Chapter 7 - The Master of the House
The cold, wet chrome of the yacht’s stern ladder bit into my palms as I climbed silently out of the ocean, hauling myself over the transom and onto the aft deck where, less than an hour ago, Lucas had smiled as he pushed me into the abyss.
Water dripped from my clothes onto the teak deck plates, making no more sound than the falling rain.
I slipped past the sliding glass doors leading into the main salon. The curtains were drawn open just enough to reveal a scene of domestic triumph.
Roderick and Gertrude were lounging on the white leather custom sofas, crystal champagne flutes in hand, laughing loudly as they clinked their glasses together. Lucas stood by the built-in wet bar, pouring himself a generous measure of twenty-year-old scotch, looking every bit the grieving, devastated widower.
“Well,” Roderick chuckled, swirling the golden liquid in his glass. “To a flawless execution. By tomorrow noon, the maritime authorities will find her shoes washed ashore near Baja, and the estate transfer will clear automated probate.”
“And to think,” Gertrude beamed, adjusting her diamond tennis bracelet, “that sweet, pathetic little fool actually believed he loved her. Women like that are so easy to manage when you stroke their vanity.”
Lucas took a long sip of his scotch, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. “She never suspected a thing. Even when I handed her the pills every night, she thanked me for taking care of her.”
I stepped out of the shadows of the doorway, sliding the heavy glass portal open with a soft, deliberate click.
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“You always were terrible at gratitude, Lucas,” I said.
The sound of my voice cut through the room like a jagged blade.
