The Mistress Page 7

Page 7

  Author: Tiffany Reisz

  “Maybe he just wasn’t that into you,” Nora offered, but Marie-Laure ignored her.

  “So if I had someone he loved here, someone he wanted to protect, then perhaps he might finally answer the questions I have. I can’t quite believe he does love you, though. Especially now that I’ve met you. ”

  Nora looked down at herself, her stained jeans, her bloody white tank top, her hair in lank, dirty waves. No doubt she looked as bad as she felt.

  “This isn’t me at my best, I promise. ”

  “I’ve seen you at your best. I still wasn’t impressed. ”

  “Jesus, tell me how you really feel. ”

  “I cannot quite fathom that he cares as deeply for you as I would need him to, so I brought in a little. . . what’s that phrase? Backup?”

  She called out a name then; it sounded like “Damon. ”

  A man entered the room. She knew it was a man from the sound of his footsteps even though Nora couldn’t see him.

  He and Marie-Laure spoke to each other in French, which Nora caught most of. She heard “handcuffs” and “Bring in the girl. ”

  The girl? This couldn’t be good.

  Whoever he was stood behind Nora and uncuffed her from the chair.

  Nora brought her arms around and massaged her wrists. She almost felt more secure cuffed to the chair. If they uncuffed her it was probably because they weren’t afraid of her. She didn’t like being the woman in the room no one was afraid of.

  Nora stayed in her chair and didn’t turn around when she heard the door open behind her again. But when the door opened a third time, she heard the pained cry of a young woman. She stood up and spun around.

  “Laila?” Nora recognized the girl at once—Søren’s niece. The man let Laila go, and she rushed into Nora’s arms.

  “Tante Elle,” Laila cried as they sunk to the floor together. Nora pulled her close and held tight to the girl’s trembling body.

  “You psycho bitch, what the fuck are you doing?” she demanded, turning back to Marie-Laure.

  Laila clung to Nora, who could only pull the girl closer and rock her in her arms. She seemed mostly unharmed. A cracked lip, a bloody bruise on her cheek. She must have fallen in some sort of struggle.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered to Laila in the little Danish she remembered.

  “Okay,” Laila whispered back. “I was at Onkel Søren’s house. They grabbed me and—”

  “You two look very sweet,” Marie-Laure said. “And aren’t we a lovely trio? We have the wife, the mistress and the niece all here together. I thought about taking one of his sisters, but the little girl’s better. Men always do prefer the younger ones. Look at you. . . ” Marie-Laure studied Laila’s face. “Such a beautiful thing. You look like him. Different eyes, though. Sweet blue eyes, not gray. All the boys must be in love with you. ”

  Laila shuddered in Nora’s arms.

  “No one is in love with me,” she said, and Nora kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Jeg elsker dig” into Laila’s ear—I love you.

  “Don’t worry. Love is overrated. But tell me something about love, Laila,” Marie-Laure said, coming close to where Nora and Laila sat huddled on the ground. She sensed the man hovering behind them so she made no move to escape. It was too dangerous, especially now with Laila there shivering in her arms almost paralyzed from fear.

  “What?” Laila asked, her voice quaking. Nora ran her hand up and down Laila’s back, trying to instill some comfort into the girl.

  “Does your uncle love this woman?” She inclined her head toward Nora. “This whore of his? Does he love her?”

  Laila looked up at Nora, who only nodded her head, indicating Laila should tell the truth as best she could.

  “Yes,” Laila said. “Of course he does. She’s. . . ” Laila’s voice broke and tears started to stream down her face. Nora started crying then, too, in simple fear for Laila. “She’s everything to him. She’s like his wife. ”

  Marie-Laure’s eyes flinched but she only turned back to Nora.

  “What about her?” Marie-Laure said to Nora. “Does he love his niece?”

  “Of course he does, you lunatic. She’s like a daughter to him. ”

  “The pretend wife or the pretend daughter? So hard to choose. . . I need to keep one of you here. But one of you needs to go to him and deliver a message. But who does he love more? Whom should I keep? Whom should I send? Whoever stays, we’ll have a wonderful time together, me and my houseguest. ”

  The man, Damon, stepped forward and into Nora’s field of vision. Had she seen him on the street she would have thought him homeless as gaunt and bitter as he looked. Thin and short, but those traits only made him look more menacing. He had a deadly tilt to his mouth and a roughness about his edges despite his expensive gray suit. He had the same look in his eyes that Kingsley had—the look of a man who’d killed without caring and could still sleep at night.

  “I know. . . ” Marie-Laure continued. “I’ll let you two decide. Choose. Who stays? Who goes? Quick, quick. Tell me. ”

  A smile of pure malice swept across Marie-Laure’s face. Laila gasped and started to speak.

  Nora clapped her hand over Laila’s mouth.

  “I’ll stay,” Nora said immediately and without hesitation. “Send Laila with whatever stupid fucking message you have. I’ll be your houseguest as long as you want. ”

  Marie-Laure shrugged seemingly unimpressed and unsurprised by Nora’s answer.

  “C’est la vie. I think you’ll be more fun to play with, anyway. Damon?”

  The man stepped forward, grabbed Laila by the arm and hauled her to her feet. Marie-Laure met her eye to eye.

  Nora started to stand up but Damon shot her a warning look. Nora sank back down the floor. Instead, she reached up and clasped Laila’s hand.

