Page 56 of One Last Goodbye

“So you killed him?” I ask, speaking for the first time.

This is for Sean’s benefit. I want him to hear Sophie’s confession so the police know who they should be looking for. I also want him to know that I’m in danger.

Sophie continues, seemingly ignoring me. “I called the bank and asked what was going on, and they told me the account had been closed and the money liquidated. I asked how that had happened, and they said that it was closed by the owner of the account. I said that I’m the owner of the account, and they said that technically, Mr. Jensen is.”

She presses her lips together and looks at the wall. I resist the urge to check my phone and see if Sean is still connected. I feel a brief panic when it hits me that I should have just called Dubois directly. I assumed that he wouldn’t be able to answer because of the signal, but if I can talk to Sean now, then I could have called the police directly. It’s a mistake I might not live to correct.

“So,” Sophie continues. “I go to Mr. Jensen. I ask him has there been a mistake? Or some sort of trouble? Has someone stolen the account number or stolen the money?” She shakes her head. “I really thought that he couldn’t have done this. I thought it must have been something like fraud or theft. I thought that if I talked to him, he’d make it right. I thought he’d… get themoney back somehow.” She chuckles. “But he said, ‘No, there’s no mistake. I liquidated the account.’ I asked him why, and he said, ‘Because I wanted to put the money somewhere else.’ So I ask, is something wrong? Did I do something? And he says, ‘No, no, you’re wonderful. I just decided to liquidate your pension.’ So I ask, is this permanent? I’m not getting the money I’ve worked most of my life for? And he just laughs at me. That’s it. Just laughs.”

She turns her eyes to me, and I risk asking again. “So you killed him?”

Once more, she keeps talking and ignoring the fact that I’ve spoken. “Thirty-two years I’ve worked for him. Thirty-two years I cooked for him and his friends and his associates and his whores and his brats. Thirty-two years I worked fourteen hours a day seven days a week, holidays included. I never took a vacation except for four days to bury my mother and father. Thirty-two years I slaved, dreaming of the day when I could finally live a simple life in a small cottage in my hometown and maybe every once in a while take a trip. Not an expensive trip. Just a chance to visit a few places: Paris, Rome, Madrid. I’d stay in a cheap hotel and eat cheap food, take cheap tours. I don’t want much. I just wanted myownlife. And he took that from me just because he could. He was worth ten billion dollars when he died. He didn’t need three million dollars. But he took it anyway.”

In fact, most of Frederick’s wealth was a farce, and at the time he took Sophie’s money, he probablydidneed it, or he would have suffered the same fate he eventually did suffer but at someone else’s hands. I don’t tell Sophie that, though. There’s no point.

She meets my eyes and says, "I argued with him. Fought with him. Threatened him. But what could I do? Who could I turn to?" She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "Last Sundayon the boat, I went to him one last time. I showed him this gun"—she lifts her handgun—" and I told him, 'You will pay me what you owe menow, or I will kill you where you stand.’ He looks at me with his stupid cigarette clenched in his teeth that he hides from his wife because he’s a coward, and he laughs. He just…” her face screws up in a look of rage that chills my soul. “Laughs. So I shot him. And when he fell, I realized that I was royally fucked, pardon my French. So I wrote the note. It wasn’t hard to match his handwriting. I left it on his body, wiped my prints, and placed the gun in his hand. Took me all of fifteen minutes. Then I went back to the house." She chuckles. "You were five minutes from catching me."

She sighs. “I like you, Mary. You’re a good woman. I wish we could have been friends. I tried to put you off the scent so I wouldn’t have to do this.” She lifts the gun. “But I don’t have a choice now.”

It’s only instinct that saves my life. I leap to the side just as she fires the weapon. Then I find reserves of strength I don’t realize I have and shove her. Even with all of my might, she only stumbles but doesn’t fall.

I can't wait to test my strength again. I recall how deftly she wrestled Veronica Baines. I sprint out of the study through the living room and the foyer and out into the swirling storm.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

I think I hear another gunshot behind me as I push into the storm, but it could just be my imagination. I don’t stop to look. I just keep running.

I am truly frightened, more than I have been since Annie disappeared. I’m not really sure why. This isn’t the first time someone’s tried to kill me. It’s not even the first time someone tries to use a gun. Cecilia Ashford tried to shoot me.

But Cecilia Ashford is a slender woman, and physically, I am a match for her. Sophie is far stronger. Not as strong as George Baumann, the man who killed Lila Benson, but George Baumann didn't have a gun.

And Sophie has nothing left to lose. Everything she’s worked for her whole life is gone. What’s another murder when she’s already committed one and when she’s already lost the future she spent the useful years of her life to build?

So, I am terrified. So terrified that I don't even think about what I've done until I look behind me and realize that I can't see the house.

Or anything. I am surrounded by swirling white, and as soon as my mind finally registers the danger I’m in, I feel the cold.

I won’t last long out here. If I don’t find my way inside somehow, I’ll die of exposure, probably within minutes. I release an anguished sob and feel an equally anguished stab of guilt. I’ve driven Hugo to his death out here, and he’s innocent. Perhaps he’s not a good man, but he’s not a killer.

I’ve been so wrong. I’ve been so wrong the entire time.

A figure approaches through the snow. For a crazy moment, I think it might be Hugo. Then the figure draws closer, and I see Sophie’s snarling face.

I scream and turn to run. I hear a gunshot and feel something whip past my ear. I don’t turn around. I run as fast as my legs will carry me, fighting the pain in my chest, the stitch in my side, the bite on my nose and ears as the cold does slowly what Sophie hopes to do quickly.

She’s outside now. If I can somehow find my way inside, I can lock the doors and hide somewhere. I can tell Catherine and the children, and we can go somewhere safe. They must have a panic room. Most wealthy families do.

But where is the house? I’ve been running aimlessly. I don’t know where I am.

I stifle another sob and try to think. I must still be on the estate because I haven’t plunged into the lake or run into the fence surrounding the property. So I have to reach the house eventually, right? It’s not a large property, only a few acres.

But the blizzard is so blinding, and it’s so cold.

Something hits my shoulder. I stare in alarm at the hole in my sleeve and the line of blood where the bullet creases my skin. I look up to see Sophie glaring at me, teeth bared.

I turn and run again. Another gunshot sounds. How many bullets does that gun carry? I wish I knew more about guns. She could be nearly out of ammo, or she could have a dozen rounds left.

God, she’s going to find me. She’s going to get me. She’s—

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