Page 57 of Vicious Games

I didn’t want to bathe in front of these women, but I definitely didn’t want to be strapped to a fucking chair and dunked like some kind of water torture. As the women roughly pulled and tugged on the blood-encrusted wedding dress, I looked around. The entire facility had a last century look. There were even old gas lamps lining the walls.

As the attendants worked, Mrs. Higgs filled the tub with hot water. I was so relieved to be rid of the horrid thing, I didn’t even care that I was naked in front of a bunch of strangers. It was no different from showering at the gym, I told myself over and over as I stepped into the tub. I sank down into its soothing, warm depths.

Mrs. Higgs looked at the watch she had suspended from a tiny pocket near her left shoulder. “You have ten minutes.”

I grabbed the washcloth and rubbed it with the astringent-smelling soap. “You know this is crazy, right? I didn’t shoot Roman. He’s punishing me because I said I wouldn’t marry him.”

Mrs. Higgs turned abruptly and left the room. She then returned with a newspaper in her hands. She held it up so I could see the front page. “So I suppose the London Times got it all wrong?”

On the front page was a stark headline in all caps.

DUKE SHOT AT ABBEY WEDDING IN FRONT OF QUEEN

What the fuck?

Despite my wet hands, I snatched the paper from her. The photo was of a man and woman standing at the Westminster Abbey altar with their backs to the camera. My gaze flicked over to the crumpled dress on the bathroom floor. It was definitely the same dress. The man and woman looked like Roman and me.

I shook my head. “No. No. No. This is bullshit.”

“Language, Miss Barlowe,” exclaimed an affronted Mrs. Higgs.

This had to be one of those bullshit novelty newspapers. I grimaced. Roman was nothing if not thorough. I flipped through the pages as the thin paper disintegrated under my wet fingers.

It was real.

What the hell was happening?

It wasn’t possible. Was it?

Did I shoot Roman at our wedding?

Jesus Christ, now I doubted my own mind.

Just before she snatched the paper out of my hands, I caught sight of one word in the photo caption: Richard.

It was Richard, not Roman.

Oh, my God, how could I have been so stupid?

It all came crashing back. The memories that the trauma of waking up confused and in that blood-splattered dress had suppressed.

The diamond necklace.

Roman finding out about my plan to leave.

Attending his brother’s wedding.

Roman placing the gun in my hand right before I heard the gunshot and fainted.

I’m going to fucking kill him for real!

He set this whole thing up to punish me for trying to run.

The question was how far was he willing to take this?

“Time’s up,” interjected Mrs. Higgs.

I reluctantly stood in the now cooling tub water and accepted the scratchy, overly bleached white towel. After drying off, the two attendants roughly helped me into a hospital gown. Thankfully, I was also given a robe and a pair of slippers. The moment I was clothed, I shouted, “What is that?” and pointed at the ceiling. When all three turned, I bolted for the door.

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