Page 62 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
Merida lifted her fingers to the mark, then signed, “I was running. I fell into the hedge next door.”
She was lying. Kateri was sure of it. “Merida, don’t discount this as a prank. Threats like that are serious.”
“It wasn’t really a threat, was it? More of a warning.”
“Who would warn you? Who arethey?”
Again Merida shook her head, but she spelled, “I thought I had left everyone behind. But your sister is here.”
“She recognized you from India. She said… you were married then, and your name was Helen.”
“Yes. Nauplius created me out of the ashes. He remade me. He named me. I was his… invention.” Merida looked at her hands as if she could not believe the things she had said. “He’s dead. Someone else must be here.” Merida leaned her palms against the table, pressing hard as if she could shove her troubles away. “None of them have any reason to waste their time chasing after me. I’m not news. Nauplius’s children are vindictive and foolish, but I walked away with comparably little money and I’m not worth tracking.”
“It’s not always money.”
“No one knows that better than me.”
Kateri watched Lacey wander toward the door and lean against it as if the emotions in this room urged her out. “Do you know anyone in Virtue Falls you trust?”
Merida looked at Kateri.
“Besides me. I’m the sheriff and I’m dealing with big problems. Last night we had a woman slashed to death. Every female in this town is in danger.”
Merida nodded acknowledgment. She signed, “I do have someone I can trust. For the moment, at least. Please, concentrate and find the murderer. That is the best thing you can do now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Merida locked the door after Kateri and leaned her head against the wood. She could not believe this. It was impossible, and yet it was happening.
Damn Nauplius Brassard. Damn his soul to hell.
Going upstairs, she retrieved her laptop. She got to her browser and made a dinner reservation, then entered her code and got into her charts, her spreadsheet, her projections. She surveyed the current updates. Every indicator pointed to a rousing success, provided she took it slow and easy. But not much longer…
She pushed a few more triggers and left the program to update while she showered. She dressed in a red sleeveless shift that showed off her bird of prey tattoo to perfection. She applied makeup, maximizing her smoky blue eyes and minimizing the scratch on her cheek. Again she checked the laptop. At five, she backed up her drive, locked up the computer and put the backup in her silver Miu Miu handbag. She dug in her closet and found her red patent Fendi fuck-me heels, the heels she had promised herself she would only ever wear again in an emergency.
This qualified as an emergency.
She slid her feet into the heels, stood and silently sighed at the discomfort. She made her way downstairs to the dining room, where rows of knights held their weapons erect in, she was sure, appreciation. Without her previous hesitation, she left the safety of her rooms, locking the door behind her, and ventured out, seeking a champion. She walked to the parlor, where the guests were already gathering for their wine and appetizers, and posed in the doorway.
Conversation died.
Sean Weston loudly whispered, “Wow.”
Dawkins Cipre said, “That’s more like it!”
For a moment, Elsa’s eyes flashed with envy—the same envy Merida saw in Phoebe’s eyes, and Lilith’s.
Benedict Howard said nothing, but he watched her over the rim of his glass like a cat watches a mouse hole.
She understood each reaction. The foundation, the highlighter, the eye shadow, the mascara, the clothes, the shoes—she had once more created the fantasy, becoming Helen, the face that launched a thousand ships.
But she was only interested in one ship. She walked to Benedict and put her hand on his arm. She showed him her tablet and waited while he read, “I’ve made reservations at the Virtue Falls Resort for this evening at seven, if you’d like to go.”
He looked at her hand, looked at her face, put his drink down. “Thank you. Let me go put on a tie.”
She took her hand away. “I’ll meet you at my car.” She watched him leave.
Ironic to think that the man who now she trusted was the man who had once tried to kill her. One thing she’d learned from that experience: Benedict Howard didn’t murder until he got what he wanted.
