Page 125 of One of Us Is Guilty

‘Okay, I can do that. Any reason?’

‘Best if you don’t know,’ said Eddie.

They talked for another ten minutes, making sure she was okay,that she could hold it together for the rest of the trial, then Eddie and Harry left.

As she closed the door to the hotel room, and listened for their footfalls as they walked away down the hall, she turned and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. She had lost weight, her cheekbones sharper than they had been since she was in her teens. So much for trying to keep her make-up intact. Her face was a mess with tears.

She stood in front of the mirror.

Shaking.

She wiped her face, smearing the make-up further, and then returned to the bedroom.

Voss was standing there, waiting for her.

‘I heard everything,’ said Voss. ‘Do I have to remind you what will happen if you accuse your husband of this murder?’

Vanessa shook her head.

‘I think I do,’ said Voss. ‘If you tell that jury Patrick was having an affair, if you tell them he’s a violent man, if you tell them you think he killed Molly . . .’

‘I know how dangerous my husband can be. Trust me,’ said Vanessa.

Voss collected her coat, buttoned it and marched out of Vanessa’s room, letting the door slam closed behind her.

Vanessa lay down on the bed, breathed in and out. The pressure in her head had been building for hours and now it felt like it would explode.

How long could she keep lying to Flynn?

More importantly, how long could she keep lying to Voss?

If you lie to everyone, sooner or later, you will be found out. She told herself she had to hang on for just a little while longer. Flynn was smarter than Voss, and he was going to find out all about Molly Green.

Her only hope was to pray that Flynn didn’t figure everythingout. She wanted to trust him. If it came right down to it, she would have to tell him the truth.

But not yet.

Flynn was a lawyer, but he wasn’t like other lawyers. He had a good heart and a moral code. His ethics were clear, he knew right from wrong and he couldn’t be bought, but his judgement was twisted somehow. He did what he thought was right and the law be damned. She knew he would lie and manipulate witnesses, and do whatever he had to in order to protect her.

How would he react if she had to tell him she was a killer?

52

Patrick

‘Home’ is a strange word, thought Patrick.

For some it is a comfort. It’s a warm blanket they wrap around themselves.

For others, it is a needle of ice being scraped across their skin. It is fear, it is danger, it is the creeping dread that lives in the pit of their stomach.

For Patrick,homewas something else. Something more complicated. Unlike most people, as a result of his father’s insane wealth, home wasn’t rooted in a specific house or apartment. There were many properties that his parents lived in depending on his father’s career priorities and the time of year. Later, he would learn that their locations were also influenced by whichever woman his father was enjoying an affair with at any particular moment.

Whatever genetic advantages Patrick had, in terms of looks especially, came from his mother, June. She had been a model, of course, because his father wouldn’t really have been interested in her otherwise. For Julian, it wasn’t enough that a woman was beautiful, she had to be known for her beauty and desired by others. His choice of partners was then driven just as much by status as everything else. He was a self-made billionaire, but Patrick wondered how much of that skinny kid whose first job was hauling paper in a printingworks remained in his father. Perhaps a lot. He had a chip on his shoulder the size of Nebraska.

Julian had already ditched his first wife when he met June, who would go on to be married to Julian for seven years and then secure her place as the reigning champion among the sorority of ex-Mrs. Vanderpools that littered the planet. Or at least she would have, if she had survived. Divorce was on the cards at the time. Even at six years old, he had seen the signs. The fights got more brutal. His mother would unsuccessfully hide bruises on her arms, neck and shoulders. He liked to watch her put on her make-up in the morning, standing at the door to the bedroom. She would sit at her dressing table and pat concealer and foundation onto her bruises. One time, he tripped over his own feet in their garden at the house in Los Angeles, and the next day a purple bruise appeared over his kneecap and shin.

‘That looks sore, honey,’ said his mom.