The General Page 4

  They were just better at covering it up.

  We.

  I guess that was a we now.

  It was no longer me and them.

  I did something terrible.

  I was paying for someone to cover it up.

  That, more so than anything else, was a hard truth to swallow.

  Water chilling, I pulled the drain, climbing out when the water was gone, drying, brushing my hair, pulling it into a long side braid I would never normally do either since - except for on rare social occasions and while working out - Teddy wanted my hair down and free, then dressing in the familiar, yet foreign, clothes.

  It had been so long that I forgot how comfortable a sweatshirt was. Especially a new, never worn, never washed one. When the inside was still fuzzy and soft, brushing soothingly over your skin.

  I went into the closet to grab socks and slippers, then feeling like I had no other reason to stall, made my way back downstairs in a house that felt different now.

  Still a prison.

  But at least the warden wasn't there to torment me anymore.

  "You stock up on tea like you're worried they might stop selling it," he informed me as I walked in, putting a steaming mug down on the island across from him.

  As I moved to take a seat at the stool propped against it, I shrugged. "Maritza, who does the shopping, grabs one every week even if I am not running low."

  "Ah, staff," he murmured, and I would swear I heard a bit of judgement there. Even though I couldn't really even begrudge him it since I felt the same way once, I felt my spine stiffening, felt myself getting defensive.

  I didn't hire the staff.

  I didn't want the staff.

  Because, see, the staff didn't just wash and shop and cook and clean and tend the grounds.

  No.

  They reported back to Teddy about every single thing I did.

  The walls had eyes in my house.

  And they were looking for things that I did wrong because they got a bonus each time they found something.

  I reached for my mug, seeing my wedding and engagement rings catching the light, then reaching to slide them off with an urgency I couldn't have anticipated.

  "Yeah. It will be nice not to have them around so much any... what?" I asked as he started shaking his head at me.

  "Nothing gets to change right now," he told me, sounding sorry for it. "You have to go on as if nothing happened. Of course, you are a grieving widow now and you shouldn't be doing social engagements or hitting the gym, but you need to pretend that this life you have lived is the life you always wanted. You have to keep the staff. You have to keep in touch with the senator. You will need to resume some of your engagements after a few weeks. And," he said, moving closer, reaching to snag my rings, holding them up, taking my left hand with his to hold it up, then sliding my rings back on, "you have to be the wife you would be if the man you loved ended up murdered. This is as - if not more - important as the show you put on earlier. Tomorrow, no one would bat an eye if you stayed in a dark room all day. And after tonight, I would imagine you need it. Do you keep any pain medicine down here?" he asked, seeming to sense the slamming in my temples, behind my eyes.

  "The powder room. I can..." but he was already walking away to get it. He was back a moment later with the bottle as well as a bucket and rags. "What is that for?"

  "A grieving widow wouldn't be able to tolerate seeing her husband's blood on the floor like that. She'd have tried to clean it up. But wouldn't have finished. I am just going to put on that show too."

  "Thank you," I said, meaning it. Because the idea of having to put on that show myself made my stomach twist and slosh around.

  Again, he didn't accept my gratitude, brushed it off, moved right past it.

  "Now, we will be there with you until the body is buried and the case goes cold."

  "I told the detective that I would be hiring private security," I told him, figuring it was giving him an excuse to be around, not sneak in and out the back door like a criminal.

  "Good. That works. And we are private security. You know, on the books. In reality, we don't really do that. But we do use it for show. This is my case seeing as Quin is out of the country. But you will see other faces too. Namely Lincoln and Finn. Maybe Gunner if we are short-staffed. And then there will be Miller who can join you in case you have ladies-only lunches or a spa thing or such to do. We will have you covered no matter what if or when the time comes. And, just to make this clear, the fee is flat. We don't charge more if this goes for several weeks. We charge by difficulty, not duration."

  "Okay. I understand."

