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Steam rises from the bubbling hot water. I shrug off my robe and sink into the deep tub. The water coming to my chest, I lean my head against the neck rest, and what feels like a lifetime of tension melts away. An “ahhh” slides out from my lips. Pure bliss. Closing my eyes, I lose track of time, and when I reopen them, I realize I’ve dozed off. How long have I been in the tub?
Every bit relaxed and renewed, I step out, dry off, and slip the robe back on before returning to the bedroom. With a clear head, a thought comes to me. Maybe I can fit the stacks of bills inside the room safe. They’ll be safer there than in the diaper bag. After checking on Isa, who’s still sound asleep in her crib, I pad over to the safe and find it surprisingly locked. Rather than calling the front desk, I punch in six consecutive zeroes—a trick I learned from Gabe. It instantly unlocks. I swing the door open, expecting to find it empty.
It’s not.
Inside is a padded manila envelope. I reach for it and tear it open. My breath hitches in my throat.
A familiar, shiny gold object glimmers in my palm. Ned’s grandfather’s watch! Along with my five-carat-diamond engagement ring and pavé wedding band. A purchase offer from the high-end jeweler located in the hotel accompanies the bling. $750,000 for the watch and $250,000 for the rings. A total of one million dollars!
The discovery of the stolen watch and rings hits me like a bonfire. I fight the bile that’s rising in my throat and, as I swallow it back, my shock morphs into fury. Red-hot rage that makes me spring to my feet just as my phone rings.
I hurry to the phone, almost tripping over the diaper bag. My eyes flit to the bag. The zipper that sometimes gets stuck is open a couple inches. That’s not how I left it. The bag was completely zipped up.
The phone rings again. I eye the screen. It’s Gabe. I jab the green button.
“Hi, babe.” My voice is shaky.
“Are you okay, love? You sound weird.”
“Yeah. Just tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Are you still planning on coming back tomorrow?”
“Yes. I just have one more pressing thing to do.”
“Great.” I can barely hear the smile in his voice with the rage that’s roaring in my blood.
We exchange “I love yous,” with Gabe telling me to give a kiss to Isa from him, something that usually warms my heart. Makes it melt. But tonight, my heart is too frozen with fury. Too heated with hatred.
I storm to Rena’s room. She’s sound asleep, snoring loudly. My heart stampeding, I grab one of the feather pillows on the bed.
Beneath it is a stack of thousand-dollar bills.
Every muscle in my body clenches. The rage I feel can’t be put into words. I want to crumple the bills up, and one by one shove them down her throat. But they have a much greater purpose. Instead, I grip the pillow and press it against her. Smothering her. Silently, I count to one hundred, the number of bills in the stack.
Watching her chest rise and fall. Until it doesn’t.
I remove the pillow and stare at her lifeless, skin-and-bones body.
“Goodbye, Renata,” I say, my voice cold as ice. “May you burn in hell with him.”
Then, I look the other way.
SIXTY-ONE
AVA
Two Years Later
The doorbell rings. I hurry to the front door, my excited two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Isa, by my side.
This house is the one I’ve always dreamed of. My late husband, Ned’s parents’ pink Holmby Hills Monterey Colonial. Gabe tried to talk me out of it, but how could I give it up? It was willed to me by his parents should anything ever happen to Ned, and it was calling my name. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve dreamed of. Walking distance to enchanting Beverly Glen Park, there’s a majestic front lawn and sidewalks, an expansive grassy backyard with a play area and gated pool, plus a guesthouse. While I’ve furnished it in my own shabby chic, childproof style in a palette of pastels, I’ve kept a few of Ned’s parents’ things. The most notable being the full-length, gilt-framed oil portrait of Isabelle Laurent that hangs in the entryway. I’ve also kept her jewelry. One day I want Isa to have the stunning pieces that belonged to the beautiful, legendary actress she was named after.
“Mommy, we play Barbie?” My adorable, pajama-clad daughter, clutching her ninja princess Barbie, looks up at me with her imploring blue eyes.
I want to forego tonight’s event and say yes.
“Isa, dear, it’s time for bed,” a British-accented voice calls out, sparing me from responding.
