Derailed (51 page)

I give a so-what? shrug.

“They have fingerprints on them and they are currently being examined.”

“Daddy, Norman isn’t the most pragmatic criminal. And anyway, the heat from firing a gun would surely erase any fingerprints of his on the shell casings. I don’t see –”

“
Bloodied
fingerprints,” he says, his voice a mere whisper. “Made after the shooting, evidently.”

“– how this affects –” Suddenly, memories of me picking up the shell casings from around our bedroom and stuffing them into Norman’s pocket flood me. He had forgotten to pick them up, so I had to. I look at my fingers. One of the pads have a scar from the burn I received when I picked up the hot spent shell casings. “I wasn’t wearing gloves!” I say as the bottle of water slips out of my hand. With all that was going on, and with the emotional trauma I suffered when Bradley’s brains flew all over me, I completely forgot about those shell casings, forgot that I picked them up. 

The room starts to spin, forcing me to sink into a chair. To prevent myself from throwing up, I shove my head between my legs. “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” I chant.

My father’s absolute silence somehow screams.

With great difficulty, I raise my face to look at him. “He…he told me he threw them a…away, Daddy.” My voice is thin, thready, foreign to me.

My father looks at me, shoulders slumped, lines etched all over his face, showing every bit of his fifty-two years, showing every bit of his defeat.

I put out my hand, reach out to him.
Daddy, help me!

My daddy doesn’t move, he just looks at me. Then my father does something I have never seen him do before – in front of a roomful of his staff, his minions, he breaks down and weeps. Milton Smyth, for the first time in his adult life, sobs.  

RITCHIE

Rival and I are honeymooning in the Caribbean, and it’s just wonderful. It was Arena’s idea. She bought us a week at the Caribbean for a wedding present. I rub lotion over Rival’s shoulders, down her back, and slip my hand inside her bikini. She lets out a soft moan as I stroke her butt. I plant a light kiss on her shoulders. “Happy, Mrs. MacMillan?” 

“When you touch me like that, I sure am,” she mumbles.

I laugh and squeeze her arse.

She rolls onto her back and squints up at me. Quickly I move my body to shade her eyes from the sun. She reaches for my face and brings it down to hers for a kiss. “I’m very happy, Mr. MacMillan. And you?”

“Ecstatic.”

We smile at each other, then touch noses.

“It’s great to live freely without any swords dangling over our heads,” I say.

“Yeah, I feel so…” she throws out her hands, “free!” She looks up at me. “Wanna fuck?”

I laugh. “In a while.”

“After that massage, baby, I’m turned on,” she says, her hand moving down my neck, over my chest, my stomach, and stopping inches away from my dick.

I groan with anticipation.

Pulling her hand away, she jumps to her feet. “Race you to the room.” She starts to run off.

“Not fair!” I say.

“Winner gets something Latiny!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Not fair,” I protest, as I grab our towels, her bag, our shoes, the lotion and her hat, before I
eventually
run after her. “Not fair at all!”

She just laughs. Yes, we’re happy and contented. It’s about time.

There is one tiny sword though. Scarlett. I fear she will come after Rival. That smile she gave Rival the day she was sentenced – it haunts me enough to go around every night bolting doors and windows. I believe Milton has appealed her sentence, and knowing his power and tenacity in the legal field, I worry that he will be successful. Scarlett is his daughter, so I expect him to do everything in his power to set her free. But I keep urging myself not to worry right now, she is behind bars. I will worry when it’s time. For now, I’m going to be happy to live…happily with Rival. With the promise of all things Latiny, of course.

Chapter Thirty-Six

SCARLETT

Norman, the bastard – because of his perfidy, I face ten years in prison for accessory to commit a murder. I’ve accepted a plea-deal rather than face a jury. I should be out in five, I’m told. Norman fucked me over by leaving those little pieces of evidence lying around. He lied when he told me he threw it away. As I said before, you can’t trust anyone these days. Anyway, people can gloat, but I don’t care – my daddy has already appealed my case. I am Teflon Scarlett, remember? Nothing sticks. Soon I will be free. Of that I am very confident. 

