“Hold on, click on this folder,” I urge Brock, pointing at it. He complies, and we both widen our eyes in disbelief as we examine invoices for each person who had participated in Troy's murder.
“These are the five who helped with Troy's murder,” I whisper, glancing toward the door nervously. “I remember Goldie telling me about it - apart from Grant, Greg, Colton, Petra, and Ely were involved. Three of them helped dispose of the body while the fourth acted as a lookout – that was Ely.”
“They were each paid $10,000, and Grant received $20,000 for carrying out the killing. I can't believe it,” Brock mutters, shaking his head. He quickly snaps photos of all the files and invoices with his phone. “We should shut this down.” He logs off, closes everything, and wipes the keyboard and mouse with his shirt.
We return to the bed, armed with this newfound information. “I had my suspicions,” I admit, recounting everything I had discovered about Jeff, Melanie, and Grant on Facebook.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Brock appears hurt, his eyes downturned.
“I couldn't be certain, and you wanted me to let it go, so I tried to respect that.” I lower my head, knowing I should have trusted my instincts about coming here.
“I just can't comprehend how Jeff could pay people to kill Troy and then bury him in Deanna’s backyard to frame her.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. “I know, but the pain that Melanie, and well, Troy caused him and his family might have pushed him to his limits. It happens. I guess since they have a baby now, he might have forgiven her, but she has no clue that Jeff was the one who orchestrated Troy's murder. When she finds out...”
“It will shatter her and the entire family,” Brock finishes my thought.
“Yeah. But we have to act like everything is normal. Jeff can't suspect that we know anything. When the roads are clear tomorrow, we need to leave and head back home. The sooner we get this information to Gray, the better. I don't feel comfortable sending it to him; he needs to see it for himself.”
“I agree. It's unbelievable that we thought we had escaped the danger, only to have it resurface 3,000 miles away.” Brock turns on the TV. “Let's try to act as normal as possible.”
We watch a movie for the next few hours, and eventually, I feel my eyelids grow heavy. Despite the movie droning on, I succumb to sleep.
---------------
The next morning, I feel the sun's warmth filtering through the drapes onto our bed. Blinking my eyes open, I check my watch. It read 8:12. I rise from the bed and glance outside. Although the snow is piled up, at least the sun is shining. However, it seems it might be hours before the plows clear the road.
I head into the bathroom and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. Over the past seven months, I feel like I have aged a decade. The bags under my eyes have become more pronounced, and my once-brown hair is now nearly all gray and looks lifeless. The wrinkles multiply across my forehead and down to the front of my neck. I don't feel attractive, especially when I think about April, Brock's assistant. What if he had had an affair, just like Troy did?
I have to stop myself before I spiral into a frenzy of "what ifs." Cupping cold water into my hands, I splash it on my face, feeling the shock of the cold as it washes over me. I rifle through my makeup bag and begin applying some foundation when I hear Brock stirring and waking up. A few minutes later, he enters the bathroom.
"Morning, babe," he greets me with a kiss.
"Hi, how was your sleep?"
"Could've been better. I'm freezing," he replies, stripping off his clothes and stepping into the spacious shower that could fit four people.
"Yeah, I'm not used to being in such a cold house." I wonder if the kids' rooms are as chilly as ours. Normally, warm air rises, and since we are on the fourth floor, I assume it should have been warmer up here, but it feels as though a window is left open, even though everything is sealed tight.
After finishing my hair and applying my makeup, Brock emerges from the shower. He always took longer showers than I did.
When we both are ready for the day, we grapple with our plans. I feel hungry, but unsure if we should inquire about breakfast downstairs. Before we can decide, however, there's a knock at the door.
"Hey guys, breakfast is downstairs whenever you're ready," Jeff's voice comes through the door.
"Okay, thanks. We'll be there shortly," Brock replies. He waits until Jeff leaves, though we can't be certain if he's still lurking nearby. Brock pulls me into the bathroom and closes the door behind us.
"After breakfast, let's check and see if the roads are clear. The sooner we can leave, the better."
"Yeah, I can't relax. Of course, when we get back home, we also have danger there."
"But at least we have proof that Jeff paid off these people – the same ones Goldie knew about. When we get on the road back to the airport, we can call Gray and let him know about the invoices. Let's head downstairs and get breakfast."
I nod in agreement, and we open the door, putting on our best masks of normalcy.
"It all looks delicious," I remark as we enter the spacious dining room. The scent of bacon and sausage fills the air, and a spread of eggs, hash browns, toast with butter and jelly is laid out on a table, an elegant burgundy cloth draped over it. A bouquet of yellow and red roses is placed in a crystal vase as a centerpiece.
