Page 72 of The Perfect Hosts

Madeline

Madeline is frozen in place. She can’t believe this is really happening. But then again, hadn’t her sister told her just one month ago that she was capable of murder? Where is Wes? Lucy grabs a framed picture from the bedside table and throws it in Madeline’s direction. It smashes against the wall.

“You can throw harder than that, can’t you?” Madeline says, a smile stretching across her face. She reaches for a vase of flowers on the same table, one of the only bouquets that survived the explosion, and throws it, sending it whizzing past Lucy’s head. It explodes in a spray of glass and water.

“Good one,” Lucy says. And for the first time since Lucy showed up, they laugh. It’s time. Finally. All of Madeline’s earlier fear has seeped away. “Now come here,” she says, grabbing Madeline by her sore elbow, and she cries out in pain. “God, I’m sorry,” Lucy says, dropping her arm, her face stricken. “But you know this is going to hurt, right? It has to hurt.”

“I know,” Madeline says. “It’s okay. It can’t hurt any more than what he’s done to me before.”

When Madeline came back for her stepfather’s funeral, Lucy walked in on Madeline while she was changing and saw the jewel-toned contusions that spread across her sister’s back in an ugly constellation of bruises. At first, Madeline lied.

“I fell off one of our new Morgans. He can be temperamental,” Madeline had said, her voice unnaturally flat, her eyes unable to meet Lucy’s.

“Bullshit,” Lucy had responded, stepping closer to see the damage Wes had done. What had he used as his weapon? His fists? The metal toes of his boots? His belt? “I’ll kill him,” Lucy declared. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Lucy, no!” Madeline had said, quickly pulling a sweater over her head. “It looks worse than it is. I’ve got it handled.”

The entire week of the funeral, Lucy had begged and pleaded with Madeline to leave Wyoming and come back home for good. But Madeline had every excuse in the book—It could be so much worse. He loves me. I love him...It went on and on until their conversations devolved into bitterness and ended in their cold estrangement. But Lucy wasn’t done. She wasn’t going to let her sister be killed by this sadistic monster. Over the coming days, Lucy was relentless until finally Madeline agreed. That night, after hours of arguing and pleading and crying, a plan was formed.

“We’ll do it just like we planned,” Lucy says now, guiding Madeline into the closet and down to her knees. “Tell me if it’s too much.” Madeline nods, and Lucy presses a knee to her back. “You know this is the only way.”

“I know,” Madeline grunts. “Just be careful! Please don’t hurt the baby.” Hot tears roll down her face. She fights the urge to get back to her feet, but like Lucy said, this is the only way to get Wes out of her life for good.

Madeline feels the stiff leather press against her skin as Lucy loops the belt around her neck. “Oh God,” Madeline says, scrabbling at her neck, trying to pull it away, but Lucy is too strong.

“Just relax,” Lucy orders, and Madeline feels the belt tighten, feels her windpipe constrict so that only the tiniestsip of air gets through. Fireflies dance in front of her eyes, and for a moment she’s five again and back home in Iowa chasing lightning bugs with Lucy. It’s a nice, warm memory.

Then the belt loosens, just a fraction of an inch, but it’s enough. Madeline coughs and gasps and tries to fill her lungs. “Are you okay?” Lucy asks. And Madeline knows her sister is crying too. She doesn’t want to do this either.

“I’m good. It’s okay, Goosey,” she croaks, somehow latching onto Lucy’s childhood nickname.Lucy Goosey.The term of endearment that Lucy pretended to hate but everyone knew she secretly loved. “Goosey,” Madeline pleads. “Be careful. The baby.”

“It’s okay, it’s almost over. It has to look real,” Lucy whispers in her ear, and once again the belt goes taut. Madeline’s throat closes, and instinctively she claws at Lucy’s gloved hands. She’s on the verge of losing consciousness when the belt loosens again. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Lucy cries over and over. Madeline’s starved lungs scream for air, and she greedily sucks in jagged breaths, but all she can think about is her baby. Again the belt tightens.

Somehow through the roaring in her ears, Madeline hears a voice coming from the floor below. It’s Wes, calling her name. He sounds angry. Of course he is. She sent him a text she would never have dared to before.

It’s over, you fucking asshole. Do not come home tonight.

She tries to cry out, but the sound is caught in her chest.

Suddenly, the knee in her back is gone, and the belt is on the floor at her side. The closet light is off, and the door is shut. She hears a knock at the bedroom door.

“Madeline,” Wes calls, “unlock the door.” He sounds pissed. She tries to answer him, but she’s still trying to gather air into her lungs. “Madeline,” Wes shouts, “open the goddamn door!” He’s not done fighting. He’s come back to—what?—finish their earlier argument? Madeline tries to crawl from the closet so she can unlock the door for Wes, but she’s too weak. Instead, she curls up in a ball, her arms wrapped protectively around her belly. She doesn’t feel the baby move. There are no kicks or somersaults, no tiny fists pummeling her bladder. A moan escapes her lips. This has all gone very wrong. They’ll die together, Madeline thinks. She and the baby will take one final breath together and then go to sleep.

She begins to drift off, but the sound of splintering wood startles her awake. Wes is breaking through the locked bedroom door. “Madeline!” he calls, and she can hear his heavy footsteps as he bursts into the room. “Where the fuck are you?” From outside the closed closet door, a thin line of light appears. “I’m so sick of your games. You think you can tell me to stay out of my own house? This is my home, my ranch...” His voice has taken on an echoey quality. He must be checking the bathroom. And where is Lucy? A terrible thought creeps into Madeline’s head. Maybe Lucy got scared and has abandoned her.

From her spot on the floor, Madeline sees a dark shadow pass in front of the closet door and then stop. There’s the soft snick of a doorknob being turned. The door opens, and Madeline is momentarily blinded by the sudden light, and she puts a hand in front of her eyes.

“What the fuck?” Wes asks, staring down at her. “You’re hiding from me?” He sounds incredulous. “Fuck you, Madeline. Fuck you. This is my house,” he snarls. “Get up,” he orders. He is in such a state that he doesn’t even realize she’s hurt.

She tries to speak but can only manage a raspy “I can’t,” but he’s not listening.

“I’ve given you everything,everything.” She watches his feet as he paces in front of the closet, the metal tip of his cowboy boot coming dangerously close to her head. A wave of nauseasweeps over her. She wants to close her eyes, wants this all to be over. The baby gives a resounding kick to her ribs, and with the jolt Madeline gives a small cry. Not a cry of pain, though, a small yip of delight. Her baby is still alive. She’s not going to let her baby die in this closet.

She reaches out one hand and clamps it around Wes’s ankle, nearly causing him to topple backward. “Wes,” she croaks. Finally, finally he takes a good look at her face. She can imagine what she looks like.

“Jesus,” Wes says, dropping to his knees and running a hand over her hair. “What happened to you? Who did this?” He touches her neck. His fingers are cool against the skin of her raw, hot neck. She tries to answer him, but words feel like glass in her throat.

“Madeline, tell me,” Wes insists. “Who did this? Was it Mellie?”