Chapter 12
Mara was heading out the door when Brad called out to her. She twirled, facing him with her flawless, porcelain face, masked with indifference and her ridiculously large sunglasses.
“What?” she asked curtly, her hand bag dangling from the length of her arm, held out like a stiff branch.
“Where’s Bertha? You left the kitchen in a mess!” he yelled, jabbing his hand over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen.
Mara smiled stiffly, “no darling, we left the kitchen in a mess.”
“I’m calling Bertha,” Brad growled as he hurried to the phone.
He had already started dialing when Mara stopped him, “She’s in the back,” she said with a smirk, “getting all her things.”
“What?” Brad looked at her with wide terrified eyes.
He turned and started frantically toward the door leading to the back room, only to suddenly stop and turn to Mara. Her hand was already on the door knob, about to leave.
“And where are you going?” he asked sharply.
Mara sighed in exasperation, “not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to plot with my convict partner on other ways to drive you insane. It’s my new ploy; make you cuckoo until you stop breathing.”
Brad looked at her through narrowed eyes, trying to decide whether that was just a mere sarcastic, smart mouthed remark or a subtle confession. The ridiculousness of it was clear, there was no way Mara would just confess that she was collaborating with a killer to end his life.
They stood there staring at each other. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, his hands in fists at his side. She was poised at the door, her perfectly manicured hands resting on the shiny door knob, a mischievous smirk on her pouted shiny pink lips, her readable eyes hidden behind the dark glasses.
“You guys have fun then,” he said.
Mara nodded, her lips pursed bitterly and she yanked the door open, “figures,” she muttered and with a toss of her blonde hair, disappeared behind the thick doors.
Brad found Bertha in the back, tossing her things into a bag and cursing under her breath.
“Bertha, what are you doing?”
The rotund woman, with the graying bun and high cheeks turned to face him, her face puffed up like a hovering rain cloud.
“What does it look like? I’m leaving,” she said as she bent down and scooped up her bag.
Brad looked frantic, “just for the weekend?”
She brushed past him, “no, your wife fired me,” she said.
“No!” he reached for her hand, “you’re not fired, she can’t fire you,” he cried in desperation.
Bertha stared at him blankly, “I guess I should mention that I’ve just had it with you people. I’ve had just about enough of this house, you, your self-absorbed, crazy wife and your nasty kitchen.”
She marched out of the room and into the living room area, pausing only to scoop up a knitted throw pillow she noticed on the couch, “yes this is mine,” she muttered and carried on her way.
Brad stood at the door and watched her leave, a frantic look on his face. He knew Mara did this just to spite him, she knew how much he valued Bertha. He stepped backward and slammed the door shut and turned around to face the empty house, the silence was as deafening as a fanfare.
Trent let Mara into the hotel room and closed the door behind her, “no one followed you right?”
Mara shook her head, as she tossed her hand bag on the chair nearby and started to remove her coat.
Trent fell upon her suddenly, pressing the nozzle of the gun against her temple, “you pull another stunt like the one you just pulled and I will put a bullet in you, you hear me?”
Mara whimpered, completely surprised and terrified, “I don’t know what…”
“Shut up!” he hissed, “I ain’t stupid, I heard you hinting Mason before you left. You’re lucky he’s a damn idiot or they be picking your pretty little head of the ground to stuff it into a body bag.”
“I’m sorry,” Mara sobbed, “I’m sorry.”
Trent removed the gun from her head and turned away from her, “don’t let it happen again,” he said.
She sat down, her limbs weakened by the sudden burst of fear Trent had exposed her to, and she dropped her head into her hands.
“So what next,” he said.
Mara took a deep breath, gathering her wits again, “I think the divorce is a good idea.”
Trent turned on her, his eyes flashing, his grip on the gun tightening, “what did you say?”
Mara lifted both hands toward him, “just listen to me. If I divorce him, I’m sure we could get more out of him than if we jack him.”
Trent took a step toward her, “I’m listening.”
“We don’t have any children so I’m entitled to a half anyway and with the way he’s been acting lately, especially with that police stunt, I can get more if I play hard ball, plus he’ll be subjected to the kind of torture that would please you.”
“You mean the kind of torture that would please us.”
“No Trent, you’re the one that’s getting a kick out of this, he’s my husband and I… I love him.”
Trent chuckled, “save that for the police men, I’ve been listening to you guys. The guy hates your guts, he doesn’t want you around. I’m kinda surprised he ever loved you in the first place, sure didn’t take much to get him to hate you.”
“Shut up,” she said stiffly, not even daring to look him in the eyes, “are we doing this or not?”
Trent lifted the gun and pressed the side of the barrel against his pursed lips, “nah,” he said nonchalantly.
Mara gapped, “why? It’s a great idea Trent, everybody wins.”
Trent nodded, “exactly. You get your big alimony cheque, Brad gets rid of you, I get a cut and we all move on with our miserable lives, only one problem there,” he looked at her with a dark evil smirk, “I don’t like happy ever afters.”
Mara looked away, feeling all her self control and assurance slipping away, her hold on the situation was slowly falling through her fingers like sand and soon she would just be another insignificant chess piece in Trent’s evil little scheme. As versatile as the queen is, she could never out do the significance and power of the king.