Abby reached down to the bottom of Deanna's blouse and began to unbutton it, her hands moving as slow as her lips. Deanna gave a soft growl of impatience, but Abby only chuckled. Only when the blouse was fully unbuttoned did Abby let her hands touch Deanna's skin. She pressed her fingertips against Deanna's stomach, then traced twin lines up her ribcage. She cupped Deanna's bare breasts, and slid her thumbs over her hard nipples. Deanna groaned, grabbed the back of Abby's head and kissed her, all shyness gone. As Abby returned the kiss, heat throbbed through her. Perhaps just once more… But no. She couldn't.
She wrapped her hands in Deanna's hair and eased her back a step. Deanna's balance faltered. She tore her lips from Abby's to shout a warning that she was too close to the edge of the boat. But Abby already knew that.
She put her hands around Deanna's wrist and thrust her away. Deanna started to fall. She grabbed blindly and caught Abby's charm bracelet, but the clasp came apart. Deanna's arms windmilled as she fell over the edge.
Abby walked to the back of the boat and pulled up the anchor. In the water below Deanna thrashed and screamed. As Abby headed to the cabin, she looked down to see Deanna frantically trying to get a hold on the smooth side of the boat.
'I can't swim!' Deanna shouted.
'Yes,' Abby said. 'I know.'
She walked into the cabin and started the engine. She moved the boat out of Deanna's reach, then waited and watched as Deanna's blond head bobbed like a beacon through the fog. When Deanna finally sank and didn't resurface, Abby pushed the throttle forward and headed for shore.
Thursday, August 20
Abby parked at the top of the driveway and she rubbed her hands over her face. God, she was so sick of playing the distraught wife. How much longer did she have to do this? The last week had seemed endless. Pretending to look up expectantly each time the bells chimed over the gallery door. Murmuring 'I'm sure he will' whenever someone reassured her that her missing husband would come home soon. Enduring Zack's constant, mooning 'I'm here for you' glances.
It hadn't taken long for the police to discover that her missing husband had been renting a cottage outside town for his mistress, who was, conveniently, also missing. A quick check of their shared bank accounts showed that Gregory had slowly drained out nearly ten thousand dollars over the last month. That had been Abby's idea, passed through Deanna to Gregory's ear. As Deanna had warned Gregory, he couldn't be seen dipping into the money right after his wife's murder. Better to siphon some out early so they'd have celebration cash during the mourning period. Now, with a missing husband, a missing mistress and missing money, it didn't take a genius to realize Gregory had cut his losses and left. Too bad all their assets were jointly held, meaning his abandoned wife could now use them as she wished. She even had the ten grand in cash Deanna had squirrelled away for them.
Abby grabbed the pile of mail from the passenger seat and climbed out. As she circled around the front of the car, she leafed through the bills, flyers and notes of sympathy. An unfamiliar postage stamp caught her attention. France? Who did she know in France? When she looked at the handwriting on the front she froze. It wasn't possible. It wasn't.
Hands trembling, Abby tore open the envelope. In her haste, she ripped it too fast and the contents flew out. A postcard sailed to the ground.
'No,' Abby said. 'No!'
Deanna stood by the water's edge, her arms wrapped around her, shivering as a cool night breeze blew off the Mediterranean. Behind her the lights of the French Riviera flickered in the darkness, a scene that nearly matched the one on her postcard… the postcard Abby now had.
Deanna felt the sharp edges of the charms biting into her palm. She looked down at the bracelet in her hand. When she'd dived into the ocean, leaving Abby to think she'd drowned, Deanna had still clutched the bracelet. She'd kept it, thinking maybe she'd send it back to Abby as proof that she was alive. But then she'd decided the postcard would be enough… the postcard they'd picked out together, when they'd first hatched their plan, when Deanna had still thought – hoped – that Abby and her promises had been real.
Deanna fingered the charms on the bracelet, stopping at the lighthouse. She remembered her last evening with Abby, sitting behind the cover of the lighthouse, dipping their feet in the surf, their clothing strewn over the rocks and bushes. Abby had asked, oh so casually, how well Deanna could swim. And, as accustomed as she was to lies and deceit from her lovers, Deanna still almost fell for it. The truth had been on her lips, ready to tell Abby that she'd been captain of the swim team before she'd dropped out of school. Instead, when she opened her mouth, she heard herself say, 'Me? Can't swim a stroke. Never learned how.'
Deanna had tried to look past it, told herself she was too suspicious. And yet… Well, it never hurts to have a plan B.
She let the lighthouse charm fall from her fingers. That had been her lucky charm that night, when the unexpected fog rolled in. She'd followed its beam back to shore. Then, before she'd left town, she'd returned to the lighthouse one last time, to leave something for Abby. On the postcard, she written only one line, instructing Abby to look for further 'correspondence' at the 'charmed' place. There, in the very spot where she'd deceived her lover, Abby would find detailed instructions on how to make her penance, on the exact penalty she must pay. The demand was fair. Not enough to send Abby into bankruptcy, just enough to hurt. For every action, there is a price to be paid. Deanna knew that, and, now, so would Abby.
Deanna drew back her arm and pitched the bracelet into the water. Then she turned and headed back to the hotel.
THE INKPOT MONKEY by John Connolly
Mr Edgerton was suffering from writer's block; it was, he quickly grew to realize, a most distressing complaint. A touch of influenza might lay a man up for a day or two, yet still his mind could continue its ruminations. Gout might leave him racked with pain, yet still his fingers could grasp a pen and turn pain to pennies. But this blockage, this barrier to all progress, had left Mr Edgerton a virtual cripple. His mind would not function, his hands would not write, and his bills would not be paid. In a career spanning the best part of two decades he had never before encountered such an obstacle to his vocation. He had, in that time, produced five moderately successful, if rather indifferent, novels; a book of memoirs that, in truth, owed more to invention than experience; and a collection of poetry that could most charitably be described as having stretched the capacities of free verse to the limits of their acceptability.
Mr Edgerton made his modest living from writing by the yard, based on the unstated belief that if he produced a sufficient quantity of material then something of quality was bound to creep in, if only in accordance with the law of averages. Journalism, ghostwriting, versifying, editorializing; nothing was beneath his limited capabilities.
Yet, for the past three months the closest he had come to a writing project was the construction of his weekly grocery list. A veritable tundra of empty white pages stretched before him, the gleaming nib of his pen poised above them like a reluctant explorer. His mind was a blank, the creative juices sapped from it, leaving behind only a dried husk of frustration and bewilderment. He began to fear his writing desk, once his beloved companion but now reduced to the status of a faithless lover, and it pained him to look upon it. Paper, ink, desk, imagination, all had betrayed him, leaving him lost and alone.