his screen wasn’t part of the plain blue wallpaper he’d opted for in a quick, distracted moment.
It was blood splatter.
His desk chair had been turned to face the window so he couldn’t see who was sitting in it, just the coil after coil of bloody nylon rope that had been used to tie them down.
Against his will, Danny Stevens reached for the back of his desk chair so he could turn it around and see who it was, because whoever it was, they weren’t moving. He’d heard a car engine outside in those last few seconds before the darkness returned, so whoever was in his chair, they had to be—
“Don’t do that yet,” someone said.
Danny bellowed and landed ass-first on the floor.
Marshall Ferriot stepped forward from the band of shadow beside the double doors to the hallway. The last time Danny had laid eyes on the guy had been six months earlier, on the same computer screen that was now smeared with blood. The kid called the house one afternoon, right after they’d sent Allen Shire after him and his sister, and a dumbfounded Danny had refused to stay on the phone for more than a few seconds without some kind of proof the caller was who he claimed to be. Skype: that had been the kid’s suggestion, the same thing he and Sally often used to talk to Douglas when he was up at school. And so, stunned and slack-jawed and wishing he could hide the emotions passing over his face, Danny had listened intently that day as Marshall Ferriot made his pitch.
He hadn’t just listened. He had given in, completely.
And it had all gone perfectly since then. But now, Marshall was in his office and there was blood everywhere, so maybe it hadn’t gone so well after all. The kid seemed to have no trouble moving around but he looked gaunt and ghostly. How long had it been since he’d come to? Six months. What had he said at that time?
And so, as far as anyone at Cypress Bank & Trust knew, Marshall Ferriot was still a vegetable, still being cared for in seclusion by his dutiful sister. Danny had taken care of everything: submitting fake medical reports to the trust committee, setting up a new account to receive the disbursements, which he and Marshall could both access—Marshall under a new identity Danny had provided for him, Henry Lee. He’d been handling Allen Shire himself, so there weren’t a lot of questions to answer on that front.
The split was a little more than fifty-fifty, weighted more generously in Danny’s favor. That had been the kid’s proposal, not Danny’s. And he’d never taken out a penny more than he was supposed to. So why? Why was this happening? Why was there blood everywhere? Why was the kid
When Danny tried to ask this question, he tasted blood on his lips. He rubbed at his mouth and the back of his hand came away dark red. Suddenly all he could do was wheeze and groan for a minute or two while Marshall studied him patiently.
“I did . . . I did everything you asked . . . Everything we ag-agreed to . . .”
“I know.” But he didn’t sound grateful.
Marshall crouched down next to him and Danny looked into his eyes for the first time in his life. He’d only seen them in photographs. At first, their large size made them oddly welcoming, but then he saw they were utterly expressionless; staring into them felt like being invited to dive headfirst into an empty swimming pool.
“Please,” Danny wheezed. “Please . . . tell me . . .” He gestured toward the chair.
“Oh, I get it. You want to know who it is?” Marshall asked evenly. “Your wife, or your son?”
A sob exploded from Danny’s chest.
“I know, I know. It’s a real mind fuck, isn’t it? No pun intended. But the whole thing—it kinda makes sense, don’t you think? My gift, I mean. After the way my sister dragged me around like a rag doll just so she could keep getting her checks. It’s gotta be some kind of poetic justice. . . . Hey, you know what’s also interesting, Mr. Stevens? How you never asked about her.”
“Wh-who?”
“My sister. I guess you assumed she just walked away? No trust, no checks. Nothing in it for her. Was that it?”
Danny nodded. It was total bullshit, but Danny nodded.
“Uh huh . . . okay. And the private detective that you sent to find us? Allen Shire?”
“Well, I never heard from him again. I figured he’d—”
“No one ever heard from him again.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Yes, you do, Mr. Stevens. You know exactly what I’m saying.”
“I figured you paid . . . paid him off, I guess . . . Both of them . . . I th-thought—”
“Did you really? Or did you think I killed them?”
“Now I do.”
Marshall cackled and clapped his hands together.
“Very good, Mr. Stevens,” he said once he caught his breath. “Excellent. In all seriousness, though, Allen Shire was a big help. Huge. Thanks for sending him. Eight years without moving your legs, well, it takes you a long time to learn to walk again. And I needed someone with me every step of the way. So thank you. Thank you for not sending the cavalry after him and causing a big mess for everyone. ’Cause there were other things I needed to learn too, you see? And he was very, very helpful.”
Marshall tapped the side of his head with one finger and smiled broadly, and that’s when Danny realized there was something in the kid’s head, something that defied everything Danny had believed to be true about the world, something that had covered his office in blood while it thrust Danny into some corner of darkness inside himself.
“But you can’t . . . I mean, that doesn’t . . .”
“Doesn’t what?”
“Just ’cause . . . My family . . . Just ’cause of what you did to them, that doesn’t make it right for you to hurt my family.”
“Silly rabbit! I didn’t hurt your family, Mr. Stevens.
Marshall stepped behind the desk. A few keystrokes later, a surveillance image from the hidden camera Danny had installed in the office filled the screen. He’d put the camera in after he and Marshall came to terms, and for one purpose only: to make sure no one was accessing his computer without his knowledge. But Marshall had clearly put it to another use.
There was his desk, clean, well lit, unbloodied. There was his empty chair. There was his computer monitor. The only thing that looked off was the window shade; it had been pulled and Danny couldn’t remember drawing it himself.
Then, in a flash of movement that blurred and pixelated the low-resolution image, he and Sally erupted into frame, a tangle of limbs. His wife’s arms pinwheeling, the glass candleholder arcing through the air, striking her in the jaw so hard Danny thought her head might rip from her neck. And then, slowly, the realization, rising up within Danny on a hot tide of bile, that he was the one bludgeoning his wife. That he was the one hurling his wife’s rag doll body into the desk chair, barely waiting for her to slide limply to the floor before he brought the candleholder down on her again and again and again. And he knew the only reason he couldn’t see the blood lashing onto the desk was because it was a cheap camera. But it was there when he looked down, black and oily in the dull sunlight coming through the shade.
Marshall spun the chair around. Sally was beaten beyond recognition, the border between blood and bruising impossible to distinguish anywhere on her skin, the stained flaps of the gray hooded sweater she’d been wearing squeezed by coil after coil of nylon rope.
Danny screamed. Marshall’s gloved hand closed around his mouth and gathered a clump of Danny’s hair in his other first, forcing the man to watch the monitor.
“Look what you did, Daniel J. Stevens.”
In his mind’s eye, which he had retreated to with a suddenness and entirety that froze his sob, Danny saw his son, Douglas, blowing past the entrance booths to the causeway in his Jeep, windows down, singing along with the radio.
“I told you it was a gift,” Marshall said.
