But Robert Hawk always paid his debts, and he paid the pregnant slut’s—sending an attorney over with a hefty check and an ironclad agreement that insured that the bitch would keep her mouth shut and never share the paternity with anyone, including the child.
He’d hoped for a boy and been incensed by the news of another girl. Disappointments, they all were. Dario had been the closest thing he’d had to a son, and even he—in the end—had failed.
But that was another issue that would be solved on another day. For now, he had to decide what to do with Claudia.
In her continual and desperate quest for his approval, he had seen the pride shining in her eyes, the exuberance she’d shown when she believed she had killed little Bell Hartley.
But she hadn’t. She’d made a mistake. And in his world, mistakes carried deadly consequences, ones that Dario Capece and Bell Hartley would soon realize.
But first, Claudia needed to be dealt with. To forgive or to punish?
One option would leave him with a daughter. The other would allow Claudia to finally meet her sister, in death.
BELL
Everything was different in this place. I sat on the couch, my feet tucked underneath me, and half-heartedly watched a local real estate show. It was terrible. All of the women were either wearing way too much makeup, or hadn’t even bothered to brush their hair. One man was in cargo shorts and Crocs, another wore a suit and seemed fresh off the timeshare sales circuit. But still, it was better than the news.
Everything seemed muted. Even the heat seemed to leave me alone, the doors of the house open, sweat sticking the shirt to Laurent’s back. I watched television, stared out the window, and thought about Gwen.
The guilt was different from when I was raped. I realized now, as an adult, and with a realistic understanding of the situation, that I wasn’t at fault. This was a different beast entirely. The effects of my actions hadn’t been my parents fighting, or a police officer’s ridicule. A woman had died. A woman who, from every news report, had been an angel. Loved by everyone. Philanthropic. Kind. Genuine. Beautiful.
I had watched a dozen specials, all filled with glowing accounts of a woman who seemed to dwarf me in every category. I had watched a slideshow of images of her and Dario. Gwen, in a beaded wedding gown, in a ceremony that rivaled a royal wedding. Dario, gazing at her with adoration. The two of them, in glitz and glamour, at charity events, with celebrities, and at exotic locations. The photos had filled me with a mixture of jealousy and despair, my knowledge of their ‘relationship’ in sharp contrast to every photo I saw.
They looked like the perfect couple. Madly in love. Two puzzle pieces that fit. I had always been in awe of Dario’s magnitude and presence. Gwen seemed to have that same brilliance, a gem that could hold her own when placed beside him.
And me? I sank into a couch that smelled slightly of Febreze and thought of my 2.7 GPA. My job at The House. I’d thought that I was doing so well. My own place, though it had been packed with three other women. My blossoming bank account, which was approaching ten thousand dollars. My foolish pride in things that, compared to Gwen, were pathetic.
My guilt worsened, my jealousy against a dead woman, who had died in my place, was evidence of exactly how shallow and insecure I was.
It was too much to take. The guilt. The insecurity. The jealousy. I curled into the arm of the couch and stared at the screen and wished I had gotten to the suite just a little bit earlier. If I had, Gwen would still be alive. And I would have died. And Vegas would have moved on with little to no ripple effect.
I watched as a man gestured to a marsh view, and listened as Laurent stomped through the house, the lamp beside me trembling from his heavy steps. I closed my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t talk to me, and thought about Gwen.
Night fell on day two. In the carport, seven men crowded around the table, their elbows bumping, beers littering the surface. They were playing a card game I’d never heard of. I’d started out there, eavesdropping on them while I pretended to clean my tennis shoe, but I couldn’t figure out the rules of the game and finally headed back in.
“Hey Bell!” Laurent shouted at me, and I tilted my head far enough left to see him. I raised my eyebrows, and he waved at me. “Joe is out, we need you to play.”
I stood up and trudged through the kitchen, stopping in the doorway and crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t know how to play.”