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“Sounds good. Don’t worry. I’ll be able to get out by myself.”
I have no doubt about that. So long as Marcel does what he’s supposed to do, she’ll be free and clear. Unless Quinton gets so sick, she’s afraid to leave him alone—but that wouldn’t be my fault, would it? That would fall on Marcel’s shoulders for giving him too much of whatever it is he’s going to dose him with.
“Cool. It’ll be nice to hang out one-on-one. You want to meet here, in front of the library?”
Her head bobs up and down. “That sounds great. I think it’ll be fun.”
Sure, it will. Just not for her.
* * *
For once,something is going my way. In a strange turn of events, Lucas turned in earlier than usual, closing his bedroom door before the clock struck ten thirty, leaving me in the guest room.
It gave me plenty of time to prepare myself for this. I was so nervous, I almost forgot to bring a blanket. Not that I’m going to need it. As soon as Marcel deals with her, I intend to head straight back to the apartment as quickly and quietly as possible. But I have to keep up appearances until we reach the sunroom.
This is it. The homestretch. All I have to do is follow the plan.
Still, my heart pounds the entire way to the library as I trot down empty halls. What if Quinton was so sick that she couldn’t leave him? What if she’s only going to meet me long enough to tell me before she heads back to nurse him? That wouldn’t be my fault. I have to keep that in mind. And if we need to come up with a new plan, that’s not my fault, either.
I never thought the sight of her would bring me relief, but that’s what I feel when I catch sight of her waiting for me in front of the closed library doors. “I didn’t think I would be able to get away,” she confesses in a whisper before we head for the sunroom. “Quinton isn’t feeling very well. He just went to bed before I left.”
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask since that’s what people do at times like this.
“Some kind of stomach thing. I’m sure he’ll be fine by tomorrow.” Well, gee, isn’t that a relief? As if I care. “Anyway, it made it easier for me to get away. Does that make me a bad wife? It feels like it does.”
“The way I used to overhear my aunt and her friends talking about their men, that’s nothing.” She actually giggles at that, and I can’t help but laugh, too. Poor, delusional thing.
I have to admit, the sunroom is pretty impressive, but that’s the case with most of this place. Everything is done on a big scale, and this room is no exception. “Wow, there are actual trees and stuff,” I say in a whisper as we enter.
“I know, right? I really love coming here and sitting in the sunshine when I get a chance. You should join me sometime. We can just hang out and read.” The happiness in her voice almost makes me feel guilty. I have to remind myself why I’m doing this, and that guilt dissolves. She’s getting what she deserves.
“Sure. That sounds good.” I raise my voice enough that anybody waiting in the shadows or behind a tree can hear me. Is he here? It’s a couple of minutes past eleven. He’d better be if there’s any hope of this working.
She starts to spread out her blanket, and I guess I should, too. I don’t know what Marcel is planning or how he’s going to surprise her, but I need to play along until it happens or else risk her running away.
He doesn’t keep me waiting long. I’m straightening out my blanket when I catch sight of movement from the corner of my eye. I have to pretend I don’t notice so she won’t have a clue. She’s too busy talking, anyway.
Meanwhile, Marcel is sneaking out from behind a tree, creeping toward us. This is it. It’s finally happening.
I glance toward him. He’s carrying a syringe in one hand, moonlight glinting off the needle as he moves silently. Every muscle in my body is tense, my senses on high alert. I can practically hear my hair growing. It’s happening, and it’s out of my hands. This is what she deserves.
She finally gets her blanket situated, then plops down next to me—before her jaw drops. “Quinton?” she blurts out, scrambling to her knees again.
At first, I think she must be confused until the sound of two bodies colliding grabs my attention. They’re moving too fast for me to understand right away what’s happening, but soon it becomes clear.
He followed her. The son of a bitch followed her anyway.
And now he’s got Marcel in a headlock, cutting off his oxygen. “I’ll kill you, motherfucker,” Quinton grunts while they struggle. Aspen and I both cry out, but for different reasons, as he pulls the syringe from Marcel’s hand before plunging it into his neck. Marcel gasps, grunts, then goes limp.
It’s over. It was never going to work in the first place.
A gray-faced, sweating Quinton glares at me, Marcel’s unconscious body at his feet. “Now,” he pants, “let’s talk about your part in all this.”
