“How dare you, you—”
“But you can prevent that. Make the call. You think he had a heart attack. Get his belt back on him, unless you want people to ask why it was off. And then call Rick.”
“My brother will never take you in.”
“You better hope he does. Because if he doesn’t, someone else will. Someone in Llewellyn. I’m a brave little refugee girl who’s suffered such a terrible ordeal, remember? And if I stay in Llewellyn, you’ll never be rid of me. Ever.”
37—THEN
Paramedics came to the house and tried to revive Mr. Lone. They couldn’t. They took him to the hospital, where he was pronounced dead.
Mrs. Lone told the right story. Chief Emmanuel asked Livia some questions, and she corroborated Mrs. Lone’s version. She could tell the man had doubts. She could also tell he didn’t want to indulge them. Because how could the chief of police, no less, have been so close to a man like Mr. Lone, and not known what his friend was up to? Better to avoid those issues entirely.
The next morning there were a lot of visitors. The Lones’ sons. Senator Lone and his aide, Matthias Redcroft. People from Mr. Lone’s businesses. And Rick, who had driven all the way from Portland.
Livia stayed in her room and could hear them all talking, though she couldn’t make out the words. She was amazed at how good she felt. She knew things might not go well. There could still be an investigation. Maybe Mrs. Lone would change her mind and tell. Probably not, but maybe.
But if that happened, Livia would deal with it. She almost didn’t care. Compared to the satisfaction, the . . . excitement of killing Mr. Lone, what might happen next seemed almost irrelevant. She felt like something had changed in her. Like she had somehow become . . . more herself again. Or who she was meant to be.
She kept imagining it, over and over. The way he’d shouted at her. What he told her he was going to do to her. The momentary satisfaction on his face when he was between her naked legs, pressed against her, rubbing against her. And then how he realized he was wrong. That she was in control, not him. That she was the one who could do anything she wanted, no matter how he tried to stop her. And that what she wanted was to make him die. Thinking about it, remembering it, made her feel a strange . . . tingling she didn’t recognize or understand. But she loved the way it made her feel. She loved thinking about it.
After a few hours, there was a knock on her door. Even if he hadn’t been dead, Livia would have known it couldn’t be Mr. Lone. He never knocked.
She got off the bed and opened the door. It was Rick. Just Rick.
“Hey,” he said. He looked at her closely, his expression concerned. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay.” She tried not to be nervous, not to think about how much might hinge on what he said next.
“I’m sorry about Fred.”
She wondered how sorry he really was. Maybe sorry for his sister. “It’s okay.”
“Dotty . . . this is a big shock for her. A lot to handle. I think it’s going to take some time to put the pieces back together, you know?”
Livia nodded. “She told me.”
He tilted his head slightly, as though confused or flustered. “She did? Oh. Okay.”
They were both quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Dotty told me you were pretty upset. That you might benefit from . . . a change of pace.”
“Yes.”
Again, he looked a little flustered. Maybe he was expecting Livia to not know what was coming, to be more reluctant. He was trying to process what it meant that she seemed to know what was going on. And to welcome it.
“So . . . Dotty and I wondered whether it might be better for you to finish up high school in Portland. You know, away from all this . . . tragedy. I mean, you’ve already been through a lot. But we just want what’s best for you. Would you want that, Livia? To live with me in Portland?”
“Yes. Please that.”
He nodded slowly, as though putting together pieces he hadn’t previously recognized were there. “It wouldn’t be like this, you know. Just a small apartment. I mean, there’s an extra room I use as an office now, I could clear that out, move my gear to the kitchen, and the office would be your bedroom. It’s small, but comfortable. But it’s nothing like my sister’s house.”
“It sounds nice.”
“And I don’t know much about . . . about raising a teenager. You know I’ve never had kids.”
She smiled at his awkwardness and thought of the time he had given her coffee with the milk and turbinado sugar. “I think you know more than you realize.”
He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, let’s hope so, right?” He looked at her. “Are you really up for this, Livia?”
“If you are.”
There was a pause. Then he held out his hand. She shook it.