I retrieve the last piece of jewelry from the safe, the satchel so full the zipper refuses to close. I hand the bag to Preston, and he can’t resist taking a peek inside.
“Unbelievable. All this is just sitting in some closet,” he says. “How much do you think it’s worth?”
“Enough you won’t have to rely on your wife’s business anymore.”
“Smartass comments aren’t necessary, Tippi.” His expressionhardens. He reaches into his jacket pocket, retrieving the gun. “Take out your phone. You need to transfer the funds to my account.”
I comply but remind him, “We don’t have service. Or internet.”
“Fuck.”
“You might have to wait—”
“I’m not waiting for shit,” he says. “Enough has happened already. You’re stuck with me until the transfer goes through.”
“What are you going to tell the police when they arrive?”
“We’ll stick to the story about Damien,” he says. “Everything else stays between us. I’m willing to keep your dark secrets if you can keep mine.”
“What dark secrets?”
Ava stands in the doorway, her gaze shifting from me to Preston to the gun in his hand. We lock eyes, a dozen different questions reverberating between our stares, paralyzing fear looming over them all.
42
Ava appears uncharacteristically smallstanding in the doorway, all color drained from her cheeks, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Preston, what the hell are you doing?” she asks. “Stop pointing that at her!”
He puts the gun behind his back, but beyond that, he’s unable to deliver a response right away. His hesitation allows me the chance to get Ava on my side, before he clouds her mind with more lies.
“Damien isn’t the blackmailer,” I say. “Preston is.”
At first, she scoffs, the idea too bizarre to be believed. She studies her husband with shimmering eyes as if she’s seeing him—the real him—for the first time. I remember having that experience with Oliver in this very room.
Ava’s voice wavers when she speaks. “Is that true?”
“Tippi is delusional.” It’s unnerving how calm Preston sounds, how he’s been able to harness his ability to manipulate over the years, his confidence that anything can be spun in his favor.
“She’s not the one holding a gun,” she says, plainly, her response equally chilling.
“Tippi has been lying to you. She’s been lying to all of us. She—”
“Ava knows I killed Oliver,” I tell him, pleased that whatever speech he’s been improvising has been cut short.
Preston’s pupils dilate with surprise. “You told her?”
“She found your card upstairs,” I say. “The one with the picture.”
Ava’s expression shifts as she no doubt recalls the shock of finding the photograph and hearing my confession. The pause gives Preston time to recover.
“Then you understand. She’s a murderer, Ava.”
“Tippi told me why she killed Oliver,” she says. “She said he was stealing from her. That he killed his first wife. He even threatened to kill Marmee.”
“She’s lying. She—”
“Everything I told you was true, Ava,” I plead with her. “Preston was working with him and splitting the profits.”
