Chapter 7 - The True Face
"You killed Marilyn, too," I whispered from the darkness, unable to keep the venom from my tongue.
Douglas stopped. He turned slowly, facing the alcove. A cold, mirthless smirk touched the corners of his mouth.
"Marilyn was a spoiled brat who threatened to cut me out of her father's will because I lost a few hundred thousand at the tables," he said, stepping into the hallway. "She didn't appreciate what I brought to the table. Just like Judy."
"Judy saw right through you," I said, stepping forward with the skillet raised, my voice shaking with rage. "From the very beginning."
Douglas looked at the iron skillet in my hands and laughed—a dry, rattling sound that grated like sandpaper. "With that? Really, Clara? You’ve spent your whole life being the fragile, protected little sister. Judy shielded you from everything. And when she died, you ran straight into my arms because you couldn't bear to stand on your own two feet."
"I took care of Bruce," I snarled.
"And you did a lovely job," he mocked, taking another step. "He’s a sweet kid. Pity he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Did you really think that little memory card was going to save you? Even if the police find me, I’ll be across the Mexican border before sunset. But I can't leave you behind to testify as a witness to the fraud. Loose ends have a way of ruining a man's retirement."
He lunged.
The tire iron swung through the air with a vicious hiss. I ducked instinctively, throwing my weight to the left. The metal bar smashed into the wooden doorframe, splintering the pine with an explosive crack.
Before he could recover his swing, I drove the edge of the cast-iron skillet straight into the side of his knee.
A sickening crunch echoed through the hall. Douglas let out a guttural howl of pain as his leg buckled beneath him. He crashed down onto one knee, the tire iron slipping from his grip onto the rug.
I raised the skillet to strike again, but his hand shot out like an iron vise, grabbing my wrist and twisting it savagely until the iron pan fell from my numb fingers.
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With his other hand, he grabbed a fistful of my wedding veil—which was still pinned to the hair at the back of my head—and yanked me violently to the floor.
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