by Carrie Ryan
But I know that if I give him room to maneuver, I’m dead. And so I throw my arms around him, keeping him close. He’s not expecting it and he staggers a step, giving me just the opening I need.
I lift my knee, kicking hard between his legs. He’s able to turn, deflecting most of the blow at the last minute. But not all of it. There’s a whoosh of air leaving his lungs. A grunt. A moment where he’s distracted enough that I’m able to pull away.
I’m halfway up the stairs when my gas-slick foot slips out from underneath me. My shins slam against the marble steps, sending lightning bolts of pain screaming up my body. I claw at the banister, scrambling, panicked, climbing like a dog on all fours. But Thom’s legs are longer than mine and he can take them three at a time. I’ve barely made it to the top when he lunges. One hand wraps around my ankle, and with a forceful yank, he’s pulled me down.
I let momentum carry me toward him, ceasing my struggles for the barest moment so that I can gain leverage. This throws him off balance. Just enough that I slam into him and he bobbles the gun, dropping it in order to grab the railing to keep from falling. It clatters to the floor of the foyer below, well out of reach.
Recovering quickly, he backhands me, sending me crashing onto my side. With a vicious yank of my waistband he flips me onto my stomach and digs his knee into the middle of my back. I’m facedown on the staircase, my throat pressed hard against the lip of one of the stairs, making drawing a breath impossible.
He doesn’t need the gun to kill me. Gurgling sounds bubble in my throat as I struggle to wedge my hands under my chest, pressing hard against Thom’s weight to ease the pressure on my windpipe. I’ve just enough strength to lift my head and gulp in a lungful of air. But that’s all I can do. I can’t move my hands to swipe at him or else I won’t be able to breathe. He has me pinned, unable to do anything but kick at the empty air.
Thom fists his hand through my hair and slowly pulls my head back, digging his knee between my shoulder blades. Forcing an unnatural arch into my neck until my body threatens to break. My fingers scratch at the marble of the stair, struggling to keep as much of the pressure off my throat as possible. But even so, I’m choking. Helpless.
The rigid edge of his teeth presses against my ear. “Say good night, Libby.”
My eyes whisper closed. For nothing, I think. All of it for nothing. What’s the point of struggling anymore? After all these years, I’m exhausted. Ready to be done with it.
There’s no one left to mourn me.
Say good night, Libby.
Libby.
My heart jolts. I’m thrown back to that moment on the life raft when Libby gave up. The way her eyes dulled, dried trails of red tears staining her cheeks. She was just done. There was nothing I could do to convince her to keep fighting.
And it was so shocking to me because that’s not who Libby was. Libby was vibrant and full of life—she was everything I wasn’t. Everything I wanted to be.
Except in this one thing.
Libby wasn’t a fighter.
But Frances was.
And I still am.
FIFTY-THREE
I explode, throwing elbows, arching to buck him off. But his grip is too tight, his knee digging harder into my back, keeping me pinned. He slams me against the stair once and then twice. I brace for a third, but something causes him to hesitate. His fingers twitch against my scalp. A second later, I understand.
Smoke. Through the blurry slits of my eyes I peer past the banister to where a curling finger of black snakes its way into the foyer.
Thom curses.
I remember him lighting the three matches, just before I ran. He must have dropped them when he came after me and the flame hit one of the puddles of gas.
The house is on fire. And with accelerant doused all over the place, it won’t be long before the entire thing blazes uncontrollably. I struggle harder, thrashing. But Thom has something else in mind. He swipes at my hands, yanking them behind my back. Taking away my leverage.
My throat crashes against the lip of the stair and he braces his forearm across the back of my neck, increasing the pressure and choking me in earnest. My windpipe feels like it’s being crushed and I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
Starbursts explode in my vision. Lungs screaming in agony, my mind becomes a blur of light-doused panic. With the last of my energy I flail, doing everything I can to just please—please—draw another breath.
