The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [117]
“Hot,” she whispered. “Hot . . .”
She fumbled for the door handle. Popped it open. And he was standing there.
No, she cried, but the word remained in her head instead of uttering from her spittle-spewed lips. She tried to wave him away with her hand. You mustn’t be here. He’ll see you and I already got him to eat a chocolate. Another hour, we’ll be together. You’ll kiss all my bruises away. You’ll make me feel beautiful. Please . . .
Her lover didn’t move, however. He was looking at her strangely. As if he’d never seen her before. As if he’d never held her in his arms or whispered sweet words of encouragement. His lips wore an icy smile. What had happened to his thick, dark hair?
She tried to speak again. She couldn’t catch her breath. “Help,” she tried to say this time. “Help.” She reached out her hand to him.
Her lover turned away. She slowly followed his line of sight back into the car, where Phil de Beers now lay gasping over the steering wheel. He was looking at the man in horror while his right hand fumbled beneath the seat.
“Al—” the private investigator muttered. “Stupid bastard . . . Almonds . . . I gotta . . .”
His hand reappeared, his arm trembling convulsively. And then Mary saw . . . a gun. He held a gun.
No, Mary tried to yell to her lover, but couldn’t. Move, run, get away. The warning never left her mouth. Her throat burned, burned, burned, the car spun, spun, spun. God, she had never felt such pain. Help me, help me.
Her hands wrapping around her stomach. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Phil de Beers raised his shaking arm. His finger fumbled with the safety. He couldn’t get it. He couldn’t get it. His arm began to fall. . . .
Mary stared at him, and in the spinning, churning, burning car, their gazes finally locked. Funny, how he looked so apologetic, as if he had somehow let her down. An odd gargling sound came from his throat. His eyes rolled back. He slumped over the steering wheel, his gun tumbling to the floor as a wave of white foam gushed from his mouth.
Mary stared at the gun. Stared at the gun. And . . .
Car . . . spinning. Hot. Can’t breathe. Heart too fast. Her hands clenching her stomach. Almonds, almonds, why almonds? Hot. Makeup melting. Don’t look at me. Don’t look . . . Fading into the seat.
Her gaze rose to her lover’s face. She stared at him, with his strange thinning hair, stared at him standing there and not making any move to help.
“It will be over soon.” He checked his watch. “Another sixty seconds, I’d say. In all honesty, I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long. Then again, everyone reacts a bit differently.”
Almonds, almonds, almonds . . .
“Oh, did I forget to mention it on the phone? I changed my mind about the laxative. I injected one hundred fifty milligrams of hydrocyanic acid into the center of each chocolate instead. The smell is a bit much, but boy is it quick.”
Her lips moved. He leaned down closer to hear. “Praying? Praying? Why Mary Margaret Olsen, did you forget? You betrayed your best friend. God’s not going to have anything to do with you.”
He straightened, the bright sunshine blazing behind him and turning him from a glorious man into an even more glorious avenging angel.
I loved you, she thought as her lungs froze up. And a heartbeat later, I should’ve known. What other kind of man would have loved me?
One last thought. The only thought she had left as her body began to convulse and her lungs fought for air.
“Yours,” she whispered. “Y-y-yours.”
He frowned. Then he followed the spasm of her hands around her belly and his eyes widened in stunned surprise. “No! No, no, no . . .”
“Yours,” Mary Olsen whispered one last time. And then her eyes rolled back into her head.
The man jumped forward. He dragged her out of the car. Down on the hot asphalt, he shook her shoulders and slapped her face. “Wake up! Goddammit, wake up! Don’t you do this to me!”
Mary’s arms fell limply to her sides.