The size of the hands. She knew where this was going. He just had to say it.
“The message in the birthday card was written by someone with large hands, presumably, an adult male.”
She closed her eyes, held her breath, and waited for the uncomfortable truth to smack her across the face.
“The letter, on the other hand, was written by someone with smaller hands, presumably, by a teenage girl.”
It wasn’t the smack across the face she’d been expecting; it was closer to a sledgehammer to the stomach, knocking the breath she’d been holding from her lungs. The fact that she’d known it was coming hadn’t softened the impact. She felt the blow as powerfully as that darkest of dark days two years ago.
And it was with her again, the pain she’d thought she lost. But she hadn’t lost it; it had always been there, buried deep down inside. But there was no relief in the reminder of how painful it had been to lose her daughter. It just hurt, like it was supposed to.
“Thank you, Kyle,” she heard herself saying from somewhere outside of herself. The call ended. She didn’t know what Kyle said, if anything. She could barely see the neighborhood zooming by, could barely hear the sirens. She was barely in the car. She was being crushed. The past and the present were closing in on her, squeezing the life out of her. The pain of losing Brittany two years ago attacking her from one side. The pain of realizing that Jill had written the letter attacking her from the other. And she suddenly realized why the pain of losing Brittany had been lost to her all of these months: It hurt too damn much.
“Are you okay?” Harry asked.
Darlene nodded subtly.
“What happened? What did Kyle say?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“Darlene, are you with me?”
“Jill wrote the letter,” she said.
“What?!”
“Jill wrote―”
“No, I heard you, but...I just can’t believe it.”
“You and me both,” she said.
“She forged the letter. Why?”
Darlene hesitated. “I don’t think she forged the letter.”
“You just said―”
“I know what I said. Yes, Jill wrote the letter, but I don’t think she forged her father’s handwriting. Not deliberately, anyway.”
It was Harry’s turn to hesitate. “Huh? You’re not making any sense.”
“I don’t think Jill, as we know her, deliberately forged her father’s handwriting; I think Jill, at times, believes that she is her dead father.” Even as the words were leaving her mouth, the pieces were coming together. “I think Jill has dissociative identity disorder.”
“Dissociative identity disorder,” Harry echoed. “Seriously?”
Darlene thought about if for a moment, nodded. It made perfect sense. “The disorder is often triggered by a traumatic event or a series of traumatic events. And the seeds were planted early on. Amanda told me that Jill would sometimes speak like her father when he was still alive. She witnessed her mother being beaten by her father on multiple occasions. Then she killed her father to save her mother, and the guilt sent her over the edge.” She paused. “And Jill became her father, replacing the life she took.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Amanda knew why Jill had been going back and forth to the basement in the days leading up to the campsite massacre. She'd heard the girl night after night, walking past her room, the floorboards creaking with each methodical step. Amanda would crack her bedroom door and watch as her daughter walked, trance-like, toward the basement door, opened it, and stepped through. Amanda didn’t dare follow her, didn’t dare ask her what she was doing down there for an hour or two per visit.
Didn’t dare.
Even when the question was right there on her lips, she didn’t dare. She was curious, but not curious enough to know the answer because the answer would undoubtedly be something that she couldn't bear to hear. And, of course, Jill might not want to be asked that question. She might become angry, turn on her mother the way she’d turned on her father.
Amanda had done what she could to keep Jill out of there. She’d dead-bolted the door after she and Jill had disposed of her husband’s body and scrubbed the basement clean. It had taken Amanda and her daughter the better part of the night and morning to finish the job. The sun had been rising when she’d scrubbed Jill clean of the blood and dirt. After sending Jill to bed, she’d spent an hour, perhaps longer, scrubbing her own body in the shower. It hadn’t taken that long to remove the blood and dirt, but it seemed that no matter how long and hard she’d scrubbed, she just didn’t feel clean. How could a good Christian woman ever feel clean after witnessing such a thing, after taking part in such a thing?
All these years later, staring at the door to the basement where it had all taken place, she still didn’t feel clean. She supposed she never would.
But wondering what Jill had been doing in the basement was yesterday. She didn’t have to ask herself what the girl had been doing in the basement anymore. And she really didn’t want to ask the question anymore because she was afraid she knew. All of the pieces were coming together. And if she was right, Jill was more of a monster than she’d believed.
Jill’s gift, as Amanda called it, had been to channel her father, before and after his death, and it had made her a monster. Others wouldn’t call her a monster. They’d tell Amanda that her daughter was mentally ill. Dissociative identity disorder, they called it. Amanda had done her research. Jill had channeled her father when he was still alive, using the horrible words that he had used.
Bitch.
Cunt.
Whore.
Slut.
She’d channeled her father in the words she’d used and the way she’d spoken to Amanda. She’d sounded like her father. She’d moved like her father.
She’d believed she was her father. And in a sense, she was.
She’d channeled her father in the worst possible way when she’d killed him. She’d shot him with his own gun. And the rage with which she’d destroyed his face, that’s what Randall Turner might have done to Amanda had he lived long enough.
