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17
Meredith
Islither deeper into the trees as a silhouette steps in front of the bay window of the master bedroom. My toe catches on a gnarled root, causing me to stumble backward. Before I can catch myself, my legs give out. The flask slips from my grip, bouncing off the root until eventually landing on its side, spilling half the vodka.
I amdrunk.
I roll onto my hands and knees and crawl, digging my nails into the warm, damp ground to gain traction. After scooping up the flask, I tip it up and down the rest of the contents.
Using the tree trunk for support, I scramble to my feet. My head spins, and for a moment I feel like I might pass out. Even then, a smile cracks my face.
God, I love alcohol.
My eyes burn and my heart palpitates as I try to refocus on the window and the woman standing in front of it.
Lavinia has proven to be an unexpected kink in my plan. Never mind the fact that Tristan didn’t even bother to tell me that he was planning to hire more help. Except—here’s the deal—Lavinia seems like more than just “help.” She’s emotional about Nina. I can tell. It’s weird. There appears to be a loyalty between them that makes me question her intentions.
I talked to Tristan about this. He didn’t care. He’s so done with taking care of Nina that he would have hired a pubescent teen. He told me not to worry, but I still can’t shake the feeling that Lavinia knows Nina on a deeper level than we realize. Or, at the very least, that she has ulterior motives in this house—likely something to do with Tristan’s money—and earning Nina’s allegiance is part of it.
Lavinia is a sneaky bitch, make no mistake about it. She’s a threat to me and my role in this family. Just like Mariana was.
Was.
Something rustles in the bushes behind me, and I get the sudden feeling that I’m being watched. I peek over my shoulder but see nothing except miles of trees around me, thin beams of sunlight plunging through their leaves like tiny little swords. I watch the light dance along the forest floor, a dizzying strobe of color. My gaze stops on the bench I can barely see through the trees, and beyond it, a cliff with a hundred-foot fall into a rocky ravine.
Slowly, I turn, my sandal grinding deeper into the mud.
“Shit,” I mutter, realizing my jeans are now covered in mud. My hands and fingernails are just as dirty.
I can’t let Tristan see me like this.
After tossing the empty flask over my shoulder, I backtrack through the woods and eventually make it into the house.
I’m winded and sweaty from the trek and decide that I need a Bailey’s and coffee before meeting Tristan for our afternoon tryst. A jolt of caffeine to wake me up.
By the time I step into the house, I am struggling to stay upright. I amreallydrunk.
What time is it? Ten, eleven in the morning?
My head feels disconnected from my body, my legs like rubber bands as I stagger across the great room, leaving a trail of mud on Tristan’s precious Persian rug. Unconcerned, I snort.
Mariana will clean it up.
I step into the kitchen and stop cold, grabbing the door frame for support.
Lavinia is standing over the coffeepot with a confused expression on her face.
“That’s not where the grounds go,” I slur. Releasing the door frame, I sashay into the room.
Lavinia turns, her expression foul as she takes me in. There is no mistaking how much she hates me. She’s flushed, and I wonder how long she’s been trying to figure out how to work Tristan’s coffeepot. She’s wearing a pair of baggy jeans, flip-flops, and an oversize T-shirt. The same shit she always wears. Such a boring, homely woman.
God, Ihateher.
“Move out of the way,” I say.
Lavinia doesn’t move.
I feel the heat rise up my neck. I want to spit in her ugly, different-colored-eyes face.
