I'll Be Waiting, page 28
The voice continues.
Remember Sandy’s party? When you drank too much punch, not knowing it was spiked? You were always fun when you had a little to drink, but when you had too much? That’s when I saw the real Janica. Sad and scared Janica. You started crying and babbling about how you were afraid to die, how you couldn’t stop thinking about what it might be like one day, when your lungs gave out and you couldn’t breathe.
The voice slides through my ear, straight into my brain.
Is it everything you imagined, Janica? I hope so. I hope you die in tears and terror, and I hope your last thought is regret. Regret for betraying me.
I can’t answer. Can’t think. My lungs burn and my vision clouds, and I am going to die.
I can’t breathe, and I am going to die.
You knew what happened to Heather wasn’t my fault. You knew I couldn’t have been in my right mind. You were my friend. You should have protected me, made something up, told them you saw a stranger in the forest.
I can’t see. Everything is dark, and my lungs are on fire, and why can’t I break free? She’s pinching my nose. Such a simple thing. I just need to jerk away, but I can’t and I am going to—
“No!” Shania screams, and my heart leaps.
Oh God, thank you, Shania.
Hands wrench me away from Patrice. Surprisingly strong hands, ripping me from Patrice’s grip and then yanking the duct tape from my mouth. I double over, gulping breath.
Shania is still screaming. Still screaming “No!”
I shake my head to tell her I’m okay. Then my vision clears, and I see her running at me, the spade in hand. I manage to fall to the side before she reaches me, but she’s not aiming for me. She’s aiming behind me. At the person who really did free me from Patrice’s grip.
Cirillo lets out a sound, half anger and half shock. I twist to see him almost dodge the spade, the blade skimming his shoulder. He grabs it in both hands and wrenches it from Shania.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts. “It was trying to kill her.”
“It is Patrice Jones,” Shania snarls, hands out as if she’s still holding the spade. “It is a friend Nicola betrayed. It is a woman who died in a mental ward because of Nicola.”
I struggle to find my voice, and when it comes, it’s a raw croak. “No, Shania. I don’t know what you read online, but I told the court exactly what I saw that night. Nothing more. I never said I saw Patrice holding a knife. I never said she killed Heather.”
“Liar!” she spits at me. “You are such a fucking liar.”
Cirillo says nothing, but I can feel him behind me, cutting at my bonds in silence, letting Shania rave while he gets me free.
“I’m not lying,” I say. “Read the trial transcripts.”
“I know the truth. I didn’t read that story online. She told me. She told me everything.”
I got still. “Patrice? Has her ghost been talking to—”
“Her ghost?” Shania’s high-pitched laugh rakes down my spine. “You’re so self-absorbed you never look beyond your own little life. I tested that when I told you my sister died of an infection. If you gave two shits about Patrice, you’d know she died two years ago of a staph infection. A simple cut on her hand. That’s what killed her.”
I stare as the pieces try—and fail—to jam together. “You’re…?” I shake my head. “No. Patrice had a brother, but you’re too young to have been him.”
Her shoulders convulse, as if I struck her. Then her face twists. “You lying bitch. Don’t pretend Patrice didn’t tell you about me.”
I rack my brain for any memory of Patrice mentioning a much younger sibling. Then it comes. Something she said once when Heather and I invited her to the movies.
Can’t. Gotta look after my mom’s new brat.
Patrice’s parents had been divorced, and she spent most of the school year with her father and his second wife. Her mother had remarried and had a baby.
A baby who would have been about thirteen years younger than us.
“I’m sorry, Shania,” I say, voice soft. “I forgot Patrice had a much younger sister. She absolutely did talk about you. And I’m sorry if she felt I’d done something to her, but please read those transcripts. I—”
“You murdered Heather. That’s what Patrice said.” She looks around the room. “Patrice? I know you’re here. I brought you here to make this right.”
Cirillo leans toward my ear. He’s been silently working on my bonds, and when I glance at the floor, I see the steak knife is gone.
