Page 51 of The Perfect Hosts

“I should get to bed too,” Mellie says, with a yawn, then pats her stomach. “This little guy saps all my energy. See you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning,” Madeline echoes and watches as Mellie retreats into the shadows and out of sight.

Madeline doesn’t mind that Mellie borrowed some clean clothes to wear, but she hasn’t worn that sweatshirt in weeks and hasn’t fit into those pants since she was three months pregnant. Mellie didn’t find them in the laundry room. They were both hanging in the back recess of Madeline’s bedroom closet. So why is Mellie lying? And what was she doing in Madeline’s bedroom?

Chapter 24

Mellie

Morning light streams through the windows, and I scrunch my eyes shut, not wanting to wake up. It’s so quiet it’s almost unsettling. There are no next-door neighbors arguing through the thin walls, no heavy feet thumping above my head. The mattress is just the right amount of soft, and the sheets feel like silk against my skin. But I have to get up—I have work to do. I force my eyes open and stretch, kicking the bed linens aside. I’ve never been in a home as beautiful as the Drakes’. It’s so different than the tiny two-bedroom I grew up in, and definitely different than the one-bedroom efficiency I’ve been renting in town. There it smells like whatever my neighbors cooked for dinner, and here it smells like mountain bluebells.

I crawl from bed and open the closet which is filled with more of Madeline’s clothes and piles of thick comforters and linens. I look at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of door and have to admit I look good in Madeline’s satin pajama shorts and camisole. I wonder what Madeline would think if I walked into the kitchen wearing only this. Wonder what Wes would think.

The surprised expression on Madeline’s face when I showed up at her door isn’t lost on me. I know that she hadn’t really meant it when she told me to reach out if I needed anything.Anything at all.But she did offer, and that should count for something. I don’t like it when people say things they don’t mean. And sadly, people do it all the time. I’ll see you on your birthday, munchkin. You can be anything you want to be if you work hard enough.Of course I love you, Mel. Different people, different promises that turned out to be lies. It’s unfair, wrong.

So, I probably should have let Madeline’s words remain as they were intended—an empty promise—but I am so tired of being lied to for convenience or as a grand gesture. Not that I’m one to judge.

I dress in another outfit of Madeline’s, this time a loose-fitting cashmere sweater and a pair of soft jeans that I happen to know cost more than a month’s rent, the shoes probably two months’, and step from the room. The house has a stillness about it. Madeline must be out in the stables, and God knows where Lucy is. I feel a sense of righteous satisfaction knowing that Madeline seems to prefer me over her own sister, and I try not to think too hard about what Wes will do when he finds out I’m still here.

One thing is for sure, I need to get rid of Lucy for good. It doesn’t matter that the sisters seem to hate each other, Lucy doesn’t trust me, and it’s making things more complicated. I creep up the stairs, knowing what I’m planning will be risky, dangerous even. If I’m caught, Madeline will be so disappointed, and Lucy will kill me. I don’t even want to think about what Wes will do.

At the top of the steps, I pause. What’s the endgame here? I ask myself. Do I really think that Wes will leave his beautiful, smart, sweet, pregnant wife for a twenty-one-year-old waitress? Maybe not, but I don’t plan on going down without a fight. I hurry down the long hallway and slip into the bedroom Madeline shares with Wes. My heart thumps, but I try to shake the unease away, reminding myself that I belong here. Madeline told me I was welcome to borrow anything I needed. If someonewalks in on me, I’ll just say I’m searching for a sweatshirt or something.

I peek out the window and see Trent in the paddock exercising the horses. There’s no sign of Lucy or Madeline, and a zap of anxiety runs through me. I have to hurry. I step away from the window and move to the closet. Shoes are in a jumble on the floor along with a half a dozen outfits that look like they have been tried on and then tossed aside.