"Please, have a seat," Jeff smiles and gestures for us to join him at the table. He's wearing blue jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt, his hair combed neatly, vastly different than his pin-striped black suit and white shirt he was wearing the day before.
I take a seat across from Brock, and although the food looks appetizing, just being in Jeff's presence makes my stomach churn. I eat as much as I can and sip fresh coffee while Brock engages in a normal conversation with Jeff, trying not to raise any suspicions. Jeff pours coffee into two cups and hands them to us. "Cream and sugar are by the juice." I grab the cream and pour some into my cup, followed by a pinch of sugar.
"Hopefully, the roads are starting to clear so we can get out of your hair," I comment, glancing out the window. The snow is still piled up, and the prospects of finding an Uber seem bleak. I take a long drink and hope the coffee will give me some energy.
"Oh, no problem. I hope you slept well," Jeff replies, picking up a small ceramic cup and pouring orange juice into it.
"Yes, it was nice, thank you," I respond, placing my napkin on the table.
"Thank you for letting us stay," Brock adds, pushing his chair back. "I'm going to check and see if we can get an Uber out here." He takes out his phone, and my heart races as Jeff's gaze locks on me.
"Well, we'll see," Jeff replies vaguely.
What did he mean by that? This is Long Island, not some remote outpost.
"Excuse me," Brock says. "I need to call an Uber." I want to follow him but unsure if that would be considered rude. However, there is no reason to feel like we're prisoners here.
I get up and follow Brock out. He paces back and forth as he speaks with someone on the phone.
"What do you mean there aren't any drivers available?" I overhear Brock's conversation, watching as his expression shifts from confusion to anger, furrowing his eyebrows deeply. "Listen, we have to get to the airport for our flight." Even though our flight isn't actually scheduled for another three days, Brock doesn't care; he just wants a way out. "I can't believe this," he mutters before ending the call and shoving his phone into his back pocket. My heart sinks.
"So, there's no Uber drivers?" I take a deep breath, trying to stay composed.
"No," Brock replies with a sigh. "The city is locked down with the snow. Apparently, NYC has about a foot, and no one wants to drive. We're stuck here unless we can get Jeff to drive us. I don't know how I feel about that, either." He suddenly stops talking, and I turn to see Jeff approaching.
"Is there a problem?" Jeff inquire.
Brock faces him squarely. "There aren't any Uber drivers that want to drive to the city, so I guess you're stuck with us. Sorry."
Jeff seems unfazed. "I figured that was the case. The news said quite a lot of snow fell. Well," he claps his hands, "Not a lot we can do about it. You're more than welcome to stay another day. I won't be going to work either; probably just work here. Melanie is already gone, but she has the Lexus crossover. The kids didn't go to school, so they're downstairs watching Disney or some other channel. Ian should be getting up soon."
I listen to him talk about his family as if he hadn't paid people $60,000 to eliminate his wife's lover; it leaves me dumbfounded. He seems like a normal family man, not someone capable of orchestrating a murder.
"Thanks, Jeff, we appreciate it," Brock says.
The only positive aspect is that maybe I can spend some time with the kids, especially little Ian.
"When he gets up, do you mind if I watch Ian for a bit?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Of course. That would be very helpful. Thanks, Patrice," Jeff replies.
I breathe a sigh of relief. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get some work done. I'll be upstairs next to Ian's room. When he wakes, I'll bring him…"
"Our room is fine," I interrupt.
"Okay."
Brock and I head back to our room. Suddenly, I feel overwhelmingly tired, as if I'd just taken a hefty dose of melatonin. It must be the stress catching up with me. But when I look over at Brock, he, too, is rubbing his eyes and yawning.
"Feeling tired, too?" I ask, mirroring his yawn.
"Yeah," he replies, his voice heavy with fatigue. "It just came on suddenly."
"Same here," I mumble, fighting to keep my eyes open. "You slept well, right?"
Brock removes his glasses and places them on the side table. "I thought so, but I did let my mind wander a bit."
I try to recall the events of last night, but my thoughts are growing increasingly hazy. When I look at Brock, he has already closed his eyes, seemingly fast asleep. This sudden fatigue was unusual for both of us.
My mind races with suspicions as I recall Jeff pouring coffee into our cups. I notice that he hadn't taken a sip himself.
Could he have...? No, he wouldn't do that, right? But who was I kidding? He had arranged Troy's murder. If he knew that we knew anything, we would be a liability. My mouth feels dry, and my eyes grow heavier by the second, along with my limbs. This isn't just fatigue; it feels like the effects of a drug.
Then, just before I lose all consciousness, a horrifying realization washes over me.
And then, I remember the arsenic.
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