As for Rival, the attention-seeking bitch – she gave me the finger when I looked at her at sentencing. How crass. Giving me the finger and garnering such media attention? Wasn’t that a strategic move on her part? It worked though – the media loved it and has publically pitted us against each other.
The Two Mrs. Murders
the headlines screamed. Well, both of us have been implicated in Bradley’s murders so…

It’s all about her book. Rival has dexterously manipulated the media to garner attention for her and her book.
My
book. Let’s not forget that. She, with her Yves St Lauren white pantsuit, plum streaks in her hair, and her carefully made-up face. Her artfully presented self at my trial was a ploy to steal the limelight away from me. She thinks I didn’t notice her spending hours admiring the puny cubic zirconia on her finger. (She shines it, breathes on it, then buffs at it throughout the day. (No Rival, it is not a penis; it will not grow bigger if you breathe on it over and over again.)

What infuriates me further is the press’s fickleness. Who knew the lauding of me would be that fugacious? Overnight they vilified me and glorified her, calling her the “Wrongfully convicted wife of Bradley Murdoch.”
Ex
-wife! I want to scream. I am Mrs. Murdoch. She is a mere analogy of me.

Then they praise her literary skills. If only they knew that she has none. All that she learned was from me. Before I came on the scene, she was an insignificant, velour-sweatsuit-wearing-ponytail-sporting nonentity. Look at her today – glamourous and gracing the front pages of the tabloids, and appearing on
60 Minutes
with her brood
.
It irks me to know that she is busy writing another book on Bradley’s death. There again, I am responsible for her book, because who provided fodder for this book? That’s right, I did. Without me, there would be no third book.

But, I take comfort in that fact that the rivalry created between us by the media is not such a bad thing. We may appear side by side in the papers, but at least I’m still there. It will certainly come in handy with
my
upcoming book.

Oh, yes, I must tell you, I’ve started penning my story. Sadly, there are no laptops available for me, so I write on paper and it’s taking a while. In spite of that, I am making headway with my book. All proceeds from the sale of my books will be deposited into my mother’s bank account, because of one absurd rule that prevents criminals from making money from their crime.

As for Ritchie, that fucker – I couldn’t help but notice the closeness between Monkey and him. There he was pushing the baby’s pram, carrying it down the steps of the court like he was their father, giving them a lift home…

I hope (wouldn’t this be just wonderful?) that Ritchie falls for Monkey and fucks her. Hope she bears him another squint-eyed baby and they become forever entwined. Wouldn’t that be a superb gift to Rival? I can dream, can’t I? After all, Monkey is not that bad looking and she’s got that damsel-in-distress look that will have all the men clamoring to help her. Men are dumb like that. (Men are dumb, period.) Ritchie, at the end of the day, is an alpha male who simply cannot ignore his innate need to take care of women. Look how he took care of me shortly after Bradley’s death?

RIVAL

Teflon Scarlett? Nothing sticks with her? Let me tell you a little about Teflon – I’m no expert on this product, but here’s a couple of
did-you-knows
for you:

Did you know that women
working in the DuPont factory where Teflon was produced had high incidences of birth defects and abnormalities?

Did you know that DuPont was forced to pay millions in damages once exposed?

Did you know vets avoid Teflon because they believe it kills birds?

Did you know…well, I could go on and on, but let’s just say, Scarlett and Teflon, a match so vile, could only have been made in hell.  

Sure, there’s nothing wrong in being seductive, and I agree that having the power to seduce just about any man can feel pretty …
powerful
. However, the origin of the word
seduction
is Latin for
to lead astray.
Isn’t that what Scarlett did to Bradley – led him astray and eventually led him to his
death
? (She was like the Pied Piper who led the children into a cave, then shut the door on them.)

When her seduction fizzled, she found herself having no choice but to commit murder. Is that what you want? Do you really want that to be your life’s mission – to steal, manipulate and eventually destroy? I should hope not. People who are masters of the art of seduction usually have a deep void in their lives. To cope with life they are forced to wear a mask. Problem is, it gets hot behind a mask. 