There’s a heavy safe sitting in the corner of the closet but no way for me to crack the code. I need to choose something more readily available, something small, easy to transport. I step from the closet and see Madeline’s purse sitting on a chaise lounge in the corner of the room and hesitate. Should I worry about fingerprints? Probably, but I decide it’s worth the chance. Carefully, I lift Madeline’s wallet from the purse, and right away I’ve hit the jackpot. I pull out three crisp hundred-dollar bills and tuck them into the pocket of my jeans and then move to the bathroom. I ease open one of the top drawers and find a men’s razor, deodorant, Band-Aids. This must be Wes’s side of the bathroom. Next, I go to the cabinet beneath his sink, crouch down, and find a wicker basket holding unopened tubes of toothpaste, a bottle of mouthwash, and an assortment of pill bottles.

I lift an orange bottle from the basket and peer at the label. Oxycontin, prescribed three years earlier. I give the bottle a little shake. This will do. I return to the master bedroom, roll the bills into a tight cylinder, and fit them into the prescription bottle. I slide the bottle into my back pocket and tiptoe down the hallway toward the guest room. I lean in toward the closed door, listening for any movement on the other side. Nothing. I tap on the wooden frame. “Lucy,” I call softly and then once again more loudly. There’s no response. With shaky fingers, I reach for the knob.

I open the door and to my relief find the room empty.Once inside, I shut the door and scan the space. The bed is neatly made, and nothing seems out of place. I check the closet and find Lucy’s Carhartt jacket hanging there. Riffling through the front pockets I find a lint-covered stick of gum and a few coins and move to add the pill bottle to the mix but then reconsider. No, chances are that Lucy would find it right away and figure out what I’m up to. I scan the room again and turn my attention to the guest bed, lift the comforter, and shove the pill bottle beneath the mattress. But this won’t work either. What are the chances that Madeline will find the bottle quickly? I retrieve the bottle, spy a pair of Lucy’s jeans crumpled in a corner of the room, and pick them up. I push the bottle into the back pocket of the jeans and will deposit them in the laundry room where Madeline will eventually find them. Lucy will deny it, will argue, throw an epic fit, and hopefully, Madeline and Wes will throw her ass out the door. Then I’ll have just two remaining obstacles in my way—Trent and Madeline. Getting rid of Madeline will be more challenging, but I’m up to the task because, for once in my life, I’m going to get what I want.

Chapter 25

Jamie

At seven in the morning, Jamie is back at the sheriff’s office, sitting at a battered metal desk pulled from storage, drinking his third cup of bad coffee. He is running on fumes and not thinking straight. Nothing is connected, yet everything is.

Mellie Bauer recalled seeing Dalton coming out of the barn a few minutes before the explosion, but after reading through the notes from the dozens of interviews with the other partygoers, he can find no other reference to this. The party was chaotic, loud, with lots going on, but Jamie is finding it hard to believe that not one other guest saw Dalton going into or out of the barn prior to the explosion. But why would Mellie lie?

Sheriff Colson comes out of his office, grabs a chair and drags it across the floor and sits down next to Jamie’s desk. “Christ, what a cluster,” he says wearily, dropping a stack of papers in front of Jamie. His shooting of Dalton Monaghan has been ruled justified, and he is back on the job. “A bomb and a shooting. This has been quite the week.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Colson says. “Though, I was hoping to get through my career without having to shoot someone.”

“You most likely saved the Drakes’ lives,” Jamie reminds him. “But you’re right, it’s too bad Dalton put us in that situation.”

“Hey, Jamie,” Ruby says from the doorway. “Someone’s here to see you.”

“Who is it?”

“Laura Holt,” the receptionist says. “She was the photographer at the party.”

Jamie gets up and makes his way toward the reception area of the office.

Laura is standing in the lobby, staring at a bulletin board tacked with Wanted posters. Her chestnut hair hangs down her back in a loose braid, she’s wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes. In her right hand she holds a large professional-looking camera, and in the other she holds a book.

“Ms. Holt,” Jamie says, “what can I help you with?”