A Trusted Stranger, page 14
Where could she be?
As I continue wandering through the house, my eyes catch a sliver of light from the door of my own small room—a space I can hardly call mine, yet it bears my name for now. Heart pounding, I approach, pushing the door wider.
Lauren sits on my bed, her silhouette framed by the fading light from the window behind her. She looks up, her bruised features softened by the dim glow, the recent work of surgeons still speaking a silent tale of vanity and desperation.
"It’s odd having someone else living in my house," she muses, her voice threading through the stillness. "I should be used to it by now, but strangely enough, I’m not."
I take a hesitant step forward, unsure of where this conversation may lead. "I’m sure it takes getting used to," I say, folding my hands in front of me to keep them from trembling.
"And yet I still haven’t." She smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You're caught up in all the details of my life, Emily. And yet, I hardly know you."
I swallow hard, feeling the undercurrent of something unspoken between us. "That’s how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? Seen but not heard?”
"Ah, but you make yourself heard, don’t you?”
She raises her hand, revealing her cell phone. "Mia called," she says. "She told me about your visit."
The words hang there, heavy and suffocating. My throat tightens. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted Mia.
"Lauren, I—" The protest starts to form, but it wilts under her incredulous gaze.
"You think my husband... What? Murdered those two women?" Lauren's face is etched with shock, the sophisticated mask slipping to reveal raw vulnerability. Her fingers clutch the phone, knuckles whitening.
I feel my resolve harden. This isn't about Mia or mislaid trust; it's about survival. "There are things you don't know," I say, my own hands balling into fists at my sides. "Things I've seen—"
"Seen?" Her laugh is hollow, disbelieving. "What could you possibly have seen that would—"
"Please," I cut in, urgency sharpening my words. "There's no time to explain everything right now. The bottom line is, you’re in terrible danger. You need to pack your things and leave this house immediately."
"Leave?" she echoes, as if the concept is alien, something she can’t even wrap her mind around. Perhaps she can’t.
"Lauren, please. It's the only way for you to be safe. You must trust me on this."
For a moment she just stares at me with a haunted expression. Then her gaze shifts subtly to something behind me, and I heard a footfall.
“Actually, it’s you who needs to pack,” Christopher says from behind me. There’s no mistaking the anger in his voice.
I whirl around to find him filling the doorway, his silhouette imposing against the fading light. His eyes are locked onto me with an intensity that feels as if he's trying to peer into my very soul.
“I’m not going to let you hurt her,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “I know about the heart attack. I know it was you.”
The accusation hangs in the air, heavy and ominous. For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then shock registers on his face, quickly contorting into a mask of unbridled rage.
"Me?" he scoffs, venom seeping into each syllable. "You think I would harm my own wife?”
“How long have you been cheating on her? How long have you fantasized about getting rid of her?”
His face turns crimson. “You're fired. Get out of my house—now!"
I search his face for any sign of guilt, but all I see is indignation and the cold resolve of a man used to getting his way.
"Lauren," I pivot to her, my plea urgent. "You have to believe me. He's dangerous."
But she's a statue, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the wall. Her silence is a chasm that widens with every second she refuses to meet my eyes. Desperation claws at my throat, and it takes all I have not to scream.
"Lauren, please..." The words come out strangled, a lifeline thrown into an abyss that swallows them whole. She remains aloof, unreachable—as though by ignoring the truth, she can somehow will it out of existence.
"Don't make me repeat myself," Christopher warns, his voice low and threatening. It's the same tone, no doubt, that he uses to silence boardrooms and bend wills to his own. But still, I remain where I am, paralyzed.
“Do I have to call the police?” he says.
The irony of that suggestion brings me back into the moment. “Go ahead,” I say, swallowing hard. “See what happens. I think they’ll be very interested in what I have to say.”
We stare at one another, neither backing down. Christopher reaches for his phone.
“No,” Lauren says, speaking up suddenly. We both look at her, surprised.
“Give her till the morning,” she says. “It’s too sudden—she hasn’t even made arrangements.”
“I don’t give a damn about her arrangements,” Christopher says.
“Well, I do.” Lauren glares at her husband. “Just till the morning, and then she’ll be gone for good.”
Christopher stares back for several long moments before finally sighing. “Fine.” He raises his finger at me. “But if you’re not out of here by eight at the latest, I will have you thrown out.”
With that, he turns and storms out, the door slamming behind him like a judge's gavel.
Lauren and I are alone again, the weight of the moment settling between us. Her intervention is a small victory, but the war is far from over.
I turn to Lauren, who leans against the mahogany frame of the bed with a studious air, as if she's pondering a particularly challenging conundrum. My heart pounds in my chest, the urgency of the situation rekindling the fire that frustration had almost snuffed out.
"Lauren," I start, my voice steady despite the tempest inside me, "I need you to understand. Your life is in danger."
She stares at me, her eyes vacant and distant. What pills is she on?
"If you really want me to leave," she says, "then prove it. Prove what you're saying. Otherwise, I have no choice but to stay."
“How can I prove it to you?”
