“Howard Murray, Howard Murray…Denise, you said?”
“Diane.”
He mumbles as he takes two glasses from a cabinet and pours the drinks. Then he returns to the sofa and inches even closer to her. She can tell this is not the first time he has done this, that he is used to having women on his couch, making them feel compelled to stay.
“Like I said, she was a model. See—this is her.” She bends, takes the photo from her purse and holds it out to him. He leans in. Margot watches his every move, won’t take her eyes off him.
“She wants to be an actress in this picture you’re talking about?” Clarke asks as he reclines again.
He’s trying to wrong-foot her. Stephen used to do that. He was so slick at making it seem as if she was the one who was crazy. Clarke is just as manipulative and even more powerful. He is used to making people think what he wants them to think, used to weaving stories.
“You knew her, Mr. Clarke.”
He frowns, but it’s not convincing.
“She wrote you letters. I’m sure she even sat here, on this couch.”
He stares at her, his expression blank, then tilts his head, reaches a hand forward, trails a finger down the side of her cheek.
She stands suddenly, in recoil, sways on her feet. Her eyes whip around the room. She needs to put some distance between herself and Clarke.
She crosses to the cocktail cabinet, studies the bottles in false interest, buying herself time to think. “Capri.” She takes the limoncello bottle by the neck, ignoring the tremor in her hands. “Beautiful place.” She and Stephen honeymooned in Capri. She can still remember the dry heat of the sun; salty skin, gripping Stephen’s hips with her legs as they moved together in the sea. She blinks it away.
“Busy,” says Clarke. He tips his glass back and destroys the liquid in one. “Beautiful girls.”
“When did you get back?” she asks, trying to sound as offhand as possible.
He pauses, suspicious now. “Thursday.”
She freezes, something horrifying solidifying in her stomach.
“Uh-huh. How long were you out there?”
He looks at her strangely but answers. “Six weeks.”
“You got a plane ticket to account for those dates?”
“What the hell is this?” Clarke’s jaw is flexing angrily.
Shit.
If he’s telling the truth, and he was in Italy until Thursday, was out of the country for the past six weeks, then he cannot be responsible for Diane Howard Murray’s murder. He cannot be responsible for Cheryl’s murder, either, or Emily’s.
She places the bottle back in the cabinet, swallows drily. Clarke raises his weight from the sofa and stalks toward her.
“You have a lot of questions.”
“I should really get going.”
He grabs her wrist, holds her in place.
“Stay awhile,” he says smoothly, as if what he’s asking, expecting, is entirely reasonable. “We’ve got a bottle to get through.” His grip tightens and she feels the small bones in her wrist click. “You can tell me more about why you hate my movies.” That almost silent husky laugh again. She tries to twist away. He pulls her toward him. “C’mon. I let you up here, didn’t I? Let you ask questions. Not many people get to see this room. Do a little something for me, baby.”
With horror she sees that he is reaching for the fly of his pants, that he is slowly unzipping it, holding her gaze like a test.
Thisis how it feels, she realizes, to know that you are really in trouble, that you are certain to be overpowered. No matter how hard you fight or how gently you try to reason, to coax, it feels like falling. And there’s no way to stop it.
Clarke pulls at his belt buckle, then freezes as a loud knock comes at the door.
