The Protégé, page 26
“I may not be a genius when it comes to people, Winter, but I know when someone’s running from her past.” Each word seems to take effort, every syllable a boulder she has to lift and stack with great care.
My brain spins like tires trying to find traction in thick mud. I’ve spent so many years hiding from everyone. My life has been cloaked in shadow since I was thirteen—before that, even. Nobody except Ella knew the whole story. When she died, my truth died with her.
The temptation to let my mask drop is strong. All the lies feel heavy and cumbersome—more than a decade of pretending hitting me all at once. It surprises me, this fierce hunger to tell someone the whole story—not just someone, but Bryers, the source of all my pain. Should I use these final moments to let her know why she has to die?
The answer hits me with a clarity as sharp as a slap across the face. I have to do this. I owe it to us both, a final reckoning; I owe it to Ella.
In movies and books, I always find it implausible when the killer confesses everything at the end. Now I realize the desire to confess is almost as visceral as the need to kill. I can’t help but notice a hollowness to my victory, an emptiness in my chest that terrifies me. If killing Bryers doesn’t repair what’s broken inside me, then nothing will.
In her drugged stupor, Bryers has just offered me the solution: it’s not enough to rid the world of Bryers. She needs to know what she’s done, what it means. Only then will my mission be complete.
“Hold on,” I say, heading for the kitchen. “We’re going to need more wine for this.”
* * *
I place the bottle between us on the coffee table and settle back into the couch. The wine tastes rich and velvety. After a few more sips I ask, “What did you want to know?”
“Hmm?” It takes work, but she opens her eyes. She looks disoriented, like she’s not even sure who I am anymore. Then a slow, serene smile spreads across her sleepy face. The firelight dances on her skin, illuminating the high cheekbones, the sharp line of her nose.
I lean forward, speak a little louder. “You said I’m running from my past. What did you want to know?”
“Your childhood. Something happened.” Her words run together, making her sound drunk. “Something bad happened to you, Bekkah.”
I freeze. “What did you just call me?”
“Bekkah Jones.” With a bleary-eyed grin, she takes in my shocked face.
“How did you—”
“Talon cusp. Rare dental an—anomaly.” She pronounces it with the careful diction of somebody who’s wasted. “Very unusual. Especially in females. I knew for sure when I saw the melon. Those bite marks proved it.”
The talon cusp. I can’t believe this. The bitch is trying to rob me even of this—my moment of revelation.
She can’t rob you of anything, I remind myself. She’s as good as dead.
“Maxillary lateral incisors.” She wraps her mouth around each word.
“So you know then?” My voice is hard.
“I know you’re Bekkah.” She closes her eyes again, head tipped back, arms limp at her sides. “What I don’t know is why you want me dead.”
I get to my feet, staring at her, breathing hard. Her throat is exposed, white and smooth. It takes all my self-control not to close the small space between us and strangle her. The memory of Laila rears up hard and fast in my mind, taking me by surprise. I can smell Laila’s breath—weed and cherry lip gloss. I can see my fingers closing around her throat, understanding sparking in her eyes half a second before my thumbs crushed her windpipe.
But no, that’s not going to happen. Not this time. My work is already done. I can take off anytime, but I can’t leave any marks. Nobody commits suicide by strangling herself.
“If you remember the talon cusp, then you must remember Ella.” I start to pace, too agitated to stand still. “That’s how you proved one of us killed her.”
Her voice is weak, but she manages to mumble, “Your grandmother. Bite marks.”
“Nana. Yes. And you were right. Ella did bite her. But it was me who hit her in the head with a crowbar. It was me who dragged her body out into the swamp to let the alligators finish her off.”
“But Ella confessed.” Her face screws up in confusion. “Why?”
“Because that’s who Ella was.” Fury rushes through me like a storm. I can feel tears threatening to close my throat, which only makes me angrier. “And I’m the coward who let her take the blame.”
Bryers rouses herself again, blinking hard, as if to ward off bright sunlight. “Ella killed herself.”
