Lisa Jackson: Treasures aka See How She Dies

“Everyone has a choice, Eunice.” He turned away from her.

“It’s not that easy.” She sniffed, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her velour jacket.

“Sure it is. You made it hard. By trying to kill Adria and when you got hurt, you told Nelson you got hurt by falling when you were chasing the cat. Christ, you’re something. And you expect me to believe you didn’t follow us to San Francisco and kill Ginny?”

She hesitated. “I have an alibi.”

“Convenient. Who?”

She let out her breath and her shoulder’s slumped slightly. She dabbed at her nose with a tissue she’d found in her pocket. “Nelson. On the night Ginny was killed he was here with me.”

“For crying out loud, don’t you think I know he’d lie for you?”

“Possibly, but he doesn’t have to. I was here, Zach, in Lake Oswego when Ginny was murdered.”

“I don’t trust Nelson.”

“Then trust his friend.” She lifted her chin and met Zach’s condemning stare. “Nelson was with someone the night he was here. They didn’t stay all night, of course, because I’m not supposed to know that Tom is Nelson’s lover, but they stopped by for a few hours-just old pals, you know-and we had dinner and played cards. If you don’t believe me or your brother, ask Tom.”

The sirens sounded so close, they screamed through the house.

“You’ll have to tell the police and maybe they’ll buy it, but I don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Of course it does,” he said, then seemed to notice the weird smile playing at the edges of her lips. “Wait a minute…”

“It’s over, Zach.”

“What do you mean? Over?” His gaze shot to the teacup. “What have you done?”

“What I had to, Zach,” she said. “I always do what I have to. You don’t believe me, but everything I’ve done is because I love you.”

“Shit, Eunice,” he swore, “what the hell have you done.”

As sirens blasted outside, Zach’s gaze swept the counter and into the partially open cupboard. “Oh, no…” He threw open the cupboard door and picked up several vials. “You didn’t,” he whispered, looking at her teacup as the sound of tires crunching and voices filtered through the walls. Zach swept the teacup from the table and it crashed into a thousand pieces. “You didn’t have to do this, Mom.”

“Of course I did. This is for you, Zach.” At that moment she lunged at Adria, and the hand that had been hidden in her pocket shot out. In her closed fist was a small knife. Its wicked blade gleamed deadly in the light.

Adria’s heart leapt to her throat.

“No!” Zach yelled.

Eunice stabbed wildly. “You can’t do this, Kat! I won’t let you!”

Adria feinted and twisted, kicking upward at Eunice’s hand. The knife swung downward, ripping Adria’ s shirt.

“Adria!” Zach tackled his mother and she landed hard on the tiled floor. And then she looked up at her son as he reached for the blade.

Deftly, she wiggled away and as her eyes met those of Zach, she twisted her hand around and turned the blade on herself. “You know, Zachary,” she said as she plunged the knife into her abdomen. “You always were the smart one. My best and brightest.”

“No!”

Zach wrestled the knife free and blood smeared his hands, pooling red through Eunice’s jogging suit.

“Oh, God, why?” he cried as the door burst open and thundering footsteps pounded through the house. “Police!” one hoarse voice cried. “Drop your weapons!”

Usually, Anthony Polidori didn’t like to be awakened from sleep, but when the informant called and told him that Eunice Danvers Smythe had been taken to the hospital and was charged with the kidnapping of London Danvers, Anthony thanked the man for his information. Too bad Eunice had been the culprit.

He felt more than a little sense of guilt thinking of her, for he knew that she’d fallen in love with him thirty-five years before. He’d cared for her, yes, but he hadn’t loved her with the same passion she’d felt for him, and, in truth, he’d only bedded her to get back at Witt. Eunice had guessed his reasons. They’d been kindred spirits in that sense, enjoying each other at Witt’s expense.

The bastard.

So Eunice had decided to destroy Witt’s life. Although for years his family had been blamed for the deed, Anthony respected her gall. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty to drop her once Witt had discovered their affair.

He climbed out of his bed and found a striped robe that was worn in the sleeves and tattered at the hem. His wife had bought it for him nearly half a century before and though it was now a rag, he had never had the heart to get rid of it.

He wondered if Mario was home or if he was with some woman-not that it mattered. Shuffling down the tiled hallway, he thought back over his life and was surprised that the deep-seated hatred he’d felt for the Danvers family had seemed to dim over the years.

He rapped on the door and waited. Nothing. Knocking harder, he scowled, then tried the knob. It was locked. “Mario, son, open up.”

He heard a groggy response.

“Come, open the door.”

“Jesus Christ.” Growling and kicking things in his way, Mario finally appeared, his hair wild, his beard dark “Wha-?”

“We need to talk?”

“Are you out of your mind? It’s four in the morning!”

“Get up and come downstairs.”

Mario rubbed a hand over his face and yawned. As he stretched, his back popped. “Let me get my cigarettes and slippers,” he said, then turning, tripped over something else and swore under his breath.

The boy would never grow up.

Anthony made his way downstairs and had uncorked a bottle of champagne by the time his only son stumbled into the kitchen. “What the hell’s going on?” Mario said. He rubbed his teeth with his tongue and shuddered.

“We’re celebrating.”

“Shit, couldn’t it have waited until a decent hour-you know, six or seven in the morning?”

“No. And this is no time for sarcasm.”

“Whatever you say, Pop.” Mario clicked a lighter to the end of his cigarette. “Okay, I’m dyin’ to know. What’s up?”

“Several things. Come, come.” Anthony patted the arm of his chair and indicated that Mario should sit on it as he had when he was a boy. Spewing smoke from the corner of his mouth, he obliged the old man. “Good. Here-” Anthony held a glass to his son; then, after Mario had taken the crystal goblet, touched the rim of his to his son’s. “To the future.”

“Yeah. Right. The future.” Mario, thinking the old man had really lost it and was one step away from the loony bin, began to drink, but his father’s hand stayed him. “And to the end of the feud.”

“Christ!”

“All right. To God as well,” Anthony said magnanimously.

“What’re you talking about? The fucking feud is over? How can that be? You crack out the best champagne and just make some sort of statement that it’s over and all the shit that’s gone on for nearly a hundred years is forgotten? Just like that?” Mario snapped his fingers loudly. Then he rubbed his eyes. “I’m dreaming. That’s what this is-some kind of nightmare.”

“There’s one more thing we’re celebrating.”

“Oh, great. What’s that?”

“Your marriage.”

“Now I know I’m dreaming.”

“No, Mario. It’s time. You need a wife. I need grandchildren. We have to think of the future and not the past. You’ll be married and have children and we will all be happy.”

“Oh, sure, right. What happened tonight, eh?” Mario asked. “When I went to bed everything was the same and now you’re dragging me out of bed, talking like a fortune-teller. Did you get knocked over the head or what?”