Page 43 of One of Us Is Guilty

Keeping her back to him, she put the water bottle on the counter. Her head followed it down, focusing on the counter, exposing the back of her neck, and the honey and vanilla skin stretched taut over the ridge over her spine.

She shook her head. ‘I need to rest. I need to sleep,’ she said.

‘Of course. Just one thing . . .’ he said. ‘Did they mention Molly’s bracelet?’

She spun round and stared at him. Patrick didn’t want to spook her. He tried to appear as nonchalant as possible.

‘What?’ asked Vanessa. ‘What bracelet?’

‘The diamond bracelet she wore. Did they mention it?’

Without answering, she took her water bottle and was about to storm off.

Without thinking, he grabbed her upper arm, stopping her, spilling some of the water from her bottle.

‘The bracelet. Did they talk about the bracelet?’

‘No,’ she said, and tried to wrestle free. Was she lying? He tried to detect anything other than fear in her eyes.

He let her go.

What the hell was she doing? Vanessa was a survivor – he knew that at least. When they’d met, and then dated and she agreed to be married, Patrick was under no illusions. He loved her then, but part of him always questioned her love for him. That wasn’t unusual. He was rich beyond what most people could imagine. Every relationship in his life was affected by his wealth. It became a screen through which he saw the world and the world saw him. How much did anyone really love him for the man he was, and not the man his bank account made him?

Patrick was taught very little by his father. They had never played catch in the garden, never went fishing, never had a beer together, never went to a ball game together and never really talked. Not a real conversation. Julian expected him to learn by watching him. As a young man, he would shadow him as he toured the floor of the smoky newsroom, sat behind his huge desk and barked orders, and on one memorable occasion Patrick had been brought into his father’s office to witness something that would mark him for life.

He had spent the morning on the black leather couch reading his comic books while his father made calls from behind his huge desk – older and bigger than the president’s Resolute desk, or so his father had told him. Those kinds of things were important to his father.

Bigger. Stronger. Faster. More expensive.

These were the words and phrases that brought something close to happiness to his father. It wasn’t true to say he had friends, but if another billionaire bought a new yacht, or a new Bentley, then his father had to have a bigger one, a faster one, and preferably one that nobody else could have.

The desk was specially built. This was the helm of the ship that steered his father’s business.

Patrick looked up from his Superman comic to see a gray-haired man in a shiny silvery suit walk into his father’s office and take aseat in front of that slab of wood. The chair that faced his father’s desk was small and uncomfortable, forcing the occupant to sit upright. This was Mr. Cherry. Boris Cherry. The name always made Patrick smile. It was unusual and he didn’t know people could be named after fruit. He’d seen the man often at his father’s apartment and at social gatherings when Patrick had been forced to wear a necktie and pants that were way too stiff. At these events, Boris was often introduced to people asJulian’s number two, which also made Patrick giggle at first, because he didn’t know it meant Boris was almost as important as his father – he just thought it sounded like he was his father’s turd.

‘Come over here, Patrick,’ said his father.

He put down his comic and joined Julian on his side of the desk.

‘How are you, my boy?’ asked Boris with a nervous smile.

Patrick had nodded and smiled back. He didn’t talk much in those days. His father said he blabbered too much, so he had been purposely quieter in his presence.

‘How long have we known each other? Twenty years?’ asked his father.

‘Maybe longer. What’s up, Julian? Is there something I can do?’

Patrick stood by his father’s chair, his hand resting on the desk, his fingers feeling the grain of the polished wood. When his father didn’t say anything for a few seconds, Patrick got nervous. He saw Boris shifting in his seat, trying not to look scared. His father could shout a lot. And that was always scary.

‘You know I don’t have time for bullshit, Boris. You’re out. Get your fucking coat and get out of my sight,’ said his father.

The man sat still for a long time. His pale, glassy eyes were suddenly wet. The man took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, and covered his mouth as he sobbed.

‘But . . . I’ve done nothing wrong . . . I . . . I’ve always . . . My wife, my kids, how am I going to look after them?’ said the man, slobbering through his words.

Julian stared at the man. His cold, red eyes burning into the man’s flesh.

‘Look at that, Patrick. Have you ever seen anything more pathetic,’ said his father, and then pressed an orange button on the big panel of buttons on his desk phone.