“Yes. Because of you. You found Nana’s arm, you found the bite marks, you matched the marks to our ‘extremely rare talon cusps.’ If you hadn’t been so damn good at your job, Ella would still be alive.” I lean in closer, trying to twist the knife. “Except you weren’t that good. You thought it was Ella. Well, it wasn’t. You were wrong.”
My face is only inches from hers when Bryers opens her eyes.
She fixes me with an almost lucid stare. “I’m sorry your sister is dead.”
“Yeah, well, apologies don’t cut it.”
“Why did …?” She trails off, overcome again by sleepiness.
I cross the room again, too worked up to stand still. “Why did I what? Kill Nana? Because she was a sadistic monster. She tied us up in that basement. Did you even know that? We were thirteen years old and she invited men over so they could—I can’t. I can’t talk about—” My voice breaks. To my horror, tears have started streaming down my cheeks. This is supposed to be the happiest moment of my life. Bryers is ruining even this. She destroys everything.
“You were both minors in an abusive home.” She keeps her eyes closed, mumbling. “The courts would have—”
“The courts,” I sneer. “You think that matters now? She’s dead. My twin sister is dead. She’s the only person I ever loved, and she’s gone forever. That’s on you.” I’m breathing hard now, almost panting.
Bryers sighs, still not opening her eyes. “So you came here for revenge.”
I walk to the window and look out. The wind has picked up. Swirls of fog dance in the dim porch light. The trees around Bryers’s house sway like a congregation. I watch them, remembering the double life of my childhood.
Nana, Ella, and I went to church on Sunday mornings. We’d recite the prayers and listen to the sermons, surrounded by our friends and neighbors, the good people of Apalachicola, worshipping a mighty God. All the while, Ella and I knew by nightfall we’d be tied up in a dank basement, getting raped by the hearty family men who were smiling and singing all around us.
With terrible clarity, I see Ella’s body in the clawfoot tub. Her face pale as porcelain. Her dark, wet hair hangs about her face, clinging to her cheeks. There’s blood—so much blood, the smell thick in my nostrils, tangy and coppery. I can still feel the way my heart caved inside my chest, a wet avalanche.
“I wanted to die, when I found her.” My voice is quiet. I speak to the window, my breath fogging the glass. “A few years later, I almost did. I was going to end everything—the pain, the guilt, the fear. And then I thought of you. Your smug, self-satisfied look when you retrieved your precious evidence from that swamp. I realized then what I had to do: take everything from you, make you feel the despair Ella felt. Drive you so low that you no longer wanted to live.”
“This isn’t you.” Her voice startles me.
I spin around. She’s still limp in the chair, eyes closed, limbs heavy.
“This is your pain talking,” she breathes, struggling to get the words out. “You’re bigger than this.”
Rage—pure and electrifying—surges through me. “You don’t know me. All I’ve shown you is the girl you wanted me to be—worshipful, groveling. I’ve killed before, you know. Not just Nana—there are others.”
“Who?” The syllable falls from her lips and hangs there.
This is my one chance to tell someone everything. The lure of confession is powerful. It’s like a drug, speeding through my blood, loosening my tongue. I pick up my wine again and take a deep drink.
“Jake Applebaum. Your John Doe from the forest.” I lick my lips, tasting wine on them, take another swig. “I killed him.”
“Why?” She can only manage weak single syllables now. It won’t be long. She’s hanging by a thread.
“He knew who I was. I couldn’t risk it.” I drink more wine, comforted by the heat it sends coursing through my chest. “And Laila. She found out about my past, threatened to expose me. I killed them, but their blood is on your hands. I did it so I could get to you.”
“You …” She trails off, head tipping forward, then lolling back again.
I lean over and put my face close to hers. “What was that?”
“You need help.”
I laugh. “No, Bryers. I’m fine. You’re the one who’s almost dead.”
