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“I was.”
“Nailed it," she mumbled into her ice cream.
“Is there anything else you need, young madam?”
“Why do you call me young madam?”
“It’s sufficiently formal without being too formal.”
“You could call me Mrs. Roth. That’s my proper title. Because I’m married to him. And if he divorces me, I get half his stuff. Probably half your stuff too. I mean. I probably get you. You're a chattel, aren’t you?
“I am not a chattel, young madam.”
“Another bottle of wine, please, Smithers.”
“I think you've had enough.”
“I don’t think that’s your decision.
“I think it is," Smithers replied. He had steel grey eyes which were quite striking in their particular and unique way. They had a way of making Sophie feel like a fucking mess in comparison to his carefully curated exterior. There was not a hair out of place, though to be fair that would be easy with hair as short as his.
It was more an energy than a physical thing. He was just so… fucking together, and right when she was falling apart. It felt almost like an insult for someone to be so, not a massive fuck up.
She was dead inside. She felt like a deflated balloon, all empty and saggy and probably going to be flushed into a drain and then out to sea to clog up something out there. Apparently, she'd almost killed her husband. Nothing was safe. Even she wasn't safe.
“You know this isn't even my actual face?”
“You’ve had enough wine.”
“He made me cut my face off, and he married me without telling me, and he gets shot once and I’m the bad guy. I mean. Come on!”
She poured herself another glass of chardonnay, lifted it to her lips, took a sip, and then swung it dramatically away as another thought hit her.
“He should trust me!”
He should trust her. He should believe she’d never hurt him on purpose. If she had shot him, it had to have been an accident somehow. But she didn't understand how, and neither did anybody else, and the wine was making her very, very dizzy…
She felt Smithers’ arms beneath her as she was carried off to bed, completely and utterly unable to walk or do more than slur a few incoherent sentences.
Chapter 32
“I hope you’re looking after her, Smithers." Alex’s voice was commanding, but raspy. As much as he was trying to sound strong, it was obvious that he was far from recovered. There was a painful wheeze which followed the words.
“I am, sir. She’s been a handful, but largely obedient. She wishes for me to tell you she's very sorry, and…”
“She's more than a handful. Don’t let her out of your sight. Don’t trust her for a single second. She’s not who she seems. And she’s not who she doesn't seem. She could be anything.”
“So far there have been no real problems, sir.”
“Make sure nobody is coming or going. Make sure nobody gets to her. Make sure she doesn’t text, email, instagram…”
“She doesn't have a phone, sir.”
"She could have one secretly. Search her room. Have security search the house. And search her. Make sure there are no communication devices of any kind. Take the flags too. She might try to use them for semaphore.”
“Should I remove all surfaces she could tap on? Or lights? Morse code is a constant risk.”
“Don't get complacent. Or sarcastic. That girl gut shot me on my wedding day. To her. She’s a monster.”
“She continues to deny it.”
“I saw her do it with my eyes, Smithers. There's nothing to debate.”
“Will you be discharged from the hospital soon, sir?”
“The doctor says I have to stay here for at least another three days. After that, I’ll be recuperating in a private, secret location.”
“Will you be coming to collect…”
“You're on babysitting duty. Of course the baby is a would-be black widow who shot me in front of thousands of people and somehow got away with it.”
“He’s still mad, huh.”
Understatement of the year right there.
Sophie wasn’t supposed to be listening in, but there was nothing to do but listen. The house was silent most of the time, and voices carried, especially when they were on speakerphone, which Alex's had been.
“Very,” Smithers confirmed. “It may take more than a week for him to begin to forgive you. People tend to be in bad moods when their intestines have been perforated.”
“You know I didn't mean to shoot him. I mean, I didn’t shoot him. I have no memory of that, and I feel like I would know if I had shot my husband.”
“You don’t have to plead your case to me, Sophie. I’m not a judge.”
She nodded sadly, then her head snapped up, eyes bright.
“You called me Sophie. Not young madam.”
“I did.”
“Cool. That’s cool. My husband hates me, but you’re warming to me slightly, so hey. I’m living in a mansion all alone with a guy who occasionally uses my name. Fucking yay.”
