“You think this is going to defrost your cold heart?” I asked evenly.
I guess her eyes were closed because the minute I started speaking, she jumped and almost hit the sunshade behind us. She scooted to a sitting position, yanking the shades from her face and scowling at me. “What are you doing here? I’m calling the police!”
She could call the police, but really? On her stepson? It wasn’t breaking and entering. And I wasn’t aggressive in any way.
Yet.
I leaned back on my sunbed and crossed my legs, staring at the kidney-shaped pool. Jo loved swimming in it. I wondered if she would still be keen on using it if she knew how many teenagers fucked in it during my badass high school parties for four years in a row.
“I thought you said you wanted to do dinners and wine more often,” I said, my tone still calm.
Water mattresses floated on the surface of the massive pool like weightless ballerinas, different colors, shapes and sizes, and it all reminded me of a Bret Easton Ellis book. The rich assholes. The bitchy stepmom. It was all so fucked up to the core. Not that I was making excuses, but I really did have a miniscule chance at turning out differently than I had.
“You didn’t come here to spend time with me, and no matter what you have to ask, the answer is no. I don’t want them on my property anymore. They’re too old for the job, anyway.” Josephine lifted a glass of ice water and brought the straw to her lips, her movements ladylike and gentle.
It was funny hearing this from her. Emilia’s parents were the exact same age as Jo. The only difference was the LeBlancs actually worked for a living. They weren’t the useless ones. She was.
“That’s fine. Charlene is going to cook for me in LA, and Paul needed to retire two years ago.” I still needed to find a place for them to live, but otherwise, I doubted Dean would have a problem. “I actually came here to let you in on a secret.” I offered her a smile.
She stopped sucking on her straw and arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I know what you and Daryl did. I know what my dad agreed to do. Know how my mother died. I. Know. Everything.”
It was beautiful to see her face whitening and her teeth chattering when the weather and my cold words finally caught up with her body. The glass shattered on the tiles, tiny ice cubes flying everywhere. She opened her mouth, no doubt about to deny the accusation—
“Please, Josephine. No more bullshit. The only reason I spared you from justice all this time was because I didn’t deserve to get dragged through all this shit along with you.” Besides, the plan was always to make sure Josephine would be left with nothing to live for, too.
And it almost happened.
No husband.
No brother.
No family.
No nothing.
Except money.
“I was weighing my options in New York, trying to figure out what I want to do about the whole situation. Well, I think I finally made up my mind.” My voice was so light, but her expression darkened.
Everything was strained and wrinkled. She stared at me in complete horror and shock, clutching the tough canvas of the sunbed. “Baron…” Her Botoxed lips quivered. “I don’t know what makes you think I had anything to do with your mother’s death—”
“Don’t lie to me.” I blinked once, watching her intently, then shook my head. “I heard your conversation with my dad. Heard the little heart-to-heart you had with him. You’re pretty convincing, aren’t you? Well, you’ve never fooled me. It was a matter of when to strike, not if.”
“You misunderstood. I promise you I will rehire the LeBlancs, and you and I should talk about the will. It wasn’t fair that you father left everything to me. We can reach a financial settlement. I can…”
I tuned her out. She thought it was about the money. How sad was her life? I leaned forward, taking her face in my hands. Gentle. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened. I was close to her. Leaning into her. Our knees brushing together. Bile bubbled up my throat when I smiled at her serenely. Sickly. Acting like the psychopath she always thought I was.
And maybe I was a psychopath. Maybe she was the person who made me one.
“Jo?” I asked, my voice soft. “Do yourself a favor. Leave this house tonight. I would also advise against sharing this conversation with anyone. You were brave, Jo. So brave to tell my father that Marie was better off dead than alive in her condition. I’d like to see how brave you are if I go to the police. It’s true you might even still get away with having her murdered. But are you willing to take that chance?
“Now, get back to your precious tan,” I patted her cheek, getting up from my seat. “Who knows? It just might be your last.”
Ever since I was a kid, I’d had dreams, vivid dreams, about burning down my father’s mansion. I just knew it had to be done. I knew it would soothe the pain, make it go away. Not all of it, but enough for me to live. After I grew up, I even believed that it was the root of my sleeping problems. I just wanted the place to cease to exist, along with my memories of Daryl hitting me, Jo and Dad’s conversation, and everything else.
But the Spencer mansion sprawled over 12,000 square feet. It was huge and made of bricks, not exactly the easiest thing to set on fire.
Still—you never know until you tried, right?
The servant’s apartment was only about a hundred feet from the main house, not too far away, and while Jo came in and out of the main kitchen several times a day, she’d never even knocked on the LeBlancs’ door once. So, after I said goodbye to a shocked Jo, I went back there.
I walked into Emilia’s room, nonchalant as ever. I hummed Kravinsky’s “Nightcall” because it finally dawned on me, albeit out of nowhere, that Emilia liked the song because it was about me. I collected everything I thought she’d miss. Framed pictures. Mementos from high school. Her favorite boots. Tucking everything that wasn’t already packed by her parents and shoving it into a box.
I spent the next three hours carrying all of the LeBlancs boxes to an SUV in the garage and making three trips to the storage warehouse outside of town.
Emilia’s box, though, I kept for myself.
All that time, I saw Jo through the vast French doors of the mansion’s kitchen. Pacing, tossing back glass after glass of wine, and losing her shit. Then, when I was finally done, I turned on the gas burners of the stove in the pool house—all four of them—and left.
