But gone was the excitement and anticipation of planning to do something vital and important to help him.
In its place lived fury and frustration.
“It’s been over three weeks.” Her hand balled into a fist, unballed, balled again. “She’s making fools out of the cops, Grant. She’s doing interviews, planning a big, elaborate memorial, making noise about hiring private investigators.”
“Let her.” Sparks shrugged it off.
“She’s going to get away with it! They can’t put two and two together and arrest her. Who else would want him dead, for God’s sake? They need to arrest her.”
He resisted reminding her he himself had wanted the old man dead, and that Jessica had killed him. The best cons, he knew, played out when you believed them.
“It’s all that money, Jess. The fame. You did the best you could to make her pay. And she did pay. A little.”
“Not enough, Grant. Not enough after what she did to you. I know I was close to getting you early release. I know it. And now they’re questioning you. I know that’s why you won’t walk out with me today. It’s not right.”
“It won’t be much longer.” If he could stand the sight of her for that long. “The best we can do now is just wait it out. You did your best. Now we wait it out.”
“You must be so disappointed in me.”
“Oh, no, darling.” She really was making him sick, but he took her hands. “What you’ve done for me, I can never repay.”
His faith in her, his abiding love for her all but destroyed her. And obsessed her. She had to give him more. Had to show him there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him.
Nothing she wouldn’t do to see that Charlotte Dupont paid.
She thought of killing the bitch. Dreamed of it. She could get a job as a maid, gain access. Or impersonate a reporter.
There had to be a way to get close enough. A knife through the heart, a bullet in the brain.
But no, as much as the idea excited her, wouldn’t the police continue to dig at Grant?
She needed to find a way to point the idiot police right at Dupont. And to keep Grant out of it entirely.
The way to do that? Go back to the beginning. Go back to Caitlyn Sullivan.
It took her weeks to work out all the logistics, and only great love kept her from telling Grant. She’d surprise him.
He’d be so proud of her!
She had tested telling him, just bringing up the idea of sending Cate another recording. But he’d been firmly against it. Wait it out, he’d said again, and had looked so tired and sad.
Once she’d done what needed to be done, once they locked Dupont in a cell, where she belonged, she’d tell him everything.
And she’d double her efforts for that early release. She’d demand one.
She knew the Sullivan estate well enough. How foolish of the rich and famous to allow photographers into their homes, or stories to be written about them.
And she could study aerial views on the internet to her heart’s content.
She knew enough to understand the security—gates, cameras—the positioning of the guest cottage, and its famed wall of glass facing the sea.
Despite the cameras, she’d considered getting a boat, trying to get to the peninsula under the cover of night.
But she didn’t know how to handle a boat, and she’d certainly set off alarms.
She didn’t have enough time to learn how to bypass alarms like they did in the movies.
She considered killing one of the staff, and going in their place. But the cameras would spot her, and she didn’t have the code for the gate security.
She could force one of the staff to take her through. But the cameras would see two people. Unless she hid in the back seat, with her gun pressed to the back of the seat.
But then what would she do with the driver? Couldn’t kill him or her right there, couldn’t let the person go.
Then, after reading an article in the Monterey County Weekly highlighting staff of prominent residents of Big Sur, she saw the way. One Lynn Arlow—part-time maid at Sullivan’s Rest—had several quotes in the airy, soft news piece. Buried in the fluffy, Jessica found a few key pieces of information.
To help put herself through college (online courses), Arlow worked three and a half days a week at the estate. The article helpfully added Arlow rented a house with three other women in Monterey.
A little more research, and Jessica had Arlow’s