Page 52 of Married to the Devil

Gourmet meals every night. All the entertainment we could ask for. Pool, sauna, gym, even a big room filled with instruments, and another packed full of kid toys with soft play mats and sliding equipment.

It’d be heaven if it weren’t also hell.

So I’ve been taking inventory. It hasn’t been too hard. The building wasn’t designed to hide its defenses and I’ve been planning weddings and events for long enough that I’m good at taking stock and making lists.

Fortunately, the burner phone I use to call Marnie has a notes application that’s local and doesn’t upload to the cloud.

I tap my new findings quickly, doing my best to make it look natural, so the guards aren’t alerted.

Hattie continues to play. We draw a giant mural all down the driveway, which gives me a good excuse to get close to the wall again. I watch the guards, how they react, where they move. I pay attention to when they switch positions. There’s a schedule and I crack it on the second day of trying.

By the third, I’m reasonably sure I know how the overnight rotation works.

The house isn’t perfect. Yes, there are tons of cameras, but the grounds are old. The trees get close to the wall in several places and the front gate was clearly original. There’s a door beside it that the staff uses to come and go. It’s locked, but not with a key; there’s an ancient iron bolt that slides across manually. Which means I could easily open it from the inside.

On day four, I start to think I’ve got a shot. On day five, I convince Byron to let me help him unload the grocery shipment. Hattie’s enthusiasm sells it.

“There’s nothing fun about carrying food inside,” Byron says though he seems pleased for the company. “But if the young lady wants to haul carrots for poor, old Byron, who am I to complain?”

“Yuck, carrots!” Hattie wrinkles her nose. “Ponies only eat meat.”

“That doesn’t sound right…”

“The meat of their fallen enemies!”

“Hattie!” I smile sheepishly. “Sorry, she’s been watching too much TV lately.”

“No problem at all. The young lady has a beautiful imagination. Though maybe less pony-on-pony violence would be good?”

The grocery truck arrives around one in the afternoon. The driver’s a stocky guy who seems to know Byron. The two of them chat for a few minutes while I take stock of the interior. It’s a typical delivery vehicle and the order comes in medium-sized crates. Not big enough for me, but maybe for Hattie…

No, it won’t work. I help Byron unload while the driver wanders off to smoke. Hattie “helps” for a few minutes but gives up and turns to her chalk.

“How long have you worked for Rafe?” I ask as we plop overflowing cartons of leafy greens into the walk-in.

“Oh, years. He plucked me from a hellish job in Paris and offered to triple my salary if I became his personal chef.”

“How’s that been?”

He gives me a curious glance. “Wonderful. Best boss I’ve ever had.”

“You can be honest with me, you know.”

“Ah, well, perhaps⁠—“

“No, really.” My heart’s pattering in my chest. Byron can’t be a member of Rafe’s world, right? The chef seems like such a normal guy. Maybe he can be my way out. Maybe he’ll take pity on me⁠—

Byron’s face is steel as he wipes his hands on his apron. “I know what you are doing, and I am sorry to say it will not work.”

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“Rafe has been good to me. When he found me, I was a meth-addicted line cook with a sick mother and debt up to my eyeballs. He got my poor mother treatment, though she passed a year later, and he helped me get clean. If not for him, mother would’ve suffered more, and I’d still be in the gutter, or worse, cooking foie gras for rich Parisian assholes.”

I wring my hands together, feeling like an idiot. “Was I being that obvious?”

“No, and yes, but mostly I would be doing the same if I were in your position.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Listen, June, I cannot speak to your situation. It is not my place and please don’t ask me to. If you do, I will side with Rafe.”

“He’s really been that good to you?”