She shakes her head. “That’s for you to figure out. And if that’s really what you believe, I suggest you get started soon. You have until tomorrow morning, eight o’clock—not a moment longer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
One night. One night to prove Christopher’s guilt and get Lauren out of here, or else I’ll be the one leaving—with nothing to show for my time here but a heap of disappointment.
And what will happen to Lauren in my absence? How long before Christopher finishes what he started?
The burden weighs heavy on my shoulders, but I know it's mine to bear. I cannot shirk from it, not when Lauren's life hangs in the balance. Adrenaline, hot and potent, courses through my veins as I stare out the window, studying the silent lake. Lauren has left. I should be using this time to pack, but packing is the least of my worries right now.
I keep thinking about all the pill bottles I saw in Lauren’s nightstand, and how similar some of them looked. Does she even know what she’s taking? Maybe if we look at the pills together, I can show that she’s been taking something she shouldn’t be. It’s a desperate ploy, but what other options do I have?
To my surprise, Lauren isn’t in her room; maybe she went to the kitchen to get a drink. I head over to the nightstand and open it up. The bottles of pills are still where I remember them, cluttered and uncared for.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this.”
I start cataloging what’s here: blood thinners, antidepressants, painkillers—an assortment of colors and shapes. I took pictures of these before, of course, and noticed that a number of the pills seemed to have been mixed up, but the real question is which ones Lauren has been taking, and how often. The pills themselves don’t prove anything. I need to prove first that Lauren has been taking a dangerous combination of drugs, and second that Christopher is the one pressuring her to do so.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” a voice behind me says. Lauren strides into the room, holding a glass of water. “I should’ve known better than to think you would actually pack your things.”
She heads over to the mirror and starts running a comb through her hair, seemingly unfazed by the fact that I've been rummaging through her medications. Her reflection catches my gaze and she holds it, her typically aloof demeanor replaced with something harder, something more determined than I've seen before.
"It's not what it looks like," I begin, but Lauren cuts me off.
"What? That you are snooping around in my stuff?" She puts down the comb and turns to face me. "It's exactly what it looks like."
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “He’s been poisoning you, putting you on a dangerous combination of pills. That’s why you had that heart attack.”
She sighs, looking unutterably weary. “Oh, Emily. You just don’t understand.”
“What? What don’t I understand?”
“You think my husband is, what, shoving pills down my throat? He has nothing to do with the regimen I’m on—my doctor prescribed everything. All Christopher does is remind me to take them. He's worried about me, Emily. Can't you see that?"
Her words sting like a slap to the face, leaving me momentarily speechless. "But...the combination of them," I say, my confidence waning.
"Can be dangerous, yes," she interrupts me. "And that’s why I’m careful. The heart attack had nothing to do with the pills I’m on. It was probably just stress. Or genetic. Or bad luck. There are a hundred things that could have caused it, Emily. But none of them are Christopher.”
The conviction in her voice is a punch in the gut. No matter what I say, she won't believe me. It's like watching a moth draw closer and closer to a flame, knowing it will get burned but powerless to stop it.
"But...but..." I stammer, my argument falling apart under the weight of her defiance. "He has motive! He wants..."
"He wants what?" Lauren interrupts, her ice-blue eyes hardening as she glares at me. "To get rid of me so he can be with another woman? Yes, he was having an affair with another woman, but that doesn’t mean he’d try to kill me. There’s such a thing as divorce. Besides, Sophie’s dead. Even if he had wanted to get rid of me so he could be with her, where’s the danger now?”
I stare at her, unsure what to say. She has a point—if she was in danger because Christopher wanted to get rid of her so he could be with Sophie, then she should be safe for now.
Until Christopher finds another mistress, at least.
“He’s dangerous,” I say, grasping for anything to help me convince her. “Why do you want to stay with him, given everything he’s done?”
Lauren seems to soften for a moment, her icy gaze melting into sadness. "Because I love him, Emily," she says. "Because despite everything, he's my husband. This is my life."
"But it doesn't have to be this way," I plead. "You deserve better than this. You deserve someone who doesn't lie to you, who doesn't cheat on you. Someone who loves you."
"And who's going to give me that? Who’s going to love an aging, sick, broken woman?" she says, her voice bitter. "Who's going to deal with the surgeries, the depressing hospital rooms, the constant fear of what's next? Christopher does. He has been there through it all."
I can't deny that. Despite everything I've discovered about him, Christopher has indeed stuck by Lauren. But has he really been supporting her, or simply biding his time until he’s ready to get rid of her?
"But what if..." I begin again. Then she raises her hand to silence me.
"Emily," she says with a sigh. "I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But this is my life. My choice. As much as you may hate it, Christopher is a part of it. And you..." She pauses, her gaze softening. "You need to make peace with that."
I stand there in the cavernous quiet of the room, helpless and crestfallen. She's dismissed me, just like that.
"Is there anything else?" she asks. Her tone is calm, but there's a coldness there that wasn't present before.
"No," I whisper. "I... no."
With a nod, she turns back toward the mirror, staring at herself instead of me. I'm no longer welcome here.
As I walk out of the room and descend the grand staircase, I can't help but feel a sense of defeat. The weight of my unheeded warnings hangs heavy around my neck, the silence echoing louder than any argument ever could.