“Keep her occupied,” he whispers. “Just keep talking.”
“Shania?” I say. “You want Patrice to confront me. I get that. You’ve summoned her—”
“Me? I didn’t summon her. Dr. Cirillo did.” Her lips curve in a smile. “Who do you think is in that box, Nicola? Not your sainted husband. I dumped his ashes in the trash back at your condo. I swapped out the ashes after convincing you to bring them here.”
I blink, and the world seems to slow as I process what she said. As I struggle to fully comprehend what she means. When I do, something inside me shatters.
Two minutes ago, I truly thought I was about to die, but this is what breaks me.
How many times had I told myself it wasn’t Anton in that box? It’s not, but that box represented my final promise to my husband. A promise that I’d find a place for his remains to rest. I would protect them. I would look after them.
And Shania dumped them in the trash.
She threw my husband’s remains into the trash.
I can regret not being careful enough, but I was careful. The only thing I regret is that I ever suspected Anton of killing Heather. If there was any doubt left, it disintegrates as my entire body shatters in grief.
Shania threw his ashes in the trash. That wasn’t anger or revenge. It was simple disdain and disrespect for a man she’d never known. She disposed of his bodily remains so she could put her sister’s ashes in his box and sneak them into Anton’s séance. In hopes that Cirillo would summon Patrice instead.
The grief itself disintegrates, consumed by a red-hot explosion of rage. I lunge at Shania, but my legs aren’t free yet, and I writhe and snarl as Shania only watches me. Then she goes still, and her gaze flies behind me.
“What are you doing?” she says to Cirillo.
She stomps toward him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Cirillo cuts the last of the rope around my ankles and scrambles to his feet, his setting jaw nearly hiding the fear in his gaze. “That’s what I need to ask you, Shania. I don’t know what the fuck you are doing, but it ends here. Nicola and I are leaving, and—”
The steak knife twists in his hand. That’s all it does. It doesn’t fly dramatically from his grip. It just twists and flicks … and his wrist opens in a gush of blood.
THIRTY-THREE
For a second, we all freeze. Even Shania goes still, her eyes wide, the young woman I knew evident in her horror. I recover first. I run for Cirillo as the steak knife falls from his hand and clatters to the concrete floor. He’s still standing there, as if he must be imagining the gash across his wrist gushing blood.
I grab the rope that had fallen from my own wrists, and I wrap it around Cirillo’s upper arm. He doesn’t react even when I pull hard enough that he should gasp. He’s frozen in shock. I’m still pulling the rope, trying to get it as tight as I can to cut off the blood flow when, out of the corner of my eye, I see the knife fly up.
I stagger back, but it doesn’t come for me. The blade strikes Cirillo’s other wrist, laying it open to the bone. I grab for the knife. I can’t think of anything except stopping it, and my fingers clamp down on the blade, metal slicing into my fingers. With my other hand, I grab the handle and grip it tight. Then I dive for the rope.
Tie off the wounds. This is how my brain copes with what has just happened. Practical action. Get the knife away from Patrice. Cut off the blood flow to Cirillo’s wrists.
I’m grabbing the rope when Shania screams, and I look up just as the spade swings toward Cirillo’s head. I lunge, but I don’t get to him in time, and he goes down. Blood flies from his second wrist, arcing through the air as he falls.
I scramble over and get the rope around his other upper arm. I’m still pulling when Shania screams again, this time an endless “Nooo!”
I remember the last time she shouted that. When I thought she was trying to stop Patrice from killing me. I’d been wrong then, and so I ignore her now, certain that scream is for me to stop trying to save Cirillo. But when I hear her running footsteps, I twist, ready to fend her off, and her gaze is over my head. I look up to see the spade there, blade down … right over Cirillo, who is on his back, staring blankly and shaking with shock.
“Patrice!” Shania screams. “No!”
I vault up, hands rising to knock the spade blade off course, but I don’t get to it in time. It slams down onto Cirillo’s neck and keeps going until it hits the concrete with a thwack … and Cirillo’s head rolls away.