Take Marilyn Monroe – she too wore the mask of seduction. Just about every man who came across her fell under her spell. But how did her life turn out? She had few female friends, she was betrayed by the men she fell for and she died alone, a tragic unloved figure. She dared not remove her mask for fear that everyone would see her for who she really was – an unwanted child, an unloved orphan whose own parents did not want her.

Being a seducer requires hard work, and as Scarlett pointed out, it necessitates a series of follow-up seductions. Why? Because fake and facetiousness has an expiration date. When you reveal your true self, when normal life occurs, the seduced is no longer in your thrall, forcing you to slip on the mask again. As I said, way too much work.

Meeting and encountering Scarlett has taught me a few life lessons:

I may not have the physical prowess of Scarlett, nor her amazing IQ, but I am stronger where it really matters – in the
heart
. I’m the firework Katy Perry sang about. 

In spite of my mental issues, I am worthy of being loved. By more than one man. I am an arrow; pull me back, right back, as far as you possibly can. Then release me at your peril.

There was really no need for me to have sought revenge. Scarlett, even without my shove, would have eventually been ousted. The hinges of the cupboard that housed her millions of skeletons would have fallen off, and Bradley, sooner or later, would have found out who he married. (Norman was a powder keg just waiting for that tiny spark to cause an explosion.)

I learned my worth, and I’ve come to the conclusion that
I
like who I am. It does not matter if anyone in my sphere of influence does not find me charming and enchanting. I can spend hours on mastering the art of leading people astray, or I can spend hours of my time volunteering and helping people, contributing to society. I choose the latter.

Charm is a smokescreen for something deeper, sometimes even sinister. These days when I see charming people, ding! ding! ding!   

Seducers are lonely people. Because of the mask they wear, they expect everyone around them to be wearing a masks, hence they have difficulty trusting people and have great trouble forming friendships. Scarlett was a living example of that. She had to
hire
bridesmaids, remember?

Truth and sincerity is everlasting and will set you free.

Arguing with someone in lust is like trying to hold onto a cloud. However, be sure of one thing: lust is an illogical, stand-alone, fleeting emotion. Once it is satiated, they
will
leave you.

Confidence is a potent aphrodisiac. Cultivate that and you will attract both men and women with ease.

There is such a thing as a knight in shining armor. When a man is prepared to go to prison for you, he is your personal knight. Ritchie is mine.

Unfortunately, Scarlett did not get life behind bars. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, because she killed not only Bradley, but also Norman. All she got was a measly ten years behind bars. But I take comfort in the fact that her reputation has been destroyed forever. When she eventually emerges from prison, I am confident that her life will never be the same.

Those are my last words, and I am grateful that
I
had the last word. It is tantamount to me dancing on her grave.

SCARLETT

Teflon? Mask? Arrows? What the fuck is Rival rambling on about? Is she high? No way is that bitch getting the last word. There is no fucking way I will allow that imbecile, that whore, that cretin, bore you with that inconsequential, end-of-Jerry-Springer harangue. Last word, my arse! Rival is neither fluid nor as florid as I am, so how can she possibly be allowed an opinion on …
anything
? She is insipid, mediocre in
all
aspects of life, and can only secure attention if she resorts to thieving.
Robbing
, that’s the term. So owing to the above, Rival can shove her puritanical speech, because I insist on the last word. After all, I have entertained you since inception, regaled, and even
educated
you in the process. I am a nonpareil in storytelling. I seduced Bradley when he
couldn’t
be seduced. When he was happy and contented and much too perspicacious to allow himself to be (as that imbecile who suddenly is into Latin words puts it), “led astray.” It called for an inordinate amount of skill to instill discontentment in him. It required nothing short of art to foster disenchantment. If Rival had gone quietly, Bradley and I would have been the power couple I had envisioned, and we would be living large in Kirribilli House. My mistake? I’ll tell you what my mistake was: I did not kill her in the very beginning. That was what led to my plan unravelling. Had I killed her, orchestrated a drug overdose, which in hindsight would have been really easy to do, I would have saved us all a tremendous amount of grief.