Part 3
The air in the hospital room seemed to have solidified. Adrian’s sentence, whispered with the sweetness of a macabre lullaby, floated in the cramped space between our faces. Mom will go to prison in my place… everything just as planned.
I couldn’t flinch. The plaster cast binding me from my jaw to my ankles was a mineral straitjacket, but for the first time since my fall, it served as a shield. It hid the absolute terror that had just seized my muscles.
A few centimeters from my eyes, Adrian’s face transformed once more. The reptilian predator disappeared behind the mask of the grieving husband with sickening fluidity. He drew himself up, his eyes shining with artificial tears, just as the plainclothes inspector approached the bed.
— Monsieur Prescott, please step back, the inspector ordered in a firm voice.
Behind him, Vivian was fighting with the strength of a cornered beast. The diamond bracelets that had scratched my cheek a few minutes earlier clinked sinisterly against the cold steel of the handcuffs that one of the security officers had just slipped onto her wrists.
— Let go of me! my stepmother screamed, the hairspray of her perfect bun flying to pieces. Adrian! Do something! Tell them this little bitch is lying! She doctored that video!
Adrian turned to her, the very embodiment of Greek tragedy. He placed a trembling hand over his mouth, feigning absolute shock. — Mom… how could you? he stammered, his voice broken. After what she has just been through… You tried to kill her? Right in front of my eyes?
The silence that followed was more violent than a gunshot. Vivian froze. Her eyes, wide with stupor, darted from her son’s falsely horrified face to mine, motionless on the pillow. I saw the exact moment when her aristocratic brain, usually so sharp, connected the threads of betrayal. She understood. She understood that her prodigal son, her jewel, had thrown her to the wolves.
— You… she breathed, her complexion turning an ashen gray. It’s you. You’re the one who told me she was going to ruin us. You’re the one who convinced me that she…
— Take her away, the inspector abruptly cut in, nodding to the officers. She is in a state of shock, she is delirious. Read her her rights.
As they dragged her toward the door, Vivian locked her gaze into mine. There was no longer any high-society hatred, no more class contempt. There was only pure, primitive terror. She opened her mouth to scream one last accusation, but the heavy door closed behind her, stifling her cries in the hospital corridor.
There were only three of us left now. The inspector, Adrian, and me. My plaster coffin suddenly felt much colder.
The inspector, a man in his fifties with a tired gaze whose badge read Miller, approached my bed with caution. — Madame Prescott? I know this is a terrible ordeal. Can you speak?
I swallowed. The taste of blood and bile still lined the back of my throat. I stared at Miller, then let my gaze slide toward Adrian. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands gripping the metal rim, playing to perfection the husband hanging on every word of his surviving wife. He was defying me to speak. He knew that if I accused him of pushing me now, without physical evidence, I would come across as a traumatized woman confusing her attacker with her savior. The video showed Vivian. Not him.
— She… she took the pillow, I croaked, my voice weak and raspy. I thought… it was over.
— Shh, my love, don’t exhaust yourself, Adrian murmured, stepping forward to brush my hand with his warm fingers. The same hand that wore the heavy gold signet ring. I suppressed a shiver of disgust.
— We have the video, Madame Prescott, Miller assured in a soothing tone. It is irrefutable proof of attempted murder. But I must ask you a question. Do you have any idea why your stepmother would want to kill you?
This was the moment. The digital clock on the wall read 11:15 PM. I had forty-five minutes left before my encrypted file would be sent to the press and the financial authorities. I had to buy time. I had to keep Adrian exactly where I could see him.
— I… I was snooping, I whispered.
Adrian stiffened imperceptibly. His posture did not change, but I saw the pulsing of a vein on his temple.
— What do you mean? the inspector asked, pulling out a notepad.
— In her office, at the house, I lied with a calculated effort. I had found some documents… hidden bank statements. Cayman Islands accounts. The Prescott trust… Vivian was embezzling money from charities. I told her… yesterday morning… that I wanted to talk to Adrian about it.
Relief flashed through Adrian’s eyes at lightning speed. By accusing Vivian of financial fraud, I had not only justified my stepmother’s murder attempt in the eyes of the police, but I had also exonerated my husband. I was giving him the illusion that I had discovered nothing about him.
— My God, Adrian murmured, running a hand through his perfect hair. My father’s charity… Mom, how could you? Inspector, this is a nightmare. My mother has suffered from anxiety disorders since my father’s death, but to go this far… to cover up embezzlement?