  “Tell your uncle, my husband. . . ” Marie-Laure dropped her voice to a whisper. “That I gave him my death as a gift. And now I’m taking my gift back. ”

  7

  THE KING

  Even knowing how futile it would be, Kingsley made phone calls to a few of his better sources—one in the upper echelons of the NYPD, another in the FBI. They both pledged to quietly investigate but they made him no other promises. He would have made more calls but couldn’t afford the risk. Only being a priest brought Søren the same measure of peace that owning Nora did. If it got out that not only was Søren still married somehow but also had a lover, the justice of the church would come down swift and merciless. Only last year Kingsley had read a story in the news about a Catholic priest who’d fallen in love with a woman and married her. The consequence? Excommunication. Strange justice. Priests who molested children were put into counseling. The priests who fell in love with adults were damned. And Søren wondered why Kingsley had never converted.

  Not a week ago Kingsley had wished to see a world without Nora Sutherlin in it. Had that stray, bitter whim brought this upon them? He was no fool. A world without Nora Sutherlin was a world without Søren. If the priest lost his Little One, especially if her death happened because of something Søren had done, no matter how inadvertently, it would mean his destruction. Søren couldn’t live in a world without Nora. Kingsley couldn’t live in a world without Søren. Her death would be like the sinking of a great ship. She would take them all down with her.

  Marie-Laure. . . Kingsley sat on the edge of his desk, his forehead in his hand. Ma soeur, what have you done? And what had they done, he and Søren, as boys? How much guilt did he bear for this crime? He knew Søren had told Marie-Laure their marriage would be one in name only. It would be for the money and nothing else. But Marie-Laure, vain and mad with love, refused to accept that.

  Did he say he loved you?

  Non. . . but he should. He must. He’s my husband.

  He told you why he married you. He did it for us, Marie-Laure, to help us.
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  I don’t want his money. I want him.

  You can’t have him.

  Why not?

  And to that question—pourquoi pas?—Kingsley had no answer. No, he did have an answer but one he couldn’t tell her, wouldn’t tell her. Because he’s mine, not yours, he could have said. Because he loves me, not you, he wanted to say. Because I’d rather see you dead than let him touch you the way he touches me.

  That final treacherous thought was the one that haunted Kingsley for the past thirty years. He never uttered it, only in his mind, his heart, and yet he still carried the guilt of how much he’d meant the words at the time. Sitting on the edge of his desk, staring out onto the midnight city, he conjured that horrible memory of his sister’s body in the snow on the ground. His targets were all demons back in his days as a Jack-of-all-deadly-trades for the French government. The world slept better when Kingsley put a bullet in those chests. He aimed for the heart and left easily identifiable corpses. They might be demons but they came from somewhere and he knew someone would want a body to bury in an open casket. He could at least give them that. After all, the body he’d seen at his feet the day he thought Marie-Laure had died. . . nothing before or since, not even seeing his parents in urns, had turned his stomach like that. The rock had shattered her face. Nothing but gray matter oozed from the broken skull. The body, too, was broken, nothing but a bag of bones. Only her left hand had survived the fall. The wedding band on the ring finger had shone clean and bright and golden in the sunlight. Not dented, not scraped, not bloodied. That’s how he should have known the ring had been planted on the dead girl’s hand.

  And the dead girl. . . who was she? Kingsley had barely glanced at the newspaper article Søren had uncovered. A young runaway from Quebec coming to America for a better life. What did she run from? An abusive father? A broken heart? Poverty? Or was she running to something, or someone? Whatever reason, she deserved better than to die like that, her body so torn up by the rock that had killed her they’d had to carry her away in two bags. It seemed too convenient to imagine the girl had been the victim of a simple accident, falling from the cliff to her death. He and Søren had had to abandon the hermitage where they’d had their assignations. Perhaps the girl had taken refuge there in the winter and Marie-Laure had met her on one of her long walks. Had his sister befriended the girl? Had they shared confidences? Did Marie-Laure tell the girl all about her marital troubles? The husband who wouldn’t touch her? Did Marie-Laure lure her to the edge of the cliff and push her to her death? Her shock at seeing him and Søren kissing seemed genuine at the time. Kingsley had wanted her to see them together, had timed his confrontation with Søren in the hopes Marie-Laure would discover them in some state of passion or undress. Then she would know the truth without either of them having to tell her. Then she could see how much Søren loved Kingsley, not her. Then she would understand the truth and move on.

  Foolish boys they were. Children playing dangerous games after dark, as Søren had said. So foolishly wrapped up in lust for each other they never even noticed that Marie-Laure was playing her own dangerous game with them.

  Now Nora could end up like that runaway on the snowy ground. And that left Kingsley with no choice but to do now what he merely fantasized about thirty years ago.

  He would see his sister dead.

  The phone rang and Kingsley answered it in an instant.

  “Report. ”

  “I miss you, monsieur,” came a rich, honeyed voice on the other end of the line. “How is that for a report?”

  Kingsley sighed as he felt tension releasing from his body like air from a popped balloon.

  “Jules, you’re breaking the rules,” he teased. Hearing her voice, her laugh, was everything he needed and the last thing he wanted.

  “You can punish me for it when I come home. I know you told me not to call until you said I could, but I had to hear your voice. It’s been a week. ”