Never
A couple of months later
I patted Lone Star’s neck and rested my forehead against his for a moment. The now-thirteen-year-old stallion was even more beautiful than I remembered, his coat a shimmering chestnut, muscles rippling beneath it. He’d put on some weight since I’d returned, and his mane, once matted and clumped, now cascaded like liquid silk.
We had our little ritual, Lone Star and I, every afternoon. We’d go for a slow ride, just the two of us, on the west acres, where the land was arid and only clumpy desert shrubs and prickly pear cacti grew. I’d find us a bit of shade under a solitary tree, tie him to the trunk, and spend an hour or two reading or just dreaming—sometimes of the future, other times of the past. Then we’d go back, and I’d take another hour to groom his coat.
Today was different from our normal routine. In the distance, a truck pulling a trailer with a tractor loaded on it had stopped at the gate. A couple of men swarmed around it, getting ready to unload the tractor, a brand-new green-and-yellow beast with a diesel engine and a bunch of farming attachments. Billy Ray had pushed back when I’doffered to buy it, even if I’d told him it was on credit, but now he was yeehawing like a lunatic, dying to get behind the wheel.
Something else was different today; I was typing an email on my phone, addressed to Detective Stanek. There was no internet or cell phone coverage out there in the field, but I could still write the message that had been keeping me up at night for a while. I felt I’d left things unfinished in Vegas.
Starting to write it as a reply to an older email from the detective, I scrolled down to remind myself where we’d left off. He’d written about a week after we’d left Vegas, to tell me Colton had taken a plea and my testimony wouldn’t be necessary. During the search warrant executed on the day my charges had been dropped, they’d found enough evidence to charge him in two other cases.
I guess I never knew him at all,I told myself, wondering how someone could go from being the sweet boy I used to love to being a cold-blooded killer.
I swallowed a bitter sigh and started typing.
Detective Stanek,
It’s been a while; I hope you’re doing well.
There was one thing that didn’t sit well with me, a coincidence that was a bit too much to swallow. Going through the papers Colton Blake left at my house, I found the answer. And that answer is probably a matter for the police.
I’ll explain.
Several weeks before Winston Donovan’s death, Colton had tasked his investigator, Frank Holford, with looking into the Donovans’ past and digging up some “dirt.” Holford came back with evidence pointing at Claire Donovan’s potential involvement in the death of Emelda Donovan, Winston’s first wife. That evidence was Claire’s sealed juvie record forselling meth. She was charged and served juvie time in North Dakota, at age seventeen, which happened three years before she entered the domestic service of the Donovan household. Circumstantial, and nothing more than a coincidence, you might say, that Emelda had died of a meth overdose without ever having taken drugs. It is my strong belief she was poisoned.
The coincidence that really bothered me was that Winston was killed in the exact same way, but by a different person. Knowing now that Colton was aware of Claire’s juvie record and the way Emelda had been killed, that made me understand that Colton chose his MO after figuring out how Claire was planning to kill her husband.
You see, Detective, I left my fingerprints on that bottle ofVisineat Claire’s home when she asked me to help her put drops in her eyes, and I thought nothing of it. Two hours before Winston’s death, Claire had secured my fingerprints on the future murder weapon, planning to use it, and then Colton stole it from her.
Nevertheless, when she snuck out of the mall to visit Winston at the Cosmopolitan, I believe she had meth in her possession, and the intention to poison Winston. If you want to test my theory, her house should still have traces of the substance. She must’ve had the white dress laundered since then, but chances are, she didn’t launder the hat. The white wide-brimmed sun hat you saw in the hotel security videos. And she must have touched the strappy sandals; those things are murder to put on just right.
I’m not sure if you’ll be able to prove her attempt to kill her husband, or her role in Emelda’s murder, but there’s a retired detective in North Dakota who’s waiting for your call. His information is attached, as well as a copy of Frank Holford’s report about the Donovans.
Wishing you all the best,
Olivia
Was that going to be enough? I didn’t know, but I felt better after writing it. I knew Claire had wanted to kill Winston. In my mind, I could see the rabid fit she must’ve thrown when she went outside to take the eye drops bottle and found it gone. She must’ve screamed at her housemaid, threatened her, and then, eventually, she must’ve watched the security feed. But even that didn’t stop her.
As she’d told me herself, she’d wanted it all, and I had given it to her.
“I’m so sorry, Winston,” I whispered, feeling the sting of tears in the corners of my eyes. I touched the ring on my finger, running my fingertips over the smooth surface of the stones. I hadn’t taken it off since the day my trial had ended.
A shattered breath left my chest as I slipped the phone into my pocket. Then I leaned back, my fingers interlocked under my head, and looked at the blue sky, letting my mind wander.
I might stay awhile ... But by next year, I’d need to work again. Otherwise, I’d lose my nerve and forget how the game was played. While I was still young and beautiful. But where would I go? I let the gentle warmth of the sun touch my heart and seep into my blood, relishing the peace, and the perfect silence except for distant birdcalls and the diesel engine of a new tractor roaming the fields.
I’ve never been to Miami,I thought.Miami would be so nice. I’m sure there’s business to be had. Yes ... let’s do Miami.
I saw myself in a strappy swimsuit, splashing into the ocean off the deck of a yacht, the waters perfectly turquoise. I envisioned myselfbeing taken out to sea in a fancy speedboat, much like inMiami Vice, where James Crockett takes Isabella to Havana for mojitos.I love that scene, and the way they danced ... Aww ... I want that.
My thoughts rambled on, building, weaving, and planning, like I’d done so many times before.
Carolyn would be nice. I’ve never been a Carolyn before. Carolyn what? Let’s see ... There’s a huge shipping company there. I read about their ongoing court fights over the founder’s will. A large family, warring with each other over money. Perfect. Um ... What was their name ... Turner! That’s right. Turner. It’s a common enough name. The Turners are huge in Miami, with their shipyards and ocean freighters and whatnot.
So, Carolyn Turner, the twenty-seven-year—ahem, twenty-eight-year-old socialite. She sounds like such a catch. That’s who I’ll be. But not now. Not while I’m still grieving. Not when, in my mind, I’m still dancing with Winston.
