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Luke sits next to me and takes my hand as we watch the sparkling Eiffel Tower. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“That’s the plan.” At least, I think it is.
We eat a dinner of roast duck and roast vegetables whose main ingredient seems to be butter. I don’t mind one bit, and the fresh bread alongside it only adds to my enjoyment. I’ll be heavier on the trip back home. Home. I used to think my room at my parents’ house was my home. They kept me in there most of the time, locked away like a princess in a tower. But I wasn’t the innocent, sad sort who was waiting for her prince. I had plans to escape, to make my dreams come true, and to do it on my own. But—I stare at Luke as he wipes his mouth, his wedding ring shining on his finger—I suppose fate had other designs.
I groan as I eat the last bite of my chocolate mousse.
“Full?” He reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“If I eat another bite, I may be the one who dies tonight instead of you.”
“Is it tonight?” He seems interested, though I can hear the teasing in his voice. “What’s your plan?”
“You’ll like it better if the end comes as a surprise, don’t you think?” I smile, and I think he knows full well I have no scheme to take his life tonight. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t coming. Just not this evening.
“You’re right, my little vixen.” He brushes his lips over my knuckles. “Surprise me.” Standing, he pulls me up. “But I have a surprise for you first.”
11
LUKE
She walks with me through the main living area of the penthouse.
Rubbing her belly, she sighs. “I’m going to be ten pounds heavier when we get back home.” She wrinkles her nose. “I mean, tomy house. Not, you know, home. With you.”
“Sure.” I keep walking until we come to the double doors that lead to the formal sitting room.
She squeezes my fingers, and her gaze is content as she glances over at me. What she just said—what’s that called? A Freudian slip? Her home is with me, and we will fill it with love and children. She’s right to think of it as home.
“What’s in there?” She peers at the white doors with the crystal handles.
“The surprise.” I let go of her hand and push the doors inward, then watch as her eyes open wide and she hurries in.
“Is this the Caravaggio?” She stares up at the painting, all the lights in the room specially turned and shining on it.
“Yes. It’s on loan from its museum in Rome.” I watch her closely. This painting isn’t one she’s pinned on her Pinterest like the Klimt, but it is one she visited online at two particular times in her past. One was when she tried to strangle her piano tutor. The other, when she went after her French teacher. This painting is a gamble, one I hope will pay off. I stay silent as she looks at it, moving closer until she’s so close to it that I wonder if she can feel the disdain in Judith’s eyes as she beheads the Syrian general Holofernes.
The painting is violent, gory, and tells of a woman’s vengeance on a man who harmed her. Why would she visit it online after each of her violent bouts? I have my suspicions, and now I must wait for her to put words to them.
She stares for a long time as I stand behind her, my hands on her hips. When her shoulders shake, I pull her to me and simply hold her as she tries to stifle her tears. It doesn’t work, and she lifts her hands to her cheeks and wipes them away. I want to turn her to me, to soothe her, but she needs this release, this way of channeling her emotions.
After a long while, her shoulders stop shaking and she takes a deep, cleansing breath.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I kiss her crown.
“No.” She swallows hard. “But I guess I should.”
“It might take away the hurt,” I gently suggest.
“Mr. Girard.” She wipes her cheeks again, but tilts her head up, looking at the painting. “He taught piano. He came to the house every Tuesday and Thursday. The sixth Thursday—I remember because he’d taught me to play Row Your Boat and I was so excited to show him I’d learned it—he came and watched me play. Then he ran his hand up my skirt.”
I try to keep my breathing calm, to relax, to be strong for her even as the rage begins to burn inside me like the guts of a dormant, but violent volcano. I keep my silence as she wrestles with her next words.
“I fought him off and told my mom, but she said he was the best piano teacher in the state and that I was making excuses to get out of tutoring. So he came back on Tuesday.” She tangles her fingers together, her anxiety telegraphing through her. “And I was ready for him.”
“You did well,” I coo.
She turns, her watery eyes a dagger to my heart. “I wanted to kill him, but I wasn’t strong enough.”
