Her father had been a bully, she knew. He’d beat her mother, made her mother afraid. That’s what bullies do. Jill had never been more afraid of her father than the night she’d killed him. Fear was the factor, she was beginning to realize. Fear triggered her gift when she’d killed him, and fear triggered her gift when she’d brought him back.
And the bully was still there. She’d been afraid of him on the night of the murders, but he hadn’t killed her; he’d saved her. And she’d never been more afraid of her father than she’d been of the kids at school. Or her mother.
She was sympathetic to his plight. He was out there, both dead and alive, a walking corpse with a mangled face. And she’d made him that way. It must have hurt when she’d bashed his face in. It must have hurt now. It did. She could feel it. The pain in his mangled face. The pain in his soul. He still had one. And it was still in there. Even the good part of his soul that the alcohol had suppressed but couldn’t extinguish. She felt his pain physically and emotionally. And she was beginning to feel the emotional pain more deeply than the physical pain. The physical pain only hurt when he was in his reanimated corpse. The emotional pain had always been there, deep in that good part of his soul. He’d carried it with him to the other side where it had festered, and he’d brought back to the physical world stronger than before.
Tears welled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed.
A whisper, indecipherable.
She rose from her bed, turned this way and that. Nothing. Nobody. Her imagination. She was traumatized, her mother had told her.
Another whisper. And another. Indecipherable, but becoming clearer. And she didn’t have to turn this way and that to find the source.
It was in her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“You’re not sorry, not for killing me. And you’re not sorry for those sullied friends of yours. You’re sorry for yourself. You’re sorry for the guilt that’s tearing you apart from the inside. You’re sorry that after I’m finished with your friends, I’m coming after you.”
She didn’t understand. He was her guardian angel.
“Yes, I am your guardian angel. And I’m a killer of everything you hate. You hate bullies. And you hate yourself.”
“I don’t―”
“I have to go now. I have some work to do. I still have four more people on my list.”
“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “I don’t want you to do this.”
“You’re lying to yourself. You want this as much as I do.”
“Please stop.”
“I can’t stop,” the voice in her head whispered. “You won’t let me.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Harry and Darlene had spent most of the day in the squad room going over the particulars of the case. On paper―and there was plenty of paper scattered across Harry’s desk―they were just about ready to close the case. But just about ready wasn’t ready. There was a loose end to be tied up: They were waiting to hear back from Kyle Griffin in the Questioned Documents department.
“Kyle’s findings might prove that Randall Turner wrote the letter,” Harry said, “but it won’t prove that he was at the campsite on Saturday night.” He paused. “There's still the matter of what role, if any, Jill played in the murders. I was sure that Jill and Richard Caulfield planned the massacre together. I had it all worked out in my head. Jill, the shy girl with no friends, is approached by the deranged but charming Richard Caulfield. She’s swept off her feet. She's open to just about anything, including murder. Richard talks her into helping him kill Gary Butler, Jessica Lewis, and Denise Richardson. She lets him stab her in the stomach to cover up her role in the murders. Then he convinces her to stab him in the solar plexus, killing him.”
“Making her the final girl,” Darlene said.
“That was my theory before...”
“Before the letter.”
“Before the letter,” Harry echoed.
“Like you said, the letter doesn’t prove anything,” Darlene said, but she didn’t sound convinced.
“You don’t really believe that.”
Darlene looked at him askance. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you never considered the possibility that Jill played a part in the murders because you never wanted to believe it.”
She held his gaze for a moment before looking away. He had touched a nerve, he knew, and desperately wished he could have the last few seconds of this conversation back.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked at him. “You don’t have to be sorry, Harry.” A pause. “You’re probably right. Like I said, I’m too close to this case. So let’s get this shit out in the open, shall we? Yes, Jill reminds me of Brittany. Yes, I desperately want to save this girl because I couldn’t save my own fucking daughter.” Tears were forming. “Yes, my desperation to make up for the fact that I couldn’t save my own fucking daughter blinded me to the possibility that Jill may have known more, or may have done more, than I wanted to believe.”
Harry was silent. There was nothing else to say.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Darlene said, “Say something.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Anything. I hate awkward silences.”
“I didn’t know we had awkward silences.”
“They’re awkward for me,” she said. They were awkward for Harry, as well. He just didn’t want to admit it. “Do you ever notice that we don’t talk unless we’re talking about work? We’ve been partners for six months, and we barely know each other.”
There was a distance between them, he knew. He was aware of the fact that she was closer to his wife―much closer, in fact―than she was to him. But hearing her acknowledge it made him uncomfortable.
“That’s not true,” he said. “I know a lot about you.” He really didn’t, he knew.
“Oh, right. You know that my daughter’s dead.”
That stung. Why? Because it was true? Was that really all he knew about her?
His conversation with Molly. Do you ever ask her about Brittany? Not about whether or not she’s too close to a case. Not about Brittany’s case. But about Brittany. Was that really only two days ago? You should try it.
