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I watched as James wrapped Max’s belt around her neck and pulled, pulled, pulled. First her lips turn blue and then the rest of her face.
Eventually—this part never takes as long as I want it to— she passes out. It turns me on, the way my husband tied her wrists to the bed using Max’s ties. He uses that new knot he spoke of months ago; I know because it’s one I’ve never seen. It’s amazing how things come full circle.
“Do you want to do the honors?” James asked, once she was proudly splayed on the bed. That’s always been his favorite part, the set up.
“No.”
He nodded his gratitude. “I’m sorry, Laurel. I know this took a little longer than you wanted.” He looked remorseful. Almost sullen. “But you know I could never love another woman the way I love you.”
“I know.”
“She didn’t mean anything to me.”
“I know.”
He studied her carefully. I could see he was committing her to memory. Sometimes I think that’s where al
l the good stuff lies, in the past.
“It was you with the bird, wasn’t it?”
“No,” he said.
It was a test, and I was grateful he’d passed. It couldn’t have been him. Because it was me—with the bird and with the cat and with all the rest. What I really needed was a good story, something that would sell. Something that would make sense for a man as meticulous as Max Hastings.
“I’m going to miss her,” James remarked. “She was one of the crazier ones, for sure.”
“Is she dead?”
He looked over at me. Sweat beaded at his brow. He checked her pulse. “Almost.”
“It’s time to put this to bed.”
He sighed heavily. He wasn’t ready for it to be over. He wanted to delay the rush.
I checked the time. “James.”
Finally, he gripped Max’s belt, cupped his gloved hand over her face, and gave it his all. I don’t know that I’ll ever not think of that belt and feel some sense of satisfaction. It represented endurance and stamina. The ability to hang in there. All things one needs in a marriage. Sadly, though, not for Nina Hastings. I don’t mean to make it sound like she didn’t put up a good fight. She really, really did.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
“I think we should talk more about that night.”
I don’t have to ask Dr. Jones which of them she is referring to. I know. This is the way she works. Forward and backward, winding this way and that way, any way she can, to try and trip me up. Her, with her patronizing glare and her ever-assessing nature. I understood this. Not so long ago, I lived out my days this way too. Always evaluating, making endless judgment calls.
“The night your wife was murdered. Let’s go back there,” she said, making it personal. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, only to cross them again. “You went home after work?” she asked, chewing at her pencil, like a dog onto a scent, relentless and unmovable. “Briefly.”
“Nina had texted me and asked me to meet her at the Belmond.”
“In other words, you had been caught.”
“That’s what I assumed, yes.”
“Why did you go?”
