Chapter 2

"Is it really that hard to believe?" I watched the flames break down the firewood. "A gambler loses his humanity long before he loses his last dollar. 'Father' is just a biological technicality."

Richard scoffed. He picked up his wine and settled back against the cushions.

"Arthur was a parasite." I kept my voice entirely conversational. "Drugs, cards, betting slips. He owed the local syndicates more than his life was worth. "

"Mom ran when I was ten. I came home from school every day checking our front door for fresh red paint. Half the time, I walked into the living room to find armed debt collectors smoking on our couch."

Richard frowned. He crossed his arms over his bare chest. "Poverty is ugly. We all know that. But that’s your excuse for murder?"

"No." I shifted my gaze from the fire directly to his eyes. "That wasn't enough."

I let a beat pass.

"It was the rainy Friday."

Richard’s fingers twitched against his thigh.

"He brought a box home. Inside was a red dress." I watched Richard's Adam's apple bob. "He told me he found a generous investor. A simple dinner date, and all the debt would be wiped clean. I was naïve. He used to carry me on his shoulders when I was five. I actually believed a father wouldn't serve his teenage daughter to a stranger."

Richard swallowed heavily.

His hand drifted up, tugging at the collar of his open shirt. "And the result?"

"The docks. A luxury yacht."

I locked my eyes on his. I tracked the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"There was no investor. Just five rich boys in their early twenties. They wore animal masks to hide their faces, but didn't bother hiding the cocaine on the glass table or the stacks of hundred-dollar bills."

Richard stood up abruptly. He left his wine untouched on the marble table. He walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows, putting his back to me. The storm raged outside, throwing sheets of rain against the glass.

"This is a cliché, Eve," he said to the window. His voice came out tight. Forced. "You're pitching me a cheap B-movie plot."

"Does it sound cheap?" I asked. "Arthur took his stack of hundreds. He walked down the gangway and didn't look back once. The engines started. We hit international waters."

Richard didn't move. His shoulders were completely rigid.

"The leader wore a gold-plated wolf mask." I kept my tone light. Casual. "He grabbed me by the back of the skull. Forced half a bottle of vodka down my throat to stop the screaming. And then—"

"Enough!"

Richard whipped around. Lightning flashed, casting harsh shadows across his suddenly pale face.

"I don't need the grotesque details," he snapped. "Change the subject."

I stood up. I walked across the plush carpet, closing the physical distance between us.

"Why stop now, darling?" I reached up and adjusted his crooked collar. My knuckles brushed the skin of his neck. It was clammy. "This is my deepest secret. You demanded absolute honesty."

He didn't pull away. He stared down at me, his breathing shallow.

"I almost died on that deck," I whispered, standing inches from his face. "They dumped me on the freezing sand three hours before dawn. Two cracked ribs. Torn tissue. I crawled two miles back to our apartment."

Richard locked his jaw. A vein pulsed violently in his neck.

"Guess what I saw when I opened the door?"

He refused to answer.

"Arthur was counting the cash." A genuine smile broke across my face. "He looked at the blood soaking my red dress and said, 'They want you back next week. I asked for double the rate.'"

Richard took a distinct step backward. His shoulders hit the cold glass of the window.

The arrogant amusement was entirely gone from his features. He stared at me like he was seeing me for the first time. The bedtime story was over. The confession was real.

"So you killed him." Richard cleared his throat. He forced his chin up, trying desperately to claw back his authority in the room. "With what? A kitchen knife? Slipped rat poison in his beer?"

"That's sloppy. The police check the beer. They find the knife."

I walked back to the sofa and sat down, smoothing the torn edges of my robe.

"Getting rid of a full-grown male corpse requires patience. You have to be creative. You have to weave the horror right into mundane, everyday life."

A deep, wet gurgle echoed in the quiet room.

It came from Richard’s abdomen.

He folded in half instantly. Both hands clamped over his stomach. He let out a sharp hiss of pain.

"What's wrong, darling?" I tilted my head.

He took a ragged breath and forced himself upright. A fresh sheen of sweat coated his forehead.

"Nothing. The steak at the rehearsal dinner." He pressed two fingers against his temple, looking suddenly unsteady on his feet. "It wasn't fresh."

He dragged himself to the single armchair and dropped heavily into the cushions. His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the armrests.

"Keep going," he demanded. His voice dropped an octave, strained and thick. "Tell me exactly how you disposed of the body."