armchair with a tumbler of Macallan in her hand. Sheâd left the bottle downstairs. Pouring more would therefore require a journey, though hardly one arduous enough to keep her away. Not with what she was about to watch.
Appearance and reality could be poles apart. As Brenda stared, wild-eyed, at film of herself from a long-ago summer day, her heart filled with bitterness. She was lounging in a chair beside the pool at the house in Sagaponack, holding the ever-present glass of wine, waving off the person holding the camera. Whoâd been behind the lens? She and Lester and Philippe were all on the screen, so it wasnât any of them, but she couldnât remember. A long time ago, and she looked so young. Brendaâs dark glasses obscured her face, so she couldnât read her own expression. Anybody watching the woman in the lounge chair would assume she was happy. The luxury of the surroundings, the glory of the day. It would take a real cancer, growing silently and out of sight, to wreck a life as charmed as hers had been. The camera panning to the grass court, catching the satisfying thwack of racket on ball as her husband and stepson played tennis, couldnât see such stealthy evil. The three of them looked the very picture of a happy, loving family.
The thought that the cancer might have been her own addictions briefly occurred to Brenda, but she pushed it away.
Before she knew it, sheâd watched a lot of videos, and the bottle of Macallan sat empty beside her on the glass table. Here was Philippe washing the Jaguar, older now, nourishing his secret resentments, plotting against her. And the various women whoâd wandered through their weekends, flirting openly with her husband in front of her like she was an irrelevant old hag. Why hadnât she left sooner? Why had she tortured herself in that way? Because it gave her a bitter satisfaction to keep tabs on Lester, to stand in his way and frustrate him, to outmaneuver whatever womanâor womenâpretended to the throne that year.
Ah, yes, there was that one. Brenda couldnât even remember her name, that girl whoâd been the cause of so much trouble. Sheâd been named for one of the virtues, but which one? Faith, maybe, or Hope. Not Chastity: Brenda would have remembered the irony if that had been the case. The camera had loved the girl, or somebody had, because there was a hell of a lot of footage of her from that summer. There she was sitting at the teak table, eating an ice-cream cone, sticking out a pink tongue coated with vanilla as Philippe gazed at her with adoration. And there she was in a tiny bikini, getting pushed into the swimming pool by Lester, the frank invitation evident in her every giggle and squeal.
The bottle was empty, but Brenda had her wits enough about her to realize that it was time to go. Sheâd agreed to meet Bob at that diner to escape the watchful eyes of Evan Diamond. Evan, who had his fingers in everything. But Brenda had figured out a bargain she could make with Mephistopheles. Evan on her side was better than Evan as an enemy, that much she was beginning to figure out.
Brenda grasped the arms of the chair and hauled herself up with both hands, not minding the darkness that came across her vision or the numbness that she felt cascading from her teeth to her toes. Oldjunkies didnât get high anymore; the best they could hope for was to feel blank. But as Brendaâs eyes cleared, her hearing sharpened, too, and she became aware ofâ¦wait a minute, could it be? Footsteps in the hallway? When had they started? Could she be hallucinating on a few glasses of single malt? That must be it. All that muck in her system from years gone by, combined with some truly fine liquor.
But the steps were coming closer. Now it sounded like two people. Two men. She heard voices. But she wasnât imagining it. They were in her apartment.
15
S hekeya Jenkins wheeled the cart into the windowless
Appearance and reality could be poles apart. As Brenda stared, wild-eyed, at film of herself from a long-ago summer day, her heart filled with bitterness. She was lounging in a chair beside the pool at the house in Sagaponack, holding the ever-present glass of wine, waving off the person holding the camera. Whoâd been behind the lens? She and Lester and Philippe were all on the screen, so it wasnât any of them, but she couldnât remember. A long time ago, and she looked so young. Brendaâs dark glasses obscured her face, so she couldnât read her own expression. Anybody watching the woman in the lounge chair would assume she was happy. The luxury of the surroundings, the glory of the day. It would take a real cancer, growing silently and out of sight, to wreck a life as charmed as hers had been. The camera panning to the grass court, catching the satisfying thwack of racket on ball as her husband and stepson played tennis, couldnât see such stealthy evil. The three of them looked the very picture of a happy, loving family.
The thought that the cancer might have been her own addictions briefly occurred to Brenda, but she pushed it away.
Before she knew it, sheâd watched a lot of videos, and the bottle of Macallan sat empty beside her on the glass table. Here was Philippe washing the Jaguar, older now, nourishing his secret resentments, plotting against her. And the various women whoâd wandered through their weekends, flirting openly with her husband in front of her like she was an irrelevant old hag. Why hadnât she left sooner? Why had she tortured herself in that way? Because it gave her a bitter satisfaction to keep tabs on Lester, to stand in his way and frustrate him, to outmaneuver whatever womanâor womenâpretended to the throne that year.
Ah, yes, there was that one. Brenda couldnât even remember her name, that girl whoâd been the cause of so much trouble. Sheâd been named for one of the virtues, but which one? Faith, maybe, or Hope. Not Chastity: Brenda would have remembered the irony if that had been the case. The camera had loved the girl, or somebody had, because there was a hell of a lot of footage of her from that summer. There she was sitting at the teak table, eating an ice-cream cone, sticking out a pink tongue coated with vanilla as Philippe gazed at her with adoration. And there she was in a tiny bikini, getting pushed into the swimming pool by Lester, the frank invitation evident in her every giggle and squeal.
The bottle was empty, but Brenda had her wits enough about her to realize that it was time to go. Sheâd agreed to meet Bob at that diner to escape the watchful eyes of Evan Diamond. Evan, who had his fingers in everything. But Brenda had figured out a bargain she could make with Mephistopheles. Evan on her side was better than Evan as an enemy, that much she was beginning to figure out.
Brenda grasped the arms of the chair and hauled herself up with both hands, not minding the darkness that came across her vision or the numbness that she felt cascading from her teeth to her toes. Oldjunkies didnât get high anymore; the best they could hope for was to feel blank. But as Brendaâs eyes cleared, her hearing sharpened, too, and she became aware ofâ¦wait a minute, could it be? Footsteps in the hallway? When had they started? Could she be hallucinating on a few glasses of single malt? That must be it. All that muck in her system from years gone by, combined with some truly fine liquor.
But the steps were coming closer. Now it sounded like two people. Two men. She heard voices. But she wasnât imagining it. They were in her apartment.
15
S hekeya Jenkins wheeled the cart into the windowless
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