  "And we know that the financial thing is likely delicate for a while, so we won't be pressing you to pay until it is safe to do so."

  "Okay," I agreed, taking a sip of my tea.

  "Do you have any questions?"

  I couldn't come up with many, making me feel inept, like maybe I should have had a dozen of them prepared.

  "How long do you think it would be? For the case to go cold, I mean."

  "Depends a bit on the senator really. How hard he pushes for a suspect. But there is nothing to go on. Even if they did haul someone in, and that is the worst-case scenario, they don't have any proof to charge anyone on. Actually. We do have one loose end." My stomach tightened hard at that, knowing what loose ends could mean in a situation like this. "Your nightie," he clarified, making my brows draw together.

  "What about it?"

  "I'm just worried about a little GSR. Gunshot residue," he clarified. "If a finger ever did get pointed at you - and I think that is a very long shot - but if, that nightie might have evidence on it. I want you, before you go to bed, to soak it in the tub. Throw some cleaner in there, then drain it out and rinse it with your bath shit. The vanilla stuff. Then leave it there as a sopping, bloodstained mess. Like you had climbed in the bath in it because you were so out of your mind over the situation. In fact, leave everything a little messy right now. More than you may normally. If the staff ever gets questioned, you will be a genuinely absentminded, grief-stricken wife. You can go as far as to sneak some snacks into your nightstand or something, then refuse meals, say you aren't hungry. All that stuff reinforces your grief."

  "I can do that," I agreed.

  "I think it will genuinely be just a couple of weeks, Mrs. Ericsson."

  "Jenny," I corrected, cringing at the title. "Not Jen," I added, knowing there was a bit of malice in my voice, and not caring. Jen was what Teddy called me. And Teddy alone. I personally hated it. And in public, I was always introduced as Jennifer, so that was what the whole social circle called me, never getting close enough - because Teddy wouldn't allow it - to cutesy or cut short my name. But me, as a girl, as a whole person I once got to be before Teddy started whittling pieces of me away all these years, she used to like to be called Jenny.

  "Jenny," he agreed, and the name slipped deliciously off his lips. Too deliciously. The kind of way that sent shivers across a woman's skin.

  "And you're Smith." It was a statement, but also an invitation. To give me more. Give me a first name. Because there was no way Smith was his first name.

  But he declined to give me more.

  "Yep."

  "So... now what? Are you leaving?" I asked, and something within me screamed No!

  "Ah. I think, just for appearances' sake, I should hang here in case the detectives show back up. Since you said you'd be calling in security. It wouldn't look right that you wouldn't do it. Or that you would settle for waiting for it."

  "Because a woman who was beaten by a man who murdered her husband wouldn't feel safe all alone in the house it happened in." I was getting the hang of this. And I was pretty sure that was not something I should have been proud of. But there was no stopping it. I felt pride. For not being a handful. For not being needy and pathetic and hysterical.

  "Exactly."

  "There is a guest room upstairs," I offered. "Not the pink room. I mean, if you want that one, you ar
e free to use it. That is..."

  "Your room," he guessed correctly. "Since your master bedroom is one-hundred percent masculine," he added.

  "Well, yeah. In a way. But the other guest room is much more neutral. I know pink seems to give men headaches," I added, trying to be light. Everything felt so heavy. And not just this night. My entire adult life felt heavy, weighted, making me drag along with every bit of strength within me. Light felt welcome after that.

  "Okay. If I need to crash, that is where it will be. Thank you."

  "If?" I asked, shaking my head. "You've been up all night like me."

  "I'm used to going a few days without sleep."

  "Military," I heard myself mumble.

  "Yeah," he agreed, nodding. "I might crash. I might stay up and fill in my team. My boss who should be up and moving by now. Then later in the day, someone will relieve me so I can crash for a bit before coming back."

  "Okay."

  Why did I feel like I was sinking at the idea of him leaving?

  Because he was my anchor right now? The person holding me where I needed to be?

