Karin Slaughter - Like A Charm

'Don't pull that shit on me, babe. You aren't dragging your heels plotting how to get away with it. You have that figured out. Now you're just trying to decide how you want to do it. You're in no rush to get to the reality, 'cause you're too busy enjoying the fantasy.'

He grinned. 'This is true. Shooting versus stabbing versus strangulation. It's a big decision. I only get to do it once, sadly.'

'At this rate, you'll never get around to doing it at all.'

'How about Friday?'

Deanna popped up her head, then narrowed her eyes. 'Ha-ha.'

'I'm quite serious.' Gregory patted his pockets, and pulled out his car keys. 'Does Friday work for you?'

She nodded, eyes still wary.

'It's a date, then,' he said. 'I'll see you tomorrow and we'll talk. I'm thinking stabbing. Messier, but more painful. Abby deserves the best.'

He smiled, blew her a kiss and disappeared out the door.

Deanna sat up and looked out of the window. The cottage Gregory had rented for her was perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. When she cast her gaze out across the water, it looked mirror-smooth, with brightly coloured yachts and sailboats bobbing about like children's toys. Cotton-candy clouds drifted across the aquamarine sky. Farther down the shore, a freshly painted red-and-white lighthouse gleamed like a peppermint stick. It was a picture so perfect that if you painted it, no one would believe it was taken from life. Yet if she looked down, straight down, she found herself staring into a maelstrom of mud and garbage. All the trash those distant boats tossed overboard wound up here, at the bottom of the cliff, where beer cans and empty sunscreen bottles swirled in whirlpools crested with dirty foam.

Be not deceived, for as ye sow, so shall ye reap. The Bible quote came so fast it brought a chill, and she shivered, yanking down the window shade.

For as ye sow, so shall ye reap. How deeply the lessons of youth burrow into the brain. She could still see her father in the pulpit, his lips forming those words. The lessons of youth, driven in with the help of a liberally wielded belt.

At fifteen, Deanna had run from those lessons, run all the way to Toronto, and found the hell her father prophesied for her. At seventeen, she mistook Satan for saviour, becoming a wealthy businessman's toy in return for promises of gold rings and happily ever after. After two years, he discarded her like a used condom.

Before he could pass her apartment to his next toy, she'd broken in, intent on taking everything she could carry. Then she'd found the photos he'd taken of them together. And they'd given her an idea. For as ye sow, so shall ye reap. There had to be consequences. A price to be paid… but not by her.

It had been laughably easy. Of course, she hadn't asked for much. She'd been naive, having no idea how much those photos were worth to someone who valued his family-man reputation above all. But, with practice, she'd learned. For ten years now, she'd made her living having affairs with wealthy married men, then demanding money to keep her mouth shut.

Now, finally, that had all come to an end. One last mortal sin, and she'd be free.

Deanna opened the drawer of her bedside table and reached inside. Beneath the pile of lingerie was a post-card of the French Riviera. She didn't pull it out, just ran her fingers over its glossy surface. She closed her eyes and remembered when they'd bought it. She'd seen it in the display rack and pulled it out, waving it like a flag.

'Here! This is where I want to go.'

An indulgent smile. 'Then that's where we'll go.'

He'd said Friday. Did he mean it? Could she book the tickets now? She stroked the postcard. No, not yet. Give it another couple of days. Make sure he meant it this time.

'How retro,' Abby said, waving her wrist above the plate of mussels.

She snaked her hand over her head and wriggled in her seat like a belly dancer, her laughter tinkling chime for chime with the bracelet. The tiny dock-turned-patio held only a half-dozen tables, but every male eye at every one of those tables slid an appreciative look Abby's way, and an envious one at Gregory. He snorted under his breath. Fools.

He stabbed through his chowder, looking for something edible.

'It's so cute,' Abby said. 'Did you pick it up in London?'

'You could say that. So, you like it?'

'Love it.' She fingered the charms. 'Which one's for me?'

All of them.'

'No, silly, I mean: which charm did you buy for me? That's the tradition, you know. If you give someone a charm bracelet, you have to buy them the first charm, something meaningful.'

Like hell. He wasn't about to waste money on another trinket. Not when it'd be lying on the ocean floor by the weekend. He peered at the charms. A key, a train, a saxophone…

'The lighthouse,' he said. 'I bought you the light-house.'

'Oh?' she said, nose wrinkling as she examined the charm. 'That's… interesting. Why'd you pick that?'

He waved his hand at the ocean. 'Because it made me think of here. Your favourite restaurant.'

'But the lighthouse isn't-' She leaned as far back in her chair as she could. 'Well, I guess maybe you could see it from here. On a clear day. If you squint hard enough. Well, it's the thought that counts, and I do love it here. The lights over the water. The smell of the ocean. Heaven.'

Heaven. Right. They lived in a town with two four-star restaurants, and Abby's idea of heaven was a wharf-side dive where the specialties were beer, beer, and mussels soaked in beer. At least in town he could hope to see someone, make a contact that would lead to a sale. But none of the summer people came here. Only locals, and no local bought a thousand dollar painting of the Atlantic Ocean when they could see it through their kitchen window.

The screen door leading to the patio creaked open. Out of habit, he looked, half hoping it might be one of the American celebrities who summered in town. He caught a flash of sun-streaked blond hair and a male face hidden by the shadows of the overhang.

The man scanned the patio, then stepped back fast. The door squeaked shut. Gregory's eyes shot to Abby as her gaze swivelled back to the harbour.

'Was that Zack?' he asked.

'Hmmm?' Her bright blue eyes turned to meet his, as studiously vacant as ever.

Gregory's jaw tightened. 'Zack. Your summer intern. Was that him?'

'Where, hon?'

Gregory bit off a reply. This wasn't the time to start sounding like a jealous husband, not now, when all it would take was one such comment passed from Abby to a friend to give him motive for murder. If Abby wanted to cheat on him, she'd had plenty of opportunity to do so before now. As lousy as their marriage was, Abby was satisfied with it. She was satisfied with him. And why not? She had not only a wealthy, handsome husband, but a husband who owned a successful art gallery, where every pathetic seascape she daubed on to canvas found a prominent place on the walls. The perfect catch for a pretty, young art student of mediocre talent.

The moment he'd laid eyes on Abigail Landry at a Montreal art show, he thought be had found his perfect catch. A beautiful, lauded young painter, the ideal showpiece artist for his new Nova Scotia seaside gallery, and the ideal showpiece wife for him. The trouble had started three months after the wedding, when she'd refused to paint a custom-ordered portrait of a Schnauzer wearing sunglasses. He'd lost his temper and smacked her. She'd said nothing, just gone into her studio and started the dog's portrait. Then the next day she'd waltzed in on a private meeting with two of his best clients, her black eye on full display, smiling sweetly and asking if anyone wanted iced tea, leaving him stammering to explain.

Before long, divorce was out of the question. Her silly seascapes accounted for seventy per cent of the gallery's income. Then, two years ago, when the stock market plunge had wiped out his finances, she'd glided to his rescue with her own well-invested nest egg, offered as sweetly and as easily as the iced tea. So he was trapped.