I guess her eyes were closed because the minute I started speaking, she jumped and almost hit the sunshade behind us. She scooted to a sitting position, yanking the shades from her face and scowling at me. “What are you doing here? I’m calling the police!”
She could call the police, but really? On her stepson? It wasn’t breaking and entering. And I wasn’t aggressive in any way.
Yet.
I leaned back on my sunbed and crossed my legs, staring at the kidney-shaped pool. Jo loved swimming in it. I wondered if she would still be keen on using it if she knew how many teenagers fucked in it during my badass high school parties for four years in a row.
“I thought you said you wanted to do dinners and wine more often,” I said, my tone still calm.
Water mattresses floated on the surface of the massive pool like weightless ballerinas, different colors, shapes and sizes, and it all reminded me of a Bret Easton Ellis book. The rich assholes. The bitchy stepmom. It was all so fucked up to the core. Not that I was making excuses, but I really did have a miniscule chance at turning out differently than I had.
“You didn’t come here to spend time with me, and no matter what you have to ask, the answer is no. I don’t want them on my property anymore. They’re too old for the job, anyway.” Josephine lifted a glass of ice water and brought the straw to her lips, her movements ladylike and gentle.
It was funny hearing this from her. Emilia’s parents were the exact same age as Jo. The only difference was the LeBlancs actually worked for a living. They weren’t the useless ones. She was.
“That’s fine. Charlene is going to cook for me in LA, and Paul needed to retire two years ago.” I still needed to find a place for them to live, but otherwise, I doubted Dean would have a problem. “I actually came here to let you in on a secret.” I offered her a smile.
She stopped sucking on her straw and arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I know what you and Daryl did. I know what my dad agreed to do. Know how my mother died. I. Know. Everything.”
It was beautiful to see her face whitening and her teeth chattering when the weather and my cold words finally caught up with her body. The glass shattered on the tiles, tiny ice cubes flying everywhere. She opened her mouth, no doubt about to deny the accusation—
“Please, Josephine. No more bullshit. The only reason I spared you from justice all this time was because I didn’t deserve to get dragged through all this shit along with you.” Besides, the plan was always to make sure Josephine would be left with nothing to live for, too.
And it almost happened.
No husband.
No brother.
No family.
No nothing.
Except money.
“I was weighing my options in New York, trying to figure out what I want to do about the whole situation. Well, I think I finally made up my mind.” My voice was so light, but her expression darkened.
Everything was strained and wrinkled. She stared at me in complete horror and shock, clutching the tough canvas of the sunbed. “Baron…” Her Botoxed lips quivered. “I don’t know what makes you think I had anything to do with your mother’s death—”
“Don’t lie to me.” I blinked once, watching her intently, then shook my head. “I heard your conversation with my dad. Heard the little heart-to-heart you had with him. You’re pretty convincing, aren’t you? Well, you’ve never fooled me. It was a matter of when to strike, not if.”
“You misunderstood. I promise you I will rehire the LeBlancs, and you and I should talk about the will. It wasn’t fair that you father left everything to me. We can reach a financial settlement. I can…”
I tuned her out. She thought it was about the money. How sad was her life? I leaned forward, taking her face in my hands. Gentle. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened. I was close to her. Leaning into her. Our knees brushing together. Bile bubbled up my throat when I smiled at her serenely. Sickly. Acting like the psychopath she always thought I was.
And maybe I was a psychopath. Maybe she was the person who made me one.
“Jo?” I asked, my voice soft. “Do yourself a favor. Leave this house tonight. I would also advise against sharing this conversation with anyone. You were brave, Jo. So brave to tell my father that Marie was better off dead than alive in her condition. I’d like to see how brave you are if I go to the police. It’s true you might even still get away with having her murdered. But are you willing to take that chance?
“Now, get back to your precious tan,” I patted her cheek, getting up from my seat. “Who knows? It just might be your last.”
Ever since I was a kid, I’d had dreams, vivid dreams, about burning down my father’s mansion. I just knew it had to be done. I knew it would soothe the pain, make it go away. Not all of it, but enough for me to live. After I grew up, I even believed that it was the root of my sleeping problems. I just wanted the place to cease to exist, along with my memories of Daryl hitting me, Jo and Dad’s conversation, and everything else.
But the Spencer mansion sprawled over 12,000 square feet. It was huge and made of bricks, not exactly the easiest thing to set on fire.
Still—you never know until you tried, right?
The servant’s apartment was only about a hundred feet from the main house, not too far away, and while Jo came in and out of the main kitchen several times a day, she’d never even knocked on the LeBlancs’ door once. So, after I said goodbye to a shocked Jo, I went back there.
I walked into Emilia’s room, nonchalant as ever. I hummed Kravinsky’s “Nightcall” because it finally dawned on me, albeit out of nowhere, that Emilia liked the song because it was about me. I collected everything I thought she’d miss. Framed pictures. Mementos from high school. Her favorite boots. Tucking everything that wasn’t already packed by her parents and shoving it into a box.
I spent the next three hours carrying all of the LeBlancs boxes to an SUV in the garage and making three trips to the storage warehouse outside of town.
Emilia’s box, though, I kept for myself.
All that time, I saw Jo through the vast French doors of the mansion’s kitchen. Pacing, tossing back glass after glass of wine, and losing her shit. Then, when I was finally done, I turned on the gas burners of the stove in the pool house—all four of them—and left.
