FiFty Fifty

Chapter Thirty - Three

SHE

For all her preparations, both physical and psychological, nothing had prepared her for the feeling she experienced seeing Father's bloodied corpse blown up on a large screen. She had kept no trophies from her kills. Nothing as a reminder of those moments of exquisite pleasure. Seeing the photographs gave her a warm feeling, low in her stomach, and sent her heart fluttering.
She could almost taste his flesh.
This was overwhelming. She tried to think of the song in her head; the rhythms of that song would dissipate the rush that was coursing through her system. She noticed then that her right hand was touching the table, her index finger working into the notches on the desk made by a thousand heavy, metal- edged folders. Abruptly, she took her hand away, placed it in her lap.
The day was going fine. As she had expected. Detective Tyler had exaggerated the effects of Haloperidol in his testimony. It was not a drug that caused people to become completely compliant; in some ways it had made Father more difficult – but he had signed that power of attorney. A few months of poison in his food and poison in his ears would have turned him against her sister. Then, she would have persuaded him to change his will, then let him slide away in a gentle overdose. The drug itself doesn't kill, but enough will shut down the respiratory system, or cause heart failure in the process. No medical examiner or pathologist would look beyond respiratory failure or a cardiac arrest in a man of her father's age.
The problem was, she had underestimated Father.
If she had paid more attention to him then she would not have had to bring forward her plans. Somehow, deep down, she thought Father had always known about her. He had seen the bite mark on Mother's leg, and he had covered it up. Or perhaps, on some level, he could not face the sure knowledge of who she really was. Her nature would horrify any parent. And yet he never confronted her, but he could not live with either of them in the wake of their mother's death.
He had sent them away. She felt that in the years immediately after her mother's death, Frank blamed them both. He knew one of them bit Jane, but he never spoke of it. The shame, perhaps. When she graduated high school, Frank seemed to have forgotten, or at least put his doubts to one side.

Four years ago, when she had fed three bottles of OxyContin into Frank's second wife, Heather, he should have known that things had not changed. That his daughter had not changed. Heather had her own problems, addiction the most prevalent. He could accept an accidental overdose easily – so had the authorities.
Heather had not accepted it. Not at first.
She had called at the family home knowing Frank was out of town, and that Heather would be alone and drinking. Popping pills was part of the fun. When Heather got too drunk to hold onto her glass, she still hadn't had enough Oxy powder in her vodka and soda. She had to hold her down at one point and force a rubber funnel into Heather's throat so she could pour a bottle of Oxy-laced Chablis into her stomach.
She had stayed with Heather while she died, quietly, and then removed any trace of her presence in the house that night before leaving Heather for Father to find on his return the following week. The house had retained that smell for some time. Heather died in high summer. After the funeral, Frank had to hire an expensive bio-remediation crew to get rid of the smell of her rotting flesh.
Heather's funeral was the last time she had seen Sister. They stood at opposite sides of the open grave. Father in between them at the head of the grave. His head bowed, tears falling onto Heather's casket. Sister didn't look at her. Sister blamed her for everything. She suspected that secretly Sister was jealous.
She had power. Her willingness to do whatever it took gave her that power. Sister was weak. Always had been. Even when they were little, Sister could always be manipulated. A promise of candy, or a book. And then Sister would do what she was told. Even bad things. The difference was when Sister was caught by Mother, she would cry and cry.
Sister cried that day when Mother died on the stairs, and as far as she could tell, Sister hadn't stopped crying since. For some acts, there was no forgiveness. They stained the soul. She knew it that day as her teeth sunk into her mother's skin. Mother didn't cry out, didn't flinch, nor pull away. Some part of her thought that maybe Mother might still be alive. Some part of her brain that hadn't fully shut down from the break in the spinal cord. A part of Mother's brain that made her conscious, and able to feel the pain of the little teeth piercing the skin. She knew this was unlikely, but the frisson of wondering if Mother could feel it made the act all the more important, all the more defining.
She listened to the lawyers battling first with Detective Soames, and then Detective Tyler.
None of it mattered.
Her sister would be convicted. And she would walk free. There was no doubt.

Her thoughts dissipated, bringing her back into the courtroom. She looked down, her fingers stroking the table again. She tucked both hands between her thighs, then glanced up.
She didn't know if anyone had seen her. It didn't matter.
Sister's fate was sealed.
Soon, there would be nothing standing between her and her father's fortune. All of it. And yet, it wasn't about the money. It was about keeping it out of
Sister's hands. Money is also power. Sister was the only one who knew about her true nature. It had to be this way, both of them on trial. Murdering her sister and then Father would have raised too many questions, even if she made their deaths look like accidents. And where would be the fun in that? Hearing that Father and Sister dear died in a car wreck would give a certain sense of comfort – but absolutely no pleasure.
Father murdered, and Sister convicted of that murder and disinherited was perfect. She would take the money – the power. Frank would finally pay for the years he neglected her, kept her away from him in cold boarding schools, the way he had let Mother beat her and bite her – Frank Avellino deserved that death.
And Sister deserved to pay for it.