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No one knew about her private therapy sessions with Wingo, nor did anyone know how he had gladly paid cash. No one knew why Wingo was really at her office the day after Christmas. Camille made sure of that. No, this wasn’t Wingo’s death certificate, it couldn’t be, but it made her think of him.
Camille followed the sinuous corridor past shut doors and shuttered windows trying to push thoughts of Wingo aside. She made turn after turn until she was hopelessly lost. The estate was even larger than she thought. What kind of person lived here? she wondered. There were no personal photos or children’s artwork, no indication that a family lived here. So, who did?
The corridor curved once more, and she was back at the grand staircase. She must have walked in a complete circle. Camille put one hand on the iron railing and felt it rock slightly beneath her fingers. Dangerous, she thought.
A crash came from below, followed by a shout. Camille froze, waiting for more, but she was met with silence. Her heart skittered. Was it a cry of pain or surprise? She wasn’t sure.
From the direction of the bedroom, Camille heard tentative footsteps. “What’s going on?” Maire whispered.
“I don’t know,” Camille said, trying to peer into the shadows below. “I thought I heard someone yell.”
Maire leaned over the railing to get a better look, the wrought iron tilting with the movement, and Camille pulled her back. “Careful there, the railing’s loose.”
“Thanks,” Maire said. “I heard yelling too. Do you think we should go down there?”
“Shh,” Camille ordered. “Listen.”
Another far-off cry drifted up to them, again followed by a crash.
With a start, Maire grabbed Camille’s arm. Her eyes were wide, frightened. Camille chewed her lip as if deciding what to do. “Ned? Samuel?” Camille asked.
Maire shook her head. “I think they’re still in the bedroom. What should we do?”
The quiet was what spurred Camille down the steps. She nearly lost her footing on the slick marble but grabbed the iron railing before she fell. Behind her, Camille heard the clatter of footsteps. Maire was coming too. Whatever she was walking in on, she wouldn’t be alone.
Once at the bottom, Camille spun around, trying to decide which direction to go.
“That way,” Maire said, pointing toward the courtyard. They rushed forward and Camille pushed through the front door.
The fog had lifted, and the white glow of the moon spilled onto the courtyard floor where the marble statue of Aphrodite had been knocked from its pillar. Its disembodied head came to a slow stop at Camille’s feet.
The senator had Fern pinned against the stone wall, his hands around her throat. Her eyes bulged as she searched wildly around the space, landing on Camille. Her fingers clawed desperately to loosen his grip, but he held fast.
Camille couldn’t move. It was as if her feet were lodged in cement. She must have emitted a sound because the senator looked over his shoulder, his eyes feverish, his face a mask of rage.
Fern’s face was turning blue, her arms dropping uselessly to her side as she began to lose consciousness.
“What are you doing? Stop!” Maire yelled as the two women spurred into action.
This time, the senator didn’t even glance their way. If anything, his knuckles whitened as he pressed his fingers against Fern’s throat.
“Let go,” Camille cried, pulling at the senator’s arm. He reeled back, striking Camille in the face, and she stumbled backward.
Fern went limp and slid to the floor; the desperate gurgling sounds she had been making moments before stopped. Momentarily shocked by the senator’s backhand, Camille watched as Maire shoved him to the ground and then grabbed one of Fern’s arms and began dragging her to safety.
“What the hell?” came a man’s bewildered voice. Camille glanced up. Samuel. But the senator wasn’t done yet. He was back on his feet and his eyes, glittering with rage, were still fixed on Fern.
“Stop him,” Fern begged through clenched teeth.
“Hey, man,” Samuel said, stepping between the senator and the women. “Take it easy.”
“Take it easy?” the senator laughed. “Take it easy? She ruined my life,” he said, pointing a shaky finger at Fern, who was gasping for breath. “Fucking bitch,” he muttered and once again lunged toward Fern.
“Whoa,” Samuel cried, snagging the senator around the waist and, in one swift motion, bringing the older man down to the ground, one arm wrenched behind his back. Maire left Camille with Fern and added the full force of her weight against the senator’s legs until he stopped struggling. The only sound was their collective heavy breathing. The rancid odor of sweat and liquor rolled off the senator.
Camille, her cheek red from where the senator struck her, stood over them, a sharp shard of broken marble in her hand, ready to pounce if Crowley escaped.
“Why?” Fern rasped, massaging her fingers against her neck, already beginning to wreath with bruises. She crawled away from Maire and staggered unsteadily to her feet, trying to smooth the wrinkles from her white dress and leaving red smears of blood behind. “I don’t understand.”
