Her face, which had miraculously escaped the worst of the fight and the fire. She brushed mascara along her lashes and painted a fresh coat of red on her lips. Pain followed every gesture—each stretch and bend of tender skin a reminder in the shape of her husband’s name—but through it all, Marcella’s mind felt . . . quiet. Smooth. Silk ribbons, instead of knotted rope.
She returned to the closet, running her fingers lightly along the symphony of clothes that made up her wardrobe. A small, vindictive part of her wanted to choose something revealing, to put her injuries on display, but she knew better. Weakness was a thing best concealed. In the end she chose a pair of elegant black slacks, a silk blouse that wrapped around her sleek frame, and a pair of black stilettos, the heels as thin and chrome as switchblades.
She was just fastening the buckles on her second shoe when a
newscaster’s voice rose from the television in the other room.
“New developments in the case of the house fire that raged through the upscale Brighton development last week . . .”
She stepped out into the hall in time to see her own face on the screen.
“. . . resulting in the death of Marcella Renee Riggins . . .”
She’d been right, then. The police obviously wanted Marcus to believe she was dead. Which was probably the only reason she wasn’t.
Marcella took up the remote, turning up the volume as the camera cut to a shot of their house, the exterior charred and smoldering.
“Officials have yet to determine the cause of the fire, but it’s believed to be an accident.”
Marcella’s grip tightened on the remote as the camera cut to a shot of Marcus running his hands through his hair, the picture of grief.
“Husband Marcus Riggins admitted to police that the two had quarreled earlier that night, and that his wife was prone to outbursts, but adamantly denied the suggestion that she’d set the fire herself, saying that she had never been violent or destructive—”
The remote crumbled in her hand, batteries liquefying as the plastic warped and melted.
Marcella let the mess fall from her fingers, and went to find her husband.
V
THREE YEARS AGO
DOWNTOWN MERIT
MARCELLA had always liked the National building. It was a feat of glass and steel, a thirty-story prism at the heart of the city. She’d coveted it, the way one might a diamond, and Tony Hutch owned the whole thing, from the marble lobby all the way to the rooftop gardens where he threw his parties.
They stepped through the front doors arm in arm, Marcus in a trim black suit, Marcella in a gold dress. She caught sight of a plainclothes cop lounging in the lobby, and shot him a toying wink. Half the Merit PD was in Hutch’s pocket. The other half couldn’t get close enough to do a damn thing.