I should try it, he told himself.
Why was he so nervous?
I know my husband, Molly had said. I know this isn’t your area of expertise.
Right, not my area of expertise.
“Did you grow up around here?” he asked. He felt like a coward.
“Yep, Ronkonkoma.” Short and sweet. He wasn’t looking for short and sweet; he was looking for her to hold up his end of the conversation. She was the one complaining that they didn’t talk enough.
“Your family?” he asked. “Do you have any siblings?” He couldn’t believe he didn’t know this.
“Nope. I’m an only child. Like Jill.” A pause. “Like Brittany.” She was practically begging him to ask her about Brittany.
He opened his mouth, hesitated. The words wouldn’t come out. He closed his mouth. Yeah, he was a coward, and he hated himself for it.
She opened her mouth and let him off the hook: "My father was a city cop."
It wasn’t her use of the past tense that struck him; it was her tone, like she was getting something off her chest. “Was?”
She nodded. “He was killed in the line of duty.”
“I’m...so sorry.” He meant it, of course. But the words sounded empty, nonetheless. They always did.
“I was just a little girl when it happened. I barely remember him.”
“You remembered enough to follow in his footsteps. I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence.”
She smiled. “Probably not.”
He hesitated. “Your mom?”
“She lives in Brooklyn.” A pause. “We don’t speak much.” Another pause. “We’re not estranged; we’ve just...never been that close.
” A hint of regret. She sighed. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Yeah, that’s how it works. I share, you share. I know more about your wife than I do about you, and you’re my partner.”
He smiled. “Well, you probably already know that I hate talking about myself.”
“Yeah, I got that much about you from Molly.” A pause. “Come on.”
How to begin. “My father was a Nassau County cop. He moved up through the ranks, made detective.”
“Like father, like son.”
“Right, but I was a city cop.”
“Whatever.”
“He’s retired. My mom was a homemaker. Still is, I guess.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“Two older brothers. One younger sister. None of them are cops.” He paused, considered how much of himself he was willing to share. “My father was proud of me for becoming a cop, even if I wasn’t sure it’s what I wanted to be.”
“What did you want to be?”
He hesitated. “I majored in psychology. I wanted to be a therapist...I think.”
A smile. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Your attempts to psychoanalyze me.”
He wanted to deny it, but he knew she was right. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for. You were only trying to help.” A pause. “In fact, I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat. It’s just that so much time is spent on how she died and not who she was.”
There it was. She was opening the door for him. He just had to step through. Yet, he was reluctant. He didn’t know how to broach the subject. Don’t talk about how she died. But her life was nearly as tragic as her death. In fact, the two went hand-in-hand, didn’t they? No, Brittany was so much more than the young woman who’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, Darlene would tell him if only he had the courage to ask. She’d been a vibrant young woman before she’d begun experimenting with heroin, and she’d carried some of that vibrancy through the last dark days of her life. She’d been so vibrant, Darlene would tell him, that she’d managed to keep her double life a secret.
And she wanted to tell him. She was desperate to tell him. He just had to be a friend to her. He just had to ask.
He opened his mouth.
Her phone rang. She was reaching for it, and he was breathing a sigh of relief.
“Jill Turner,” she said, looking at her screen. She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?” A pause. “What...?” Another pause. “Hold on. Back up.” She rose. Harry rose with her. “No... Jill, wait.” She pulled the phone away from her ear, looked at Harry. “We have to go.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Her phone was ringing, screen down on her bed. She wouldn’t answer it. She wouldn’t even turn it over. She didn’t have to look at the screen to know that it was Detective Moore. She would try to talk Jill out of it, but it would be a waste of time for both of them. Jill had made up her mind, and she would not be swayed, not when there were lives on the line.
Four of them left on his list.
She knew the first two. She could only guess at the third and fourth. And he wasn’t going to waste any time.
He thought he was her guardian angel, and maybe he had been at one time, but he was nothing more than a monster now. A killer of everything she hated. But he wasn’t doing it for her anymore; he was doing it for himself now. He enjoyed it. He’d gotten his taste of blood at the campsite, and he wanted more.
She knew this like the thoughts had been her own, just as she saw the list as if she had been looking through her father’s eyes. She was in his head. Her mother had referred to her ability to connect with her father as a “gift,” but Jill was sure that her mother was just appeasing her. Her definition of “gift” changed depending on Jill’s abilities. Her mother had told her that her ability to move objects with her mind was a gift. And according to her mother, her ability to connect with her father was a trans-dimensional gift. Jill could move objects with her mind, communicate with the spirit of her dead father, but her mother drew the line at raising her father from the dead. Her mother knew that Jill had resurrected her father. She just didn’t want to believe it. Who could blame her?