“I …”
“Yes?” I take in her slack facial muscles, her limp, helpless body. I wait for joy to fill me, but there’s nothing. The ecstasy I was so sure I’d feel at this moment eludes me. “Go on. Tell me. These might be your last words, so make them good.”
“I want … you to”—she works hard, forcing the words from rubbery lips—“… get help.”
I cup her face with my hands. “And I want you to die. At least one of us will get what she wants tonight.”
Her eyes pop open. With the speed and agility of a snake, she grabs my wrists. Her fingers clamp hard, almost crushing the bones. A searing pain shoots from my fingers to my shoulder as she twists as she stands, spinning me around.
“One of us will get what she wants.” She’s got both my hands behind my back now locked in her impossibly steely grip. “But it won’t be you.”
CHAPTER
26
Hannah
USING THE ROPE I grabbed in the kitchen when I dumped my wine, I struggle to tie Winter’s hands behind her back. She’s so shocked, I almost get her on the first try. She’s young, though. Quick reflexes. Her body jerks away from me, twisting toward the door.
I crouch down and tackle her. We fall to the floor in a heap. My muscles trembling with effort, I wrestle with her. She yanks my hair, and I scream in pain. A howling fury for everything she’s taken from me rises inside me. It fills my whole body.
After a minute or two of grappling, I get her face down on the floor. I manage to wrap the rope around her hands, trying to ignore how much my fingers shake. A bowline and two half hitches does the trick. She’d have to be Houdini to get out of that. I drag her over to the couch, push her down onto the cushions, and stand over her, panting.
Adrenaline’s coursing through my system, the kind that makes everything clear and sharp. The heat from the fire pressing against my back, the wind in the trees howling like demons, her face staring up at me—it’s all so vivid. The anger I felt when I realized who she was and what she’d done smolders in my chest. My sense of betrayal isn’t white hot anymore; it’s been tempered by the pain I heard in her voice when she talked about her sister.
Winter glares up at me, mute. Her body wriggles, trying to free herself. I watch her struggle. Though I’m relieved to finally have this over, I feel no pleasure seeing her helpless and tied up before me. My pity is so much stronger than my righteousness.
This girl has experienced horrors I could never even imagine. It doesn’t justify what she’s done, but it does help explain things.
I pull my phone from my pocket and turn off the recording app. “I’ve got your confession. It’s all here.”
“You—what?” She’s too incredulous to form sentences.
“That letter you wrote to the paper—the one that was supposed to be from me?” I wipe sweat from my brow with my forearm, trying to catch my breath. “It was clever. You used practically the same words I did at the faculty appreciation dinner.”
“Lots of people heard you that night.”
“True. That’s part of what made it so effective. Anyone who heard my little speech would read it in the paper and think it sounded just like me.”
“So? That doesn’t prove any—”
“Except you were the only one who heard me that night who also had access to the lab—the only person who could have stolen my keys. Means before motive. The secret to any investigation.”
She glares at me. Her face is different, altered in some way I can’t quite put a finger on. There’s something raw and unguarded there now. Winter was always so good at wearing the mask of the devoted protégé. I never saw her hatred before. Now it’s all I see. A vein at her temple throbs, the superficial temporal artery. The masseter muscles of her jaw work like a wild animal getting ready to tear flesh from bone.
“I didn’t want to believe it was you, Winter.” I can feel the sadness, the exhaustion, creeping over me, threatening to pull me down. It’s only adrenaline that keeps me from melting into a puddle. “In fact, you were the only person I couldn’t bear to consider.”
She wrenches so hard against the ropes I’m worried she’ll dislocate a shoulder.
“But once I looked long and hard at the letter to the editor this evening, it was like a door opened to a terrible, hidden room, and I couldn’t deny it anymore. I started digging, finding connections.”
Her efforts to free herself have only tightened the ropes. She slumps against the couch in defeat, her eyes boring into mine with feverish intensity.
