Part 88 (1/2)
”You want to kill him,” I said.
She looked at me, eyes wide, then dropped her chin.
”Of course you do,” I said. ”Is there a gun in the house?”
She kept her chin pressed to her chest.
”Is there a gun in the house?” I repeated.
”No,” she said quietly.
”But you have access to one,” I said.
She nodded. ”We have a house in New Hamps.h.i.+re. For ski season. There are two there.”
”What kind?”
”Excuse me?”
”What kind, Mrs. Dawe?”
”A handgun and a rifle. Christopher sometimes hunts in the late autumn.”
Angie reached out, put a hand over Carrie Dawe's. ”If you kill him, he still wins.”
Carrie Dawe laughed. ”How's that?”
”You're destroyed. Your husband is destroyed. Most of the fortune, I'll bet, will go to your criminal defense.”
She laughed again, but this time tears had sprung out along the tops of her cheekbones. ”So what?”
”So,” Angie said softly, tightening her hand on Carrie's, ”he set out years ago to destroy this family. Don't let him succeed. Mrs. Dawe, look at me. Please.”
Carrie turned her head, swallowed a pair of tears that reached opposite corners of her mouth at the same time.
”I've lost a husband,” Angie said. ”Just as you lost your first. Violently. You got a second chance, and yeah, you've f.u.c.ked it up.”
Carrie Dawe's laugh was one of shock.
”But you still have it,” Angie said. ”You can still make it right. Make a third chance out of your second. Don't let him take that.”
For a good two minutes, no one spoke. I watched the two women hold hands and stare hard into each other's faces, heard the clock tick on the mantel above the dark fireplace.
”You're going to hurt him?” Carrie Dawe said.
”Yes,” Angie said.
”Really hurt him,” she said.