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Camille didn’t move. Just sat there, face and shoulders slack.
“Camille?” Fern repeated, but still Camille didn’t reach for the gun. Instead, she gave a slight shake of her head.
“No, I’m done. I’m not playing,” Camille said, her eyes shining with tears. “This is psychological torture. And I want no part of it.”
This development was good for Maire. It meant there was one less barrier to the money, but she thought of the way that Camille came to her rescue at the lake and felt a twinge of guilt. No, it was Ned who was the one who was supposed to go home next.
“Spin the gun, Camille,” Maire found herself saying. “They want us to panic, to break us down. It makes for better television. Don’t quit.”
“What the hell?” Ned scoffed. “Don’t encourage her. If she wants to quit, let her quit.”
“Shut up, Ned,” Maire said, keeping her eyes on Camille. “It’s okay,” she said softly, wanting to reach across the table for Camille’s hand. “Remember, it’s just a game.”
Camille held Maire’s gaze. Tears brimmed in her eyes and Maire could see that Camille had secrets of her own. Secrets that she couldn’t reveal. They had that in common at least.
Maire looked at Samuel. He had aged in the three days they had been at the villa. His eyes had taken on a haunted, hunted look and his skin was sallow and tight in the candlelight. After two decades of keeping their secret, if the right question was asked, he might be the one to break. She willed him to look at her, but he was transfixed on the gun.
Finally, Camille reached for the pistol and gave it a half-hearted spin. One rotation, two, three, and on the fourth, it came to a wobbly stop in front of Ned again.
“No fucking way,” Ned said, in disbelief. “Is there a magnet under there?” He bent down to look beneath the table and when he popped back up, he rolled his eyes. He still hasn’t gotten it yet, Maire thought. He still didn’t realize that someone was coming for them. For him. “Hit me,” Ned said, slapping the tabletop as if he were at a blackjack table in Vegas.
Fern reached for the top card on Ned’s deck, but he reached out and laid his hand atop hers. A spasm of revulsion spread across Fern’s face and Maire could feel the anger radiate off her as she jerked her hand away. Camille was right. This game was personal, at least to Fern. But not to Maire. She was positive that she had never met Fern before walking onto the estate the other day. Revenge by reality show? It was too ludicrous to believe.
“Can I pick from the deck?” Ned asked. “Just to mix things up?”
“Fine,” Fern said, rigidly. “But no peeking.”
Ned made a show of fanning the remaining cards in his deck across the table, then turning his head away, eyes closed, as he chose a card. He held it up in triumph and handed it to Fern with a flourish.
Fern took the card gingerly from Ned’s hands. She wobbled in her seat and, for a moment, Maire thought she might slip from her chair. Using one hand, Fern steadied herself and began reading.
“Have you ever been...” Fern began. “Have you ever been...” she tried again but faltered.
“Spit it out,” Ned said. In some twisted way, he was enjoying this. Ned was a powerful man who was probably used to not having to be accountable for the way he treated people. Hadn’t he shown that over and over during the competition? He had no problem trying to knock Maire from the climbing wall, cutting her rope, or letting her drown in the lake.
“Have you ever been accused of sexual misconduct in the workplace?” Fern asked, her voice cracking.
“No,” Ned said, staring back at Fern defiantly. “My spin.” He moved to give the gun a turn, but this time Fern held her hand up to stop him.
“Wait. That was only part of the question. There’s more to it,” Fern said. She paused to take a sip of her wine. When she spoke again, her voice was stronger, steadier. “Have you ever held a subordinate against a wall...”
“No,” Ned said.
“And have you ever taken a letter opener...”
Ned’s eyes squinted in suspicion. “No. No I haven’t.” But Maire could see that the words struck a chord with him. “This is getting ridiculous,” he said, looking at the others for support.
No one met his gaze. Samuel rubbed his hand across his scalp. Camille couldn’t take her eyes away from Fern’s face. Maire watched, a shroud of dread settling over her.
Fern forged on as if in a trance. “And ran that letter opener along her thigh, drawing blood...and using that letter opener to cut a subordinate’s underwear from her body...”
“No!” Ned shouted, his face reddening. “You better shut your mouth right now. This is defamation. I’ll fucking sue you.” He slammed his fist against the table, sending ripples through the wine in their glasses.
But Fern raised her voice to match Ned’s. “And using that letter opener, cut the subordinate’s underwear from her body, even though she was crying, begging you to stop?”
Maire wasn’t sure she had heard Fern correctly. A letter opener? She felt sick.
“No, I did not,” Ned said, folding his arms across his chest. “That never happened.”