  Or because he was the one person in the whole world I could be honest with?

  Surely, those were the only logical explanations.

  "Did you want to grab some snacks to stash away?"

  Snacks.

  The concept was almost foreign to me.

  See, when you signed your soul away to a man like Theodore Ericsson, you gave away everything. Your own personal likes, dislikes, habits, wants, desires. You even gave up your right to snack, to eat what you want. Because he expected your weight and measurements to stay the exact same, and was quick to comment if he thought there was more fat to pinch across my tummy or in my inner thigh, if I had a back roll from a too-tight new bra that simply needed wearing in and washing to fit properly. So I adjusted. I gave up the basic human pleasure of enjoying food, adopting a strict diet that kept me the exact size I needed to be to avoid ridicule, endless taunting, pig noises, getting told I was too disgusting to even look at, let alone fuck.

  His words, not mine.

  I hated that word to describe sex.

  Fucking.

  Because, from what I had observed, men got a fuck, women got fucked over.

  "You look so lost," Smith observed, his hazel eyes - more brown in this light than green - looking almost sad.

  "I... I don't know what snacks Maritza picked up," I rushed to cover. Why? Because I was ashamed. Because it was embarrassing to admit to the lifestyle I had been a part of.

  "Well, why don't you figure that out while I go put on a show with the mop and rags," he suggested. Like maybe he understood, saw under my lie, knew I needed to be alone to prevent myself from being any more humiliated than I already felt about the whole situation.

  When he was gone, I let myself into the pantry, finding mostly ingredients for meal prepping, but there was a shelf of things that maybe the staff liked, or Teddy requested. A giant bag of dried cranberries, mixed nuts in a big plastic container, crackers. None of which I really considered snacks. I mean if you were going to snack, you went for chips or cookies or popcorn, right?

  But if I was going to pretend to be too upset to eat, I needed some sustenance. I took little plastic baggies of each with a grumble before half-turning to step back out, and noticing something tucked in the very back of the top shelf.

  Leftover Halloween candy.

  The good stuff.

  It was the one thing Teddy was generous about, but it was likely just to keep up with the neighbors. We gave away full bars. Maritza went to the bulk store and got giant boxes of each. And since our neighborhood was aging up, we didn't have many trick-or-treaters this year. A ton was left.

  Feeling like I hit the jackpot, I loaded a ton of it into a bag, and finally headed back out.

  "Nice," Smith said with a smile as he eyed the almost overflowing bag of junk food.

  "There's more if you want some," I told him with a small smile.

  "Can't turn down a Milky Way," he agreed with a smile of his own.

  And it just felt so normal, so natural

  For the first time in my adult life, I wasn't putting on a show, being someone someone else wanted me to be.

  It was the most freeing sensation I had ever felt.

  And as I made my way up to bed, I wondered if that was a feeling I could ever have with anybody else.

  THREE

  Smith

  A floor below her, I wondered if she slept as the sun crept across the sky - reds and oranges. The kind of sunrise that made staying up all night worth it.

  "Who are you?" a suspicious female voice asked, high, shrill almost. And suspicious.

  The staff has arrived.

  Early, likely, because they heard the news. And just like any sleazy ambulance chaser, they needed to see the inside details, get some information they could use to leak to their close friends and family members - hell, strangers in the drugstore - to make themselves feel more important.

  I turned on my heel, finding a woman standing there in a uniform of similar material as hospital scrubs, but much more neat, tailored. Black pants. Gray top with a white wing collar, white buttons up the front. Her shoes were a pristine white as well, grippy, the kind of shoes waitstaff wore.

  She was maybe in her late thirties - young enough still to do grunt work without worrying about her back and knees. Her hair was a bright copper red, the kind that could only be natural. Her eyes were small and wide-set to make room for her strong nose, a brown so dark they were almost black. Her cheekbones cut high, hallowed out. That, her thin neck, her frail wrists, all evident of her almost troubling thinness.

