More Twisted

nodded.
    “It’s through there.” He pointed to the kitchen. “I think there’re some candles beside the bed. Why don’t you light them? I’ll lock up.”
    Picking up some matches, Marissa walked into the kitchen. She noticed that he’d left the wine cellar door open. She glanced down the steep stairs and could see much of the room. It wasn’t messy at all, as he’d said. In fact, the place was spotlessly clean, well organized. She heard Antonio closing a window or door in another part of the house and, out of curiosity, walked quietly halfway down the stairs. She paused, frowning, staring at something under a table nearby. It was a soccer ball, half-deflated.
    She recalled that the boy who’d drowned had been playing with a ball like this. Was it his?
    Continuing down the steps, Marissa stooped and picked it up. The ball was a special one, commemorating one of Milan’s big wins last year; the date was printed on it. So it couldn’t have been the dead boy’s—Antonio had said he’d drowned when the previous owner was living here. But Antonio had been the owner for at least fiveyears—which is when his father, who’d helped renovate the place, had died. It was just a strange coincidence.
    But wait . . . . Thinking back to his account of the incident, Marissa recalled that Antonio had said that nobody knew exactly what happened to the youngster. But if that was true, then how could he possibly know it’d taken the boy a half hour to die?
    Fear began to grow deep inside her. She heard the creak of his footsteps above her. She put the ball back and turned to the stairs. But then she stopped and gasped. On a stone wall to the right of the steps was a photograph. It was of Antonio and a woman who looked very much like Marissa, her hair dangling to her shoulders. They were both wearing wedding rings—even though he said he’d never been married.
    And the woman was wearing the same robe that Marissa now wore.
    She was, of course, Lucia.
    Who’d died last year.
    With stunning clarity, Marissa understood: Antonio had murdered his wife. The boy with the football had perhaps heard her screams for help or had witnessed the killing. Antonio had chased him and flung him into the stream where he’d been pulled into the sluice and drowned while the mad husband watched him die.
    Her heart pounding, she walked closer to the sideboard underneath the photograph. There was the gray bag that Antonio had picked up in Florence. It was sitting beside the bottle of grappa he’d just opened. Marissa opened the bag. Inside was a bottle of barbiturates, half empty. A glance at the top of the sideboard showed adusting of powder, the same color as the pills—as yellow as the jaundiced eyes of the old woman who’d come up to Antonio’s car.
    It was as if he’d crushed some of the drugs.
    To mix into her grappa, Marissa realized.
    A searing wave of panic raced through her and pooled in her belly. Marissa had never been so afraid in her life. His plan was to drug her and—and then what?
    She couldn’t waste time speculating. She had to escape. Now!
    Starting up the stairs, Marissa froze.
    Antonio was standing above her. In his hand was a carving knife. “I told you I didn’t want you in the wine cellar, Lucia.”
    “What?” Marissa whispered, weak with terror.
    “Why did you come back?” he whispered. Then gave a chilling laugh. “Ah, Lucia, Lucia . . . you came back from the dead. Why? You deserved to die. You made me fall in love with you, you took my heart and my soul and you were going to just walk away and leave me alone.”
    “Antonio,” Marissa said, her voice cracking. “I’m not—”
    “You thought I was just one of your dolls, didn’t you? Something you could create and then sell and abandon?”
    He started down the stairs, closing the door behind him.
    “No, Antonio. Listen to me—”
    “How could you come back?”
    “I’m not Lucia!” she screamed.
    She thought back to their initial meeting. It wasn’t an angel he thought she resembled when they first met; it was the wife he’d murdered.
    “Lucia,” he moaned.
    He reached up to the wall and clicked out the lights. The room was utterly dark.
    “God, no. Please!” She backed away, her bare feet stinging on the cold floor.
    She could hear his footsteps descending toward her—the creaking wood gave him away. But then he stepped onto the stone floor and she lost track of where he was.
    No . . . . Tears dotted her eyes.
    He