And when it was all over, Jill, like she was coming out of a trance, believed that she had used telekinesis to bash his face in. It had been that book she’d read over and over again. Carrie. And Amanda had played along with it. Because she was afraid, and she didn’t know what else to do. That’s when she’d first told Jill that she’d had a gift.
She hadn't lied when she'd told the detectives that Jill had raised her father from the dead. She'd meant it figuratively. Jill was channeling her father. But when she'd seen the empty grave, she'd allowed herself, for a moment or two, to believe that Jill had literally raised her father from the dead. But after the shock of the moment had passed, it hit her. Jill walking back and forth to the basement night after night.
No, she didn’t want to know what her daughter had been doing in the basement, but she had to know, or she had to confirm what she already knew, which is why she found herself making her way to the door as slowly and methodically as her daughter had night after night. But Amanda wasn’t in a trance; she was alert, in the moment, and trembling.
She reached for the doorknob, grasped and
turned it. She hesitated, took a deep breath, and pulled the door
open.
She didn’t smell anything. It had been too long, she knew.
But she half-expected it. Too many hours spent in front of the
television watching gruesome crime dramas, she supposed.
She reached in, her trembling hand struggling to find the light switch. Yes, it had been that long. She'd never had much cause to flip the switch in this godforsaken place. She hadn't stepped foot in the basement since the night her husband died. She hadn't spent much time in the basement before he died. It had been her husband’s sanctuary. She doubted that she’d been in the basement more than a handful of times. She wasn’t even sure she remembered
what it looked like.
She found the switch, flipped it on. Dull light illuminated the staircase.
She descended, reached the bottom.
The basement was almost alien to her.
Straight ahead, a washing machine and dryer that hadn’t been used in years. She wondered if they still worked. To her left was her husband’s work area, his tools, the various projects he’d begun working on but never quite got around to finishing. To her right, just out of view behind a wall, was his little man cave, where he’d escaped the wife and kid to drink, watch movies, whatever.
She didn’t want to step around the wall, didn’t want to see the inevitable, didn’t want to know that her daughter was far more monstrous than she could have imagined.
But she had to know. She was just putting off the inevitable. Just a few more moments, a few more steps, and she would see it, and she would know.
So she took those few steps, slowly, cautiously, like she was traversing a minefield. She paused just outside the door and peered in. The old living room set―sofa, loveseat, armchair―was visible. And beyond the scope of her vision, obstructed by the wall, was the spot where her husband had bullied her for the very last time. She just needed to take one long step through the door to bring that spot into view. Just one more step and it would all be real.
She closed her eyes, stepped through, turned to her left, and opened her eyes.
And there it was.
There he was, right where Jill had shot him before crushing his face with a hammer.
She’d dug him up.
Jill had wanted to bring him back, and she’d done that. She’d brought him back body and spirit. The body was right where she left it. The spirit was with her.
His flesh was gone, of course. His teeth bared in a permanent smile, as if he were mocking her. She could almost feel him looking back at her through the darkened sockets that had once held his eyes.
She wanted to run. But something caught her eye―a scrap of paper clasped in her husband’s bony fingers.
She approached, reached down, and grabbed the paper with her thumb and forefinger, careful not to touch the hand that held it.
She held the scrap of paper in front of her face. It was a list of names written in her husband’s hand―through Jill. Beginning at the top of the list, she read the names.
And when she reached the bottom, she shuddered.
Chapter Forty-Eight
They were late, Darlene knew, as she, Harry, and a handful of uniformed officers raced across the lawn with their guns drawn. What were they going to do? she wondered. Shoot a teenage girl? The sole survivor of a recent mass murder? But it wouldn’t come to that, not yet. They were far too late. Jill was gone. She knew because she heard the screams. Mrs. Wright, she presumed. She recognized the scream. It had come from her own mouth the day she saw Brittany’s body.
She was the first one through the front door, down the hallway, to the girl’s bedroom door where she saw the body, the blood. Mr. and Mrs. Wright huddled over the body, Mrs. Wright wailing, cradling her daughter, Mr. Wright crying, his arms around his wife’s shoulders, trying to guide her away from the grisly scene.
Harry pushed his way past Darlene. He was followed by two uniformed officers. Together they escorted the distraught couple from the room.
Darlene had a clear view of the body, now. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed, her features soft, relaxed. She looked almost serene, like she’d expected it, even welcomed it. There was even the slightest hint of a smile on her ashen face.
But the blood, so much blood, too much to make out the wound, but she assumed that her throat had been cut. No stab wounds, as far as she could tell. Jill had been in a rush.
Darlene stepped into the room, careful not to step in the blood. She crouched over the body, instinctively grabbed the wrist. The skin was cold. There was no pulse, of course. She wasn’t sure why she’d bothered. Hope, maybe. Realistically, she’d known that the girl was dead, but she’d been hoping for a miracle.
She’d had a similar experience two years earlier. Hope was a difficult thing to let go of.