“Jones is a common surname, but Winter is more unusual,” I say. “I always knew there was something familiar about your face. You’ve changed since you were thirteen, of course. Tonight, I reviewed my notes from the Apalachicola case, and that’s when I saw your middle name. I knew if I could just confirm you’ve got the talon cusp, that would be the final piece of proof I needed to be sure of your identity.”
She glowers at me, saying nothing. Only the crackle of the fire and the wind in the trees fills the room.
“Then you showed up here out of the blue, and my suspicions were confirmed.” I don’t mention Cameron’s phone call, the most helpful clue of all. She doesn’t need to know he had any part in this. If I have my way, she won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again, but it’s better to play it safe, just in case.
When she opens her mouth to speak, it comes out low and dangerous, almost a growl. “How did you know about the wine?”
I shrug. “You’ve taken everything from me. The next logical step would be to take my life. I know your sister committed suicide. There’s a kind of symmetry to it, right? Stage my suicide after driving me so low nobody would doubt I wanted to die.”
She says nothing. Anger and frustration rise from her like heat waves off asphalt.
I dial 911, never taking my eyes off her. When the dispatcher answers, I speak in a calm, measured voice. “Hello. I’ve got a suspect tied up on my couch who just confessed to three murders.”
After I’ve answered the dispatcher’s questions and she’s assured me help is on the way, I put the phone down and sit in the chair closest to the fire. As we wait for the cops to show, an eerie calm comes over Winter. She’s preternaturally still, gazing with glassy eyes at the fire. There are matching pink dots of color high on each cheek, remnants of her anger, but aside from these she could be a statue.
I study her, thinking of the many months we worked together. Though it’s probably futile, I can’t help mentally sorting through the wreckage of lies, searching for scraps of truth. I sift through our shared moments like flipping through old photos. I see the first time I met her, during our first forensic anthro seminar—the way she watched me with dark, inquisitive eyes, always ready with pertinent questions. I see the day she started work as my TA, the brisk efficiency in her hands as she prepped the lab, the determined frown she wore as she assured me everything was ready. I see her warm, compassionate face as she sat right here in this room, assuring me she believed in my innocence.
I know it will take a while to sink in. The full extent of Winter’s betrayal hasn’t quite hit me. All the same, it feels like a gaping wound in my chest, one the morphine of shock has anesthetized me to for the moment. I know, when it hits, it will be bad. In all my years of teaching, Winter’s my most promising student. It’s the pain of losing this promise that’s most devastating.
Her gaze is so distant now, I wonder if she’ll acknowledge me if I speak. I decide it can’t hurt to try. This will probably be my last chance to talk to her face-to-face before lawyers and law enforcement usher us both into a maze of barriers and obstacles.
“Can I ask you one thing?” I speak softly.
She doesn’t move. Her eyes remain locked on the flames in the fireplace, her expression stony.
I decide to interpret this as a yes. “Were you even interested in forensic anthropology, or was your entire education an elaborate ruse to get to me?”
She remains silent for so long I’m sure she won’t answer. I wonder if she’s dissociating, floating away to some distant shore, where none of this can touch her.
When the sirens are a faint whine far off down the road, she blinks a couple of times and looks at me. Her expression is so full of cold fury I flinch.
“Timing is everything. Know your enemy, know yourself.” Her voice is quiet, composed. Narrowing her eyes, she whispers, “All warfare is based on deception.”
CHAPTER
27
Hannah
“THAT’S NOT FAIR,” I say, exasperated. “I’m not an extraterrestrial. I just happen to enjoy decomposing flesh.”
Joe sets down his beer with a thunk. “How can you enjoy it? We’re designed as human beings to be repulsed by it. It’s like a built-in safety mechanism.”
We’re at the pub, out on the back porch. The warm spring air swirls around us, carrying cherry blossom petals. It’s the Sunday after graduation, always a glorious day. After the semester I’ve had, “Pomp and Circumstance” never sounded so sweet.
“I have to agree.” Amy wrinkles her nose. “I put up with decaying corpses, but I don’t enjoy them.”