I stare, frozen in mid-leap, my gaze on his head … which is no longer attached to his body. Which has rolled to the side and is facing me and he blinks and oh God, he blinks. His eyes roll up to mine and there is one unbelievable moment of sheer horror before the life goes out of them, and I am staring at Cirillo’s severed head while blood spouts from his torso.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” That’s Shania, her voice rising, and I stare at Cirillo, my brain still comprehending what has happened, her shrill voice a distraction when I am trying to figure out—
And then it hits. What has happened.
I spin on Shania, spittle flying out with my words.
“What the fuck did you expect?” I snarl.
Her gaze rises to mine, her eyes wide and unfocused. “W-what?”
“You unleashed your psycho sister’s spirit. You brought her here. You did this. What the fuck did you expect, Shania?”
She shakes her head dully. “No, Patrice never hurt anyone. You let her go to prison—”
“Yes!” I shout. “I let her go to prison. That’s what she’s angry about. That’s what she was saying when she was suffocating me. I betrayed her by letting her go to prison. Not because I lied. Because I told the truth. Your sister killed Heather, and I didn’t lie for her. That is how I betrayed her. By telling the truth, and even then, I never accused her. If you’d read the fucking transcript, you’d know that I never said she killed Heather. I was never even entirely certain she had until five minutes ago, when she told me she did.”
“N … no…”
“Are you really saying she didn’t do this? Look at him!” I jab a finger at Cirillo. “She did that.” I point at Brodie, still half out of the furnace. “She did that. She is fucking evil, and you brought her here.”
Shania collapses as if her strings are cut. Her knees give way, and she goes down.
“No,” she whispers. “She said she didn’t kill Heather.”
“Because she’s a fucking psychopath. What did you expect her to do? Tell the truth?”
Shania’s head drops, sobs ripping through her. I hesitate one heartbeat. In spite of everything she’s done, my instinct is to help. But I can’t do that. Patrice cut off Cirillo’s head with a goddamn spade. Am I standing here waiting for my turn?
Steak knife clutched in my hand, I run, my gaze on the door. Get upstairs. Grab my phone. Get out and call for—
Shania’s head jerks up. I skid sideways, thinking she’s about to come at me, but she only sits there, her head jerking unnaturally from one side to the other.
Go. Forget her and run!
Yet my gut tells me not to run. Do not make any sudden moves. I sidestep to move around Shania, whose head keeps swiveling left to right.
One more slow step—
Shania leaps to her feet lightning fast, and in a blink, she’s blocking my path. My grip tightens on the knife as I try to swing past, but she’s there before I can.
“Hello, Janica,” she says, her voice pitched an octave lower. “Thank you.”
I should stare, confused by Shania switching to that name, by the change in her voice. But I look into her eyes, and I am not confused at all.
“Hello, Patrice,” I say.
“Not going to ask why I’m thanking you?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “I couldn’t get in. The brat’s anger was a wall against me. But you broke down that wall, and now I’m here.”
She takes a slow step my way. I keep my hand lowered, knife held so tight blood drips from my cut fingers.
“Like that night in the forest,” Patrice continues. “My defenses were down, and she got in. That’s what it takes. Readiness. And blood, of course.”
My gaze goes to the pool of blood beside Cirillo.
“Not that kind,” she scoffs. “You were always so literal, Nic. Shared blood. That’s the key. I lowered my defenses that night, and I read the incantation from her book, together with the wine and the mushrooms, and she got in.”
“The mushrooms were fake.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “Really? That’s your response?” She shakes her head. “They say I lost my mind, but you were never in your right one. Always a little bit odd, weren’t you, Nic. Got a computer where your brain should be. No wonder Anton fell for you. He was just like you. A little bit off. A little bit weird. Cute, but not quite right in the head.”
My eyes narrow, and she laughs.