She lowered the girl’s wrist and stood, her eyes following a trail of bloody footprints to an open window. Blood caked the windowsill and frame. She tiptoed around the blood to the window and crouched. She stuck her head through, careful not to make contact with the windowsill and frame, and peered into the darkness.
“Any guesses as to where she’s going next?” Harry asked from the doorway.
Darlene started and pulled her head back in. “Diane was the last one.”
“That we know of.”
“That we know of,” Darlene agreed.
“The game is over, as far as she’s concerned.”
“The game? This was never about the game for her.”
“It was about bullying,” Harry said.
“Right, it was about bullying. The game was just incidental.” She paused. “The identity of her father will do whatever it takes to protect Jill. We got that much from the letter. He will kill to protect his daughter.”
“Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Darlene echoed. “He’s killed and will continue to kill anybody who’s ever bullied his daughter.”
“Mission accomplished,” Harry said. “He’s...She’s...killed them all. All the kids who were picking on her are dead. So where does she go from here?”
“Who says a bully has to be a kid? Bullies come in all shapes and sizes.”
“And age groups.”
“Right, and age groups,” Darlene said. “Some start out bullying as kids; some never grow out of it. They can be found in all walks of life. A bully can be that kid on the playground, a big brother or big sister.”
“A father,” Harry suggested.
“Right, a father.” A pause. “Or a mother.”
Silence as the reality began to sink in for both of them. “Do you think...?” Harry said.
Darlene nodded vigorously. “Jill’s going home.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
She’d fled the scene with mere moments to spare. She was two steps behind her father. So close. But she’d failed again. She’d gone into one of her trances, and she’d seen everything through her father’s eyes. And she’d been helpless to stop it.
Two steps behind him.
And the police were two steps behind her. Too close. Right on her heels. She wouldn’t be surprised if the police suspected her. She’d given them every reason. She’d been in the Beckham residence, had held Katie in her arms. She’d been in the Wright residence, had held Diane in her arms. She was covered in their blood.
And she was holding a knife.
Why was she holding a knife? Why was there blood on the knife?
Right, she’d pulled the knife from Diane Wright’s body. Her father had gotten the knife from the Beckham’s kitchen after sneaking through the open front door, before hiding in the spare bedroom where he waited to kill Katie. She’d seen it all through his eyes.
Two more victims. Two more names on his list. But she couldn’t see them, didn’t know who they were. She didn’t know where he was heading. The best she could do was follow his psychic scent. But she had a bad feeling about where that scent was leading her.
She was close now, closer than she’d been all night. And she was growing closer with each step. Did he stop?
Was he waiting for her?
Watching her?
From behind a tree?
That tree, maybe?
He stepped out from behind the tree, his mangled face concealed in darkness. He took an aggressive step toward her.
But she was not afraid.
He took another aggressive step.
But she would not be intimidated.
He continued his approach, one menacing step after another. When the shadows fell from his mangled face, he stopped.
“How’s the stomach?” he asked.
She ignored the question.
“You can’t st
op me,” he said. “You would only be stopping yourself. The more you pursue me, the stronger I become. I draw strength from your presence. We’re linked. You know that. I can’t exist without you.” A pause. “Do you really want to save your mother?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“The only way to save her is to turn around and walk away. But you won’t do that because you don’t really want to save her. You want her dead.”
“No,” she said with a lack of conviction that unsettled her.
“You wanted them all dead.”
She hesitated. “That’s not true.” But she wasn’t sure she believed it.
“You’re always there when it happens. You were there at the campsite. You were there when I killed Katie. You were there when I killed Diane. You were there because you wanted to see it. You wanted to watch them die. And you’re here now because you want to watch your mother die.”
“No.”
“No? Then why aren’t you walking away?”
Jill opened her mouth, closed it. She didn’t have an answer.
“You want her dead because she’s a bully, just like me. She took my place when you killed me. You traded one bully for another. Sure, I didn’t bully you directly, but you spent years watching me beat the shit out of your mother, listening to me beat the shit out of your mother, and like the little sponge that you were, you soaked that shit up. And look what it did to you. It turned you into a monster. It turned you into me.” A pause. “You killed me. But I’m not really dead. I’m right there in that spongy little head of yours. I’m the result of years of psychological abuse. I’m the result of the guilt you’ve been carrying around since the day you bashed my face in with that hammer.” Another pause. “Telekinesis? That was a nice touch. Carrie is a great book. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
It makes sense, she told herself.
No, it doesn’t.
He’s telling the truth.
No, he’s not.
I believe him.
No, I don’t.
“You’re struggling,” he said. “But as much as you try to push it away, you know it’s true. You wanted them all dead. They dug into those psychological scars. They reminded you of me. They reminded you of your mother. They were bullies. They picked on you and tormented you. And all the while, I was waiting in that spongy little head of yours, watching. They were content to pick on you for a while, but when they picked you to be the final girl in that game of theirs, I knew that the time was right. After all, they wanted the game to be as real as possible. And they needed a killer, a real killer. So I gave them what they wanted. And I gave you what you wanted.
The Final Girl Page 22
