THE EXECUTION
Death smells. I have to fight back the surge from my stomach. I can’t lose it now.
Oh, Ashlyn. What have you done?
Damien—my father, our father—is dead, there’s no question. He is devoid of color, past pale, waxy like a creamy candle, a string of vomit dripping down his chin. He has soiled himself; this is part of the stench. The rest is blood. But it’s not his.
Sylvia is propped up against a chair. Her eyes are glazed over with pain. The gunshot must have nicked an artery, the bodice of her silk dress is thick with blood. It drips drips drips onto the parquet floor.
She sees me and raises a hand for help. She mouths the words weakly, but no sound emerges from her pale lips. Her eyes roll back in her head and she slumps forward.
I realize Ashlyn is standing by the curtains, a small smile on her face, pulling off gloves.
“You shot your mother?” My voice comes out in a squeak.
“Didn’t have a choice. She was being difficult. Wouldn’t take the pills I crushed up in the scotch. Damien did, though. Look at him!”
I don’t want to look at him again, the image of his face is seared forever in the vault of my memory.
“There’s too much evidence, Ashlyn. You’re going to be caught.”
“If we’re caught, you mean—and it is we, my dear Lexie, not just me, you’ve been in on this little plan from the beginning, don’t forget—but we won’t. The tableau is just what you think it is. Damien was killed by Sylvia, she’s poisoned him and, distraught, shot herself. Don’t worry, the powder residue will be on her hands. Check her pulse for me, would you? Shan’t be long now.”
Ashlyn is insane. I’ve known this somewhere in my heart for months, years, really.
“I’m not touching her. You never said anything about killing them. I’m calling the police.”
The shotgun is in my face before I can take a second breath. She backs me up against the wall.
“If you call the police before I tell you to, I will explain to them you created this scenario, that you were obsessed with me, with my family, because you had to live in squalor while we got served off gold plates and lived in this fabulous mansion. Who do you think they’ll believe? You? You and your ratty, heroin-addicted mother, or me, the upstanding daughter of a peer?”
I see how neatly Ashlyn has boxed me in. If I weren’t so terrified, I might have admired her ingenuity.
The shotgun drops. “You’re free now, Alex. And so am I. Play your part and nothing bad will happen. Now, get ready. We have a few things to do, then you’ll have to take my place. You’ll have to be the one who comes in from the gardens and finds them like this, after you heard the gunshot.”