Miller quickly noted down these details. The story was too perfect for a tired cop: the money, the snooping daughter-in-law, the stepmother ready to do anything to save her social status. On the surface, the case was open and shut.
— Monsieur Prescott, I am going to have to ask you to accompany me to the station for a formal statement. We also need to secure the house and your mother’s office.
That was where Adrian’s trap snapped shut. — Inspector, he pleaded with poignant emotion, my wife almost died twice in less than forty-eight hours. Her ribs are shattered, her spine is fractured. I will not leave her side tonight. Give me at least an hour with her. I will come to the station myself right after. Send your men to the house, they have my full authorization to search the premises.
Miller hesitated. He looked at my pitiful condition, imprisoned in this plaster cast, hooked up to heart monitors. Human empathy won out over police protocol. — All right. One hour. An officer will remain stationed in the corridor.
— Thank you, inspector. Truly.
Miller left the room. The door closed with a slight click. The shadow of a policeman formed behind the frosted glass, facing the hallway. We were safe from outside attacks.
But I was locked in with the monster.
The moment the inspector’s footsteps faded away, the room’s atmosphere dropped by several degrees. Adrian was no longer smiling. He slowly approached the bed, pulled up the plastic hospital chair, and sat so close that I could smell his cologne—a woody and spicy scent that once used to make me dizzy with love. Today, it smelled of freshly turned earth.
He crossed his legs, adjusted the crease of his tuxedo trousers, and contemplated me in silence for a long minute.
— That was very well played, Hannah, he finally said in a conversational voice, as if he were evaluating a game of chess. Mom’s tax documents. An excellent diversion. It perfectly explains her moment of madness.
— You manipulated her, I countersigned, straining to keep my breathing steady despite the vice around my ribs.
He shrugged with casual elegance. — Mom has always had luxury tastes and a bank account that has been melting like snow in the sun since the death of my dear father. The Prescott trust has been bone dry for five years, Hannah. The only thing keeping her alive, socially speaking, was the illusion of wealth.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. — When I showed her the fake email correspondence—the ones where you seemed to be negotiating with the tax authorities to denounce her offshore accounts in exchange for financial immunity—she panicked. I didn’t even have to tell her what to do. My mother is a venomous snake. I knew she would come tonight to finish the job I had started on the balcony.
— Why? I asked. Physical pain radiated into my neck, but I had to make him talk. 11:25 PM.
Adrian smiled, a predatory smile that bared teeth of an unsettling whiteness. — Because you really were snooping, weren’t you? But not in my mother’s office. In my wall safe. Behind the hunting painting in the small parlor. You found Eléonore’s medical file.
The name of his first wife echoed in the room like a curse. Eléonore. The wealthy French-Swiss heiress, who died in a tragic “sailing accident” off the coast of Sardinia four years earlier. Her body had never been recovered. Adrian had inherited the entirety of her fortune, which had wiped out the Prescott debts… until he squandered it all in disastrous mining investments.
— I saw the independent toxicology reports, I said, my voice trembling. The ones you paid to make disappear. She didn’t fall into the water, Adrian. She was paralyzed by muscle relaxants. You threw her overboard while she was conscious but unable to move. Exactly… like me right now.
He chuckled softly. The sound was terrifying. — You have always been perceptive, my love. That’s what attracted me to you. The former catering waitress who studied business law at night. You were the perfect target. No close family, no attachments, dazzled by the Prescott money and name. I took out a twenty-million-dollar life insurance policy on your head the month of our marriage. Everything was ready. A tragic fall from our bedroom balcony. The mourning of the heartbroken husband. The insurance payout that puts me back on my feet.
He caressed the cold plaster near my collarbone. — But you didn’t die on impact. You survived by a miracle. It was an annoying setback. I had to improvise. By sending my mother to finish you off, I killed two birds with one stone. She was going to prison for your murder, her personal debts would be seized, I would collect your life insurance as an innocent widower, and I would rid myself of an overbearing and hysterical stepmother. A masterpiece of strategy.
The absolute horror of his plan left me breathless. There was no passion, no anger in him. Only the cold calculation of a high-society psychopath.
The clock read 11:38 PM.
— Your plan failed, I spat out. The video stopped her. I am alive. The police officer is right behind that door.
Adrian sighed dramatically and plunged his hand into the inside pocket of his tuxedo. He pulled out a small, pre-filled syringe, topped with a needle of lethal fineness. The liquid inside was perfectly transparent.
