sick and twisted game they play.

  Adam’s visit and the call from his girlfriend have given me a second wind. I go down to see Sean. He’s half asleep, or half dead, one or the other. It’s hard to say.

  “I never wanted any of this,” I tell him. “You had to know that.”

  “You wanted freedom. Haven’t I given you that?”

  “What I wanted was a better life.”

  His eyes flutter open, and for a moment I see a flash of terror reflected in his eyes as he notices what’s clutched in my hands. But then true to his character, a certain resolve washes over his features and he refuses to let any emotion show.

  “I can’t let this happen to other girls.”

  His eyes bore holes into mine. “But you have.”

  “It has to stop,” I say, stepping forward. He tries to scoot away, but he’s
too slow, and there’s nowhere to go. I want to douse him with gasoline, strike a match, and watch him burn. I want to make him familiar with pliers on a level no one should ever know. I want to rip his toenails out before I move on to his teeth. I can think of a thousand ways to torture him, but sometimes you have to save your energy for the good stuff, and so I simply put the pillow over his face and sink into it. I bear down, pressing all of my weight against it. It’s like giving birth and embracing death all at the same time. It’s that space of time where there’s nothing left to do but hold on and know it will all be over soon. So hold on, I do. The more he flails and fights the inevitable, the harder I press, summoning strength I didn’t know I had. The more he bucks and shifts, the more I dig my heels into the floor. I hold on. I keep holding on. And I don’t stop until long after the room has gone silent.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Elliot

  As it turns out, this place isn’t so nice after all. I realize this early on, but true understanding comes only after I’m led to a state-of-the-art lab. Foolishly, this excites me because while rejuvenation may not be my thing, experiments are.

  I’m asked to take a seat in a white room. Everything is white here, which I understand makes it less distracting.

  A man in a white coat stands at my shoulder explaining what is to take place, although he doesn’t have to. I know enough about experimentation to understand how this all works. His lab assistant refuses to meet my eye, which I also understand. One cannot identify with, or in this case, humanize their test subjects. “I’m Dr. Mueller,” he says.

  I study his equipment and consider how bad this can get.

  “Your family says you have an unhealthy obsession with your estranged wife?”

  I don’t answer; I’m too busy doing calculations in my head. I don’t think they’ll kill me, but accidents happen.

  “Would you say that’s true?”