  I made a life trusting my gut instincts. And my gut was telling me that this woman was someone you needed to be on-guard around.

  I wondered if Jenny saw it, acted accordingly.

  I imagined she did.

  She seemed smart, keen.

  To live in a house where the walls had eyes, where any misstep could have you beaten, yeah, I think she knew this housekeeper was out for herself only.

  "My name is Smith. I'm from Quinton Baird & Associates. I am personal security for Mrs. Ericsson," I explained, reaching into my wallet to hand her a card that was made up specifically to say Private Security. It sat next to ones that said Consultant or Public Relations.

  "Oh, good. I came in early because I was worried about Mrs. Ericsson all alone in the house after..." her gaze shifted, having caught something out of place at the corner of her vision. The bucket, rag, smeared bloodstain. "Oh, my," she said, her brow wrinkling. "She tried..." she trailed off, and I was almost certain the sympathy in her voice was genuine. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Smith, I want to get this taken care of so she doesn't have to see it when she wakes."

  "If you don't mind, I will make a fresh pot of coffee."

  "Can you put the kettle on as well?" she asked as she stopped in the hallway that led to the laundry room. "I will bring the missus some tea up to her room after I finish this."

  While making coffee, the back door opened twice more, bringing in the groundskeeper who was decidedly not needed since there was no fresh snow to take care of, but he claimed he was just dropping some rock salt Just in case. Then in came the second house worker, a woman well into middle age, round in the middle, short, with perpetually pink cheeks, dark brown hair pulled into a side braid, her gold-brown eyes heavy with worry. I couldn't quite decide if it was genuine yet.

  After I introduced myself, she went to make Jenny's tea. "I'm Lydia. I cook here. And pitch in on some of the cleaning when Maritza gets behind on the straightening or laundry. I can't believe all of this. To think I just saw Mr. Ericsson the day before yesterday..."

  There was a lot of that between the staff after Maritza finished the blood, and pointedly took the teacup, placed it on a white serving tray with a small plate of some rectangular, hard-looking, health-type cookies.

  I braced myself for her reaction when she came back down, wonder
ing if Jenny would fake it upon waking like she could with some warning.

  "How is she?" Lydia asked, fiddling around wiping already clean countertops because she had no cooking to do.

  "She must have gotten into her bath wearing her bloody nightgown," she said, waving a small washbasin where the champagne-colored dress was hanging slightly over the edge. "I don't know if I should wash it, or if she'd want me to get rid of it."

  "Maybe wash it but keep it away from sight for a while," Lydia suggested. "In case, for some reason, she wants it."

  "Yeah, maybe that is the best course. She's not doing well. Her face is cut and bruised. She was strangled, you know," she added in a whisper as though we had an audience. "Eyes puffy from crying. Didn't even lift her head from her bed. And what she was wearing."

  Gossip.

  Mean-spirited gossip.

  About their employer's supposedly grieving wife.

  I excused myself, not exactly sure I could hold my tongue if it went beyond her clothes that she wore after getting beaten as if that mattered at all. As if she should be wearing silk and lace to bed after a night like that.

  My phone rang and I moved out front to stand on the steps, answering Quin.

  "Updates."

  "Good morning to you too, Quinn," I rumbled, shaking my head. "She seemed to pull it off. Waiting to see what today brings."

  "Finn handled what you needed him to," Quin said, leaving out specifics like we always did. We needed to be discreet. You never really knew if anyone could be listening. "And Lincoln is on call for today. I know you're going to need sleep, but you'll have to pop into the office to update the file at least. I have Gunner, Kai, and Miller trying to sort through the paperwork, so don't worry about that. This is your main priority now. I wish I could..."

  "Take your vacation and enjoy your time with your wife," I filled in for him. "I've been right by your side since you opened, Quin. I can handle this."

  "I trust you. I just know that you would like some backup."