What now? I pack my things and move on? Leave Lauren to her fate and let a murderer go free? Sure, it’s possible that justice will prevail without my help, but Christopher is powerful and influential. He can hire the best attorneys, twist the truth to his own advantage. If the evidence against him isn’t rock-solid, he’ll never have to face the consequences of his actions.
And Detective Vaughn? I wanted to believe he knew what he was doing, but every step of the way he’s been slow-walking this investigation, dragging things out, refusing to take risks. No. I’ve lost faith in his judgment.
I begin to wander, doing anything I can to avoid the inevitable task of returning to my room and packing my things. I pass through the grand ballroom, where the chandeliers no longer sparkle but hang like dead stars. The luxurious curtains that once swayed are now still and heavy with dust. There's a strangeness to this place, a chilling air of neglect that has seeped into every corner. The house feels like it’s dying, bit by bit, along with Lauren.
I make my way into the exercise room, where the faint, stale scent of sweat mingles with the lingering musk of Christopher's cologne. The space is filled with high-end fitness machines. Against one wall, a row of sleek, silver dumbbells are lined up like soldiers on parade. On another, an array of mounted trophies stare down at me, each one a testament to some victory or accomplishment in Christopher's past.
This is where Lauren and Oliver train. I picture them here, Lauren pushing herself to the limit under Oliver's watchful gaze, the sweat trickling down her face as she wrestled with the weights. I can almost hear the rhythm of her controlled breaths, her grunts of effort echoing in the high-ceilinged room.
Did Christopher ever watch them together? Is he aware of the special attention Oliver gives Lauren? Because that could be an additional reason for getting rid of Lauren. Jealousy, as the saying goes, is as fierce as the grave.
Pondering these thoughts as I walk around, I trip over something and stumble headlong across the room, grabbing an elliptical machine to stop my fall. Puzzled, I turn back and notice a gym bag on the floor in the unlit room.
Having nothing better to occupy my attention, I crouch beside the bag and unzip it, expecting to find Lauren’s workout gear. To my surprise, though, it’s a man’s. Not Christopher’s, either—I can tell by the size of the gym shoes and the cut of the clothes. They’re too small to be Christopher’s. This bag must belong to Oliver.
I'm about to zip the bag back up when I pause. Ordinarily, I would try to respect another's privacy. Despite how much snooping I've been doing lately, I really don't like to invade people's personal spaces. But considering everything that's going on, I really don't care right now about Oliver's privacy.
I reach inside and start to sift through Oliver’s belongings — a spare t-shirt, some deodorant, a water bottle. Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s something else in there as well, a smaller bag, like a toiletry kit.
Curiosity piqued, I unzip it. There’s a toothbrush, toothpaste, contacts—standard stuff—and then I see something that stops me cold. A small blue bottle labeled ‘Aconitum Nap.’
What could this be?
Pulling out my phone, I look up the name. Aconitum Napellus is apparently a plant, also known as monkshood or wolf's bane. The site tells me it's poisonous, easily lethal if ingested in large amounts. The poison works quickly, causing cardiac arrest and respiratory failure.
Cardiac arrest. The very thing Lauren experienced.
I rock back on my heels, trying to come up with an innocent explanation for the presence of the plant in Oliver's bag. Maybe he's a gardener or a hobbyist botanist.
If that was the case, a voice in my head whispers, he wouldn’t keep it in his gym bag. There’s no reason for him to bring the monkshood here to the Hollingsworths’ house…not unless he’s doing something with it here.
Oliver has had plenty of access to Lauren, and she seems to trust him implicitly. Could he be working with Christopher to poison Lauren? But if so, why? What could he possibly gain?
The questions whirl around in my head like leaves in a hurricane. I feel dizzy, and I slump against the cold, unfeeling steel of the elliptical machine. The darkness of the room seems to press in on me, threatening to swallow me whole. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push down the panic swelling in my chest.
Whatever the case, it seems clear that Oliver is involved somehow. I need to warn Lauren. She won’t want to believe me, but at last I have proof—maybe not proof of Christopher’s guilt exactly, but certainly proof that she’s in danger.
I pocket the bottle and hastily zip the bag back up. Then, rehearsing what I’ll say to Lauren, I make my way back toward the grand staircase. I still don’t know exactly what’s been going on in this house, but maybe if we can get everything out in the open—
The glare of headlights bursts through the window, blinding me. Tires crunch gravel as a car comes to a halt in the driveway. Rushing to the side of the window, I peer out and watch as a figure climbs out of a car. He stands there for a moment, surveying the mansion as if for the first time. Then he claps the car door shut and makes his way toward the front door.
As he gets nearer, one of the exterior lights on the house washes him with pale light, revealing his face.
It’s none other than Oliver himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
It feels as though a bird has been set free inside my chest. Panic seizes me, and the bottle in my pocket feels like a neon sign, screaming "Guilty!" at anyone who might look my way. I swiftly back away from the window, but it's too late. Oliver's sharp eyes have already met mine, inspecting me briefly before veering off toward the entrance of the mansion.