“Don’t like me insulting your Prince Charming? I can insult you, but not him? How sweet.” She tilts her head. “Did you really think he could have killed Heather? He barely tagged along for the haunting.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Whoops. You didn’t know about that? Cody and I set it up.” She flashes her teeth. “Good practice for haunting you.”
She wants me to be outraged. Or shocked. Maybe even curious.
Oh my god, you were the one making those scary footsteps in the attic! Making the dumbwaiter creak! Did you do the newspaper and the blood hallucination?
Instead, I say, “You helped Cody spook your friends?”
She shrugs. “He wanted to scare the shit out of you and Heather, so I let him.”
“You let a guy terrorize your friends because he wanted to?”
“Again, you focus on all the wrong things.”
“No, Patrice, I don’t think I do. I don’t know what that bullshit was about ‘her’ getting into you, but you killed Heather. You snapped. You needed help. I’m sorry if you didn’t get it before you slashed open your best friend—”
She lunges at me, exactly when I expect it. I dart to the side and race past her. I make it to the door. Yank it open and barrel through. My foot strikes something on the floor.
The box with Anton—
No, not Anton’s ashes. Patrice’s. As I race for the steps, I kick the damn box out of my way. Patrice’s cremains scatter, and I feel a surge of vindictive satisfaction.
I reach the steps. Patrice is right behind me. I’m on the stairs, sprinting up—
Patrice grabs my foot and heaves, and I fall, my chin hitting the step so hard I bite my tongue, and blood fills my mouth. Dazed, I try to scramble up, but she slams my injured hand into the step. Then she has her fingers in my hair, and she’s pressing my throat against the step edge, cutting off my breath. I flail … and there’s a smack as the steak knife slaps the stair.
I’m holding a fucking knife.
I jam the blade backward. I don’t know what I hit. I only care that Patrice screams and releases me.
I scrabble up the stairs and slam the door and lean against it. Patrice pounds on the door, but I have it shut. For now.
I just need a moment. Blood fills my mouth, and my hand blazes with pain, and I just need a moment.
As I heave breath, I map out my escape. My phone is …
Where is my phone?
Holy shit. I can’t remember where I left it.
I should have grabbed Cirillo’s.
Off his headless corpse?
Forget the phone. What the hell am I going to do with it anyway? Notify the cops and then sit in the living room and wait for them to arrive? Even the time it takes me to call will be too much.
I need to get as far from this house as possible.
Get someplace safe and then summon help.
Just go. That’s all I can do. Get out the front door—
No, the front door is both locked and bolted. The back door is unlocked. That’ll be faster.
As I flex my stockinged feet, I remember Shania talking about Cirillo wearing his shoes inside. Really wish I’d done the same. I reach down to pull off my socks.
Patrice still pounds at the door, but I pay her no mind. Maybe she’s right that I’m a little “off.” A little too hyperfocused. Doesn’t matter. I can ignore her pounding and screaming as I wiggle my toes and direct my attention toward the back door.
I plan my route. Out the door. Onto the patio. Turn left. Get out of the garden. Head down the road. Mrs. Kilmer—
My brain stutters as I remember Brodie. I push that aside.
Mrs. Kilmer’s house is the first one. Do I stop there or continue to town? I’ll figure that out on the way.
My bare feet grip the floor and propel me along. The basement door swings open behind me. Running footsteps follow. Then a curse and a yelp, as one of her feet slides on the hardwood.
At the door. Twist the knob. Yank it open. Race out—
I run straight into a cloud of midges thicker than fog.
That’s not natural. No one can tell me this is natural.
Doesn’t matter. I know the way. I turn left and count off my paces, estimating when I can turn left again—
My foot hits something soft and solid, and I nearly fly over whatever blocks my path. I manage to grab the side of the house for balance, and I’m staggering over the obstacle, ready to keep going when I see what looks like an outstretched hand, barely visible through the swarming bugs.
There’s a body on the garden path.
It’s Jin.
THIRTY-FOUR
I drop to my knees beside Jin. His eyes are closed, his nose is broken and bloody, his shirt is ripped.