Her mother discouraged her from using her gift. They would find out what she was―a monster―and take her away. But the truth of the matter was evident: her mother didn’t want her using her gift because her gift connected her to her father, gave her the power to raise her father from the dead.
She wasn’t protecting Jill.
She was protecting herself.
Understandable.
And when Jill’s ability to raise her father became undeniable, her mother denied it anyway. Because she had to. She still had to protect herself.
But denial would not keep her mother safe, Jill knew. And now her mother knew it too, apparently. She was kneeling next to Jill’s bed, praying. Her mother had believed her a monster, but now she knew the truth. The real monster―her mother’s husband, her father, The Man with the Pushed-in Face, the man she once believed was her guardian angel―was out there somewhere. He had killed before, and he was going to kill again.
Unless she stopped him.
She was the only one who could.
The police, Detectives Moore and Mitchell, they didn’t have what it took to track the real monster, let alone take him down.
But she did. And the monster knew it. That’s why he left her alive.
This monster had a taste for blood. He had been satiated three nights earlier, but he would soon be out looking for more. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to act, and the time to act was now.
But her mother, she was kneeling right next to her. She’d been praying for the past thirty minutes, and that wasn’t even close to the mad woman’s record. She wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. Jill would have to stop her, or put her on pause just long enough to make her escape. She didn’t use her gifts very often because, despite being told that they were gifts, her mother had taught her not to use them, and she obeyed her mother most of the time.
She would have used her gifts to stop The Man with the Pushed-in Face from killing her new friends if she could have, but she’d arrived back at the campsite too late. They were already dead. There was nothing she could have done about it. But what struck her as strange, then and now, was that she’d been helpless to stop The Man with the Pushed-in Face from attacking her. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even tried. She’d been entranced by the man, had fallen into his arms as one would a lover. And he’d stabbed her, but she knew that he wasn’t going to kill her.
She knew because he was her guardian angel. And he had just given her the injury to keep her away from the sullied. It was a punishment and a deterrent.
But in killing her friends, her angel had gone too far. And he wasn’t finished. He would continue to kill until she stopped him.
She opened her eyes, and her mother opened hers.
“No,” her mother said.
“I have to, Mom. I have to try.”
Her mother stood at once. She walked across the room and back at a frantic pace. “He’s only going to kill the sullied.”
“The sullied deserve to live, too. They deserve a chance to redeem themselves. You're a woman of God, Mom. You know that."
Her mother put a thumb and index finger to her mouth. She did that when contemplating. “These abilities you have―”
“I’m not a monster, Mom.”
Her mother took a step back, as if she expected Jill to lash out at her.
“You think these abilities come from the devil. That’s why you prevented me from using them. But these abilities, I’ve only used them to fight evil. I used them to stop Dad from hurting you. You didn’t think I remembered, but I do. And I’m gonna use these abilities to stop him again before he kills anybody else. Once again, I’m gonna use them to fight evil. These abilities, they’re a gift from God.”
&nb
sp; Her mother conceded the point with a nod. “You can’t go out through the front door.”
They looked toward the window simultaneously.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” her mother said.
“It’s God’s will, Mom.”
“Are you sure?” her mother asked.
“I don’t have a choice.”
Her mother nodded her assent. “I know. It’s what I’ve always been afraid of.”
Jill gave her mother a reassuring smile. “Don’t be afraid, Mom. This is what I was meant to do. This is why I’m here.”
Her mother gave Jill another of her wary smiles. Jill walked to the window, pulled open the curtain, and surveyed the backyard. Beyond a short expanse of grass was a short, picket fence. Beyond that, the neighbor’s yard, the McKinley’s, a nice retired couple. Another fence and another yard on the other side of the McKinley’s. She could easily scale a few fences, cross a few backyards, and the press and police camped out front would never be the wiser. It was perfect. It was meant to be.
Jill unlocked the horizontally sliding window and pulled it open. The warm summer air poured into the room.
She set one foot on the windowsill and looked back at her mother. She wore a confident smile.
“Don’t say it,” her mother said.
Jill frowned. “Don’t say what?”
“Don’t say goodbye.”
“I’ll be okay, Mom.”
Her mother gave her a sorrowful nod and averted her eyes.
Jill set her other foot on the windowsill and leaped through the open window. Her feet set in the dewy grass, she looked up at the few stars that hadn’t been obscured by Long Island’s light pollution. And she smiled because she was sure of herself. There was a killer out there, but she was an angel sent from Heaven. With God on her side, there was nothing she couldn’t accomplish.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Amanda had done what she had to do to protect her daughter. She’d let her go, not that she’d been given much of a choice. Jill was not going to give that to her. That little conversation they’d had before Jill had climbed out through the window had been a ruse. Jill had a mission to accomplish, and she was going to go whether Amanda liked it or not. And though she had not been given a real choice in the matter, she knew Jill leaving to carry out her mission had been the only option. Amanda could only hope for the best.
The Final Girl Page 18
