.
.
Having a million dollars in Marta's possession is unbelievable… but having sixty million dollars?
That's insane.
(As insane as violently cutting open your own throat.)
Plenty of lawyers advise a nervous Marta to keep out of touch with the Thrombeys. Even with Meg Thrombey, one of her dearest friends.
Ex-dearest friend, Marta considers glumly. Even with all of their affection and warmth together, Meg blabbed sulkily to Joni Thrombey about Marta's mother being an undocumented immigrant, and desired the tuition money over Marta.
Marta doesn't know what to do with Harlan's publishing company, but Alice gleefully volunteers to run it. They've increased their sales.
Her mother befriends all of the women working on the property, offering to cook, offering the rooms for free housing.
She's not a socialite.
There's not one bit of Marta that wants to finance an American politician. Invest in the stock market. Cheat off honest workers. And it would make the Thrombeys very, very angry, but she donated Harlan's money to non-profit organizations and shelters.
Marta drives back from a nine hour meeting with a court lawyer and Linda Drysdale's representative, her head pounding.
She nearly misses a glimpse of someone limping through the nighttime fog. Marta brightens her headlights, squinting. A young woman, wearing a… brown bridal dress? No, it's filth. It's filth like dried blood and pieces of viscous human-gore. Marta's heart clenches.
"Hello?" Marta calls out, rolling down her window. "Hello… do you need help?"
It's a strained whisper of "no more rich people…" as the other woman continues to limp, marching on. Her face furious and dazed.
Marta rolls to a stop, leaving on the bright white stream of headlights, and scrambles to reach her on the gravel road.
She gently takes her bare, filthy arm, leading her around quarter of a mile towards Thrombey Manor's gates.
Marta questions how lucid she is… or how much of this blood is hers… until the young woman's bright blue eyes widen. "No," she whimpers, trying to drag herself out of Marta's grasp, cowering under the shadow of Harlan's home. "No, no, please…"
Before she can fall into hysterics, Marta cups her face, ignoring the slimy-slick sensation under her fingers.
"Look at me," Marta says firmly, meeting those frantic eyes. "You are safe now. You are safe with me. We will call the police."
"Police…"
The young woman quivers. Marta doesn't know if it's relief or another element of her physical and psychological shock.
"Yes, the police," Marta answers, nodding. "Come on. Let's go inside." She hooks the other woman's arm around Marta's shoulders, helping her walk on the porch. In no time, the police arrive as soon as Marta asks for the housekeeper to ring them.
Great Nana doesn't attract any attention as two policemen make their rounds, sitting by the grand downstairs window. Marta hovers by her, adjusting Great Nana's shawl and politely listening to the conversation on the other end of the hall.
The young woman—Grace Le Domas—gives her horribly grotesque statement to a detective, muttering and hunching over with a blanket.
It's unbelievable.
It's insane.
Her ex-husband's family wanted to kill her in cold blood… because it was a tradition?
Marta cannot imagine her family behaving like this.
The paramedics clean Grace's wounds, injecting her with painkillers and bandaging her left hand. The dirtied bridal-sleeve left abandoned on the hall's carpet. Marta eyes the rather large stab-wound near Grace's collarbone, and a slash of a deep cut running across Grace's back.
She needs a proper clean.
Grace smells like dead animal remains and her in-laws.
Marta's nursing instincts kick in. She dismisses the police after taking Grace's statement, offering for them to return in the morning. For now, Grace needs rest. Marta slips off Grace's yellow-brown trainers, dropping them, half-carrying her upstairs.
"What's your name?"
"Marta."
Grace 'hmms', blinking slowly and leaning in the hot water crusting with bloody flecks of coagulating human matter. Marta empties it again, re-filling up Grace's bath, courteously keeping her stare from any of Grace's pale, naked skin.
"… You're not rich, are you?"
"One of my dearest friends was," Marta informs her, calmly combing out Grace's wet hair. "This is his house. I inherited it."
Grace twirls a gold prop-knife between her hands. She discovered it earlier, and Marta let her play with it and bend it with her fingertips. It must make Grace feel more secure. Marta cannot imagine what it would take to make a knife feel safe.
"I grew up in foster homes," Grace murmurs, her eyes tearing up. "I just wanted a real and permanent family, you know…"
Marta rinses out Grace's yellow locks, growing more concerned as Grace 'stabs' the bathtub's outside for emphasis.
"Fuckin'. rich. people."
"You should sleep, Grace," Marta tells her, her lips quirking up as Grace's own mouth relaxes. "It'll be good for you. I promise."
"Whatever you say," Grace mutters, leaning further, closing her eyes.
Those bruise-colored and wet eyelids flutter, and Grace's face scrunches, when Marta presses a kiss on the top of her head. It's not proper nursing. It's not proper between complete strangers. But… she has a feeling that Grace needs Marta's comfort.
Sixty million dollars won't buy kindness.
Marta has plenty to spare.
.
.