Page 5 of One of Us Is Guilty

He gazed at her wily, crooked mouth, her bright thick lips, white teeth, the dimple on her chin when she smiled at him, and her brown eyes, flecked with tiny golden sparkles. Her dark, wet hair dripped onto her shoulders, rivulets of water running down her neck, collecting in the well of her throat, and then tumbling over her chest and down to the floor.

She looked so good. So innocent.

But it was only a look. It was only what she wanted Patrick to see.

Now her lips, her eyes, her beauty, her soft words – it was all a lie.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ she asked.

Patrick said nothing. He merely nodded.

He was definitely not okay.

His tongue was hard against the back of his clenched teeth. He suddenly realized his whole body was as tense as a compressed spring, his breath trapped in his chest, fists clenched. An electric heat spread over him, from his belly up over his neck and down across his back.

In a curious moment, Patrick was suddenly very aware of how he must look. His control was slipping. He had seen the same look on the face of his father, Julian, many times. Usually right before Patrick was beaten, or that one occasion . . .

When his father had slowly put out his cigar on Patrick’s shoulder. The smell, the pain, and the look of satisfaction in his father’s eyes had never left him.

The memory of that scar still burned him, even today. The same scar Molly thought had been a gunshot.

Molly’s gaze never left his as she took a step back, as if she had suddenly found herself face to face with a growling guard dog. He could see the alarm in her beautiful brown eyes. She moved slowly, carefully. Maybe it was instinct, but her hands reached out in front of her as if to placate him. Her chest began to swell and quickly deflate as her breath quickened.

A metallic taste flooded his mouth. His vision seemed to zoom in on Molly, everything else around him blurred.

Something deep and dark inside Patrick had snapped.

Patrick’s life was all about control. That’s what money bought, ultimately. The ability to determine his life in any way that he chose.

He took a step toward her.

In that moment, he knew he no longer had control.

No control over Molly.

No control over his life.

No control of his broken heart.

No control of himself.

Emotions are weakness. And they had overwhelmed him.

Now, there was only pain and anger.

The perfect mix for murder.

THE NIGHT OF THE MURDER

Vanessa Vanderpool

She had been parked in the back of this lot for at least a couple of hours now. She couldn’t risk the heater. The engine coming to life in her Mercedes would automatically turn on the lights, illuminating her face.

She didn’t want anyone to know she was here.

Didn’t want anyone to see the cold tears that had streaked her face.

She pulled down the sun visor, opened the vanity mirror. Instantly, a small light flicked on.