"We both know that's not true."
"I don't know where that videotape came from," he said. "Someone planted it."
"Yeah, right. You stick with that story. I'm asking you about the property in Loxahatchee."
"I have an attorney," Seabright said. "Talk to him."
"This is an unrelated line of questioning."
"And I told you, I don't have anything to do with the rental property."
"You expect me to believe that someone involved in Erin's kidnapping just happened to rent that property from your company? The same way these people you sent Erin to for a job just happened to turn out to be killers and rapists and Christ knows what all."
"I don't care what you believe," Seabright said, reaching for his phone. "I had nothing to do with any of this, nor did my son. Now get out of my office or I'm filing harassment charges."
"File it up your ass, Seabright," Landry said. "You and your rotten kid are both going to jail. I'll see to it personally."
Landry left the office, thinking he just wanted to drive the lot of these people out to Lion Country Safari and dump them inside the pen with the big cats.
Krystal Seabright was standing in the hall a few feet from the office door. For once, she didn't look stoned, but stricken. She held a hand out to stop him from passing her, her mouth opening to form words that didn't come out.
"Can I help you, Mrs. Seabright?"
"I did it," she said.
"I'm sorry?"
"That woman came to me, to my office. I rented her that property. I remember her name. Paris. I've always wanted to visit Paris."
She didn't know quite how she should be reacting to the news, Landry thought. With guilt? With shock? With outrage?
"How did she happen to come to you?" he asked.
"She told me a friend sent her." Tears shone in her eyes. She shook her head and looked toward her husband's office. "Was it him? Do you think it was him?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Seabright," Landry confessed. "I guess you have to ask him."
"I guess I do," she murmured, staring at the office door. "I have to do something."
Landry left her there in the hall, glad he was just a cop. He could walk away from this mess when it was over. Krystal Seabright wouldn't be so lucky.
54
I stared at the barrel of the gun in Paris Montgomery's hands. Jimmy Buffett was still singing in the background.
"Put down the phone and the gun," Paris said to me.
I now held the Glock in my weak and damaged right hand. I could have tried to raise it up and call her bluff, but I couldn't have done it convincingly. I couldn't have pulled the trigger if I needed to. I weighed my options as Landry's voicemail message came on the line.
Paris came toward me. She was angry and she was afraid. Her neat little scheme was fraying at the edges like a cheap rag.
"It seemed a simple plan, didn't it, Paris?" I said. "You got Erin to help you frame Jade. She and Chad got to ruin Bruce Seabright in the process. It would have worked like a charm if Molly Seabright hadn't come to me for help."
"Put down the phone and the gun," she ordered again.
I clipped the phone onto my jeans and glanced at Trey, who stood flat-footed and expressionless.
"Why did you let Van Zandt in on it?" I asked. "Or did he force his way in?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then why are you pointing a gun in my face, Paris?"
She glanced at Trey. "This is all Don's doing," she said. "He killed Stellar. He kidnapped Erin. He killed Jill. It's all Don, Trey. You have to believe me."
"Why?" he asked. "Because it's part of your plan?"
"Because I love you!" she said emphatically, though her eyes were on me, sighting down the barrel of a gun. "Erin saw Don kill Stellar. Don did horrible things to her, to punish her. And he killed Jill."
"No, he didn't, honey," Trey said wearily. "I know he didn't."
"What are you saying?"
"You had night check the night Jill was killed. You left my bed to go do it. Just like you did the night before, when Berne's horses were turned loose."
"You're confused, Trey," Paris said, an edge in her voice.
"Generally, yes. Life's easier that way. But not about this."
She took another step toward me, her patience wearing thin. "Put the fucking gun down!"
I heaved a sigh and slowly crouched down as if to set the gun on the floor, then ducked and rolled sideways.
Paris fired twice, one of the bullets hitting the floor near me and spitting up shards of travertine marble.
I switched my gun to my left hand, trying to steady it with my right, came to my feet, and rushed her before she could adjust her position to fire at me a third time.
"Drop it, Paris! Drop it! Drop it!"
She turned and bolted for the stairs at the far end of the balcony. I ran after her, pulling up short as she turned the corner and fired off a shot behind her.
Cautiously, I peered around the corner, looking down on an empty stairwell faintly illuminated by the glow of the security light. She could have been waiting beyond the landing, tucked against the wall, waiting for me to charge after her. I could see myself turning the corner on the landing and the bullet hitting me square in the chest, my blood the only color in a black-and-white scene.
I went instead to the end of the balcony and looked down. She was gone. I ran down the stairs. The engine of Trey's Porsche roared to life as I hit the ground. The headlights blinded me as the car leapt toward me.
I brought my gun up and put a round through the windshield, then dove to the side.
Paris tried to swing the Porsche around, tires spinning, dirt and gravel spraying out behind it. The car skidded sideways and slammed violently against the side of the concrete building, setting off the horn and alarm system.
Paris shoved the door open, fell out of the vehicle, got up and started to run down the driveway, a hand pressed to her left shoulder. She stumbled and fell, got up and ran another few steps, then stumbled and fell again. She lay sobbing on the ground within sight of the sign proudly announcing construction of Lucky Dog Farm.
"No, no, no, no, no!" she whimpered over and over as I reached her. Blood ran between her fingers from the bullet wound in her shoulder.
"The game is over, Paris," I said, looking down at her. "You're out of luck, bitch."
55
Molly sat curled up in a little knot on her bed, knees pulled up beneath her chin. She was trembling and trying hard not to cry.
She listened to the fight going on below her, their voices coming up through her floor. Bruce shouting. Things crashing. Hateful and angry, her mother shrieking like something from a nightmare, like nothing Molly had ever heard. An eerie, high-pitched tone that rose and fell like a siren. She sounded insane. Bruce called her insane more than once.
Molly feared he might be right. That maybe the tight band that had held Krystal together all this time had just broken, and everything she had held repressed inside her had come bursting out.
As the shrieking rose again, Molly jumped off the bed, locked her door, and struggled to shove her nightstand in front of it. She grabbed the phone Elena had given her, scrambled back to her spot against the headboard, and dialed Elena's cell phone.
She listened to the phone ring unanswered. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
Below her the noise abruptly stopped and a strange, horrible silence took its place. Molly strained her ears for any kind of sound, but the silence pressed in on her until she wondered if she'd gone deaf.
Then came a small, soft voice drifting up through the vent as if from another dimension. "I only ever wanted a nice life… I only ever wanted a nice life…"
56
Landry arrived on the heels of the ambulance that had been called for Paris. My shot through the windshield had clipped her shoulder. She had lost some blood, but she would live to see another day, and another and another-all of them from a prison cell, I hoped.