Thom doesn’t relent. It’s obvious what his plan is: choke me to unconsciousness and leave me to burn. Which means the only way to have a chance at survival is to let him think he’s succeeded.
It takes everything I have to stop struggling. To somehow override the primal urge for air. I go limp, letting the fight seep from my limbs. He continues the pressure a few heartbeats more and then, finally, he relents.
My first lungful of air burns—from the pain of my bruised throat and from the sting of smoke. But even as I choke and sputter, I continue to feign helplessness. Let him think that I’m too oxygen-starved and weak.
I don’t fight as he drags me up the final few stairs by my hair. The air’s thicker up here, heavy with smoke billowing from below. Orange light already flickers along the hallways, chewing its way up the walls.
He’s running out of time if he wants to get out safely.
I’m running out of time as well.
He’s just pulled me around the corner when someone screams my name from downstairs. Thom pauses, listening.
“Frances!” the shout comes again. This time closer and more panicked.
Grey.
And at the sound of that name on those lips, a memory shifts into focus. The night of Shepherd’s accident—the texts from Grey. He’d said, “Thank you, Libby.”
But at that point Grey already knew the truth about me. He’d have never called me Libby. Not even to keep up the charade.
Which means that he wasn’t the one to send those texts.
A jolt passes through Thom, his eyes going wide as he recognizes the voice. “Shit,” he growls.
I pounce on his hesitation. “Grey!” I try to scream. But the sound comes out limp and scratched. It’s nothing against the buffeting roar of the fire.
Thom hauls me to my feet, pulling my back to his chest as he wraps his forearm around my throat. Cutting my air. He drags me down the hallway and into the first room he comes across.
Mine.
I know the instant he sees the bed because he draws a horrified gasp and stumbles to a stop. His arm goes slack in shock and I force my elbow back, jamming it into his stomach. I try to pull free and pivot but my air-starved muscles refuse to cooperate. I make it only two steps before falling to my knees.
“What the hell is that?” His voice wavers as he points to the bed.
Behind him, the hallway pulses orange, heat causing sweat to drip down my cheeks. Any moment the flames will ignite the trail of gas into this room. And when it does, that’s the end of everything.
That’s the endgame of it all.
There’s no escaping.
“What is that!” he screams louder, advancing toward me.
“I . . .” There’s barely anything left to my voice, which is fine because what would I say anyway? That’s it’s me?
A large groaning noise comes from below as some integral internal structure gives way. The floor shudders and tilts.
He lunges. “What—”
But he doesn’t have a chance to finish. There’s a loud POP. A red gash tears along the side of his throat, blood spraying in a wide arc. Thom clutches at what used to be his neck, eyes wide and mouth gaping as he falls to his knees.
Grey stands behind him. Thom’s gun clutched in his hands. He looks at me, face frozen in shock. Not processing what he’s done and where he is. He starts to turn and I know that if he does, he�
��ll see the bed.
I stumble, half standing, and lunge for him. When I grab his hand, a bright flare of orange roars up in the mouth of the doorway. It races toward us, spitting sparks and chewing everything in its path. Pulling Grey behind me, I dive for the door to the balcony and struggle to pry it open.
A sharp wind batters its way inside, tossing my hair as it rushes past. Behind me there’s a sucking sound, as though the house were alive and breathing. I know what’s coming next. The fresh air will fuel the fire, turning it monstrous.
I shove Grey across the balcony. “Jump!” I scream at him. He throws a leg over the balcony and I turn to go back inside.
“Wait, what are you doing?” He reaches for me, but I twist out of his grasp. All of my journals are still in my room—along with the proof I have against Senator Wells. I can’t let it get destroyed.
Heat rolls over me in waves as I force my way back into the burning house. My eyes sear from the smoke as I search for the two bags. They’re still sitting on the floor by my desk and I grab them.
Grey’s hand closes around my arm. “Get out!” He hauls me to my feet, throwing me toward the door. I crash onto the balcony, hit the railing with my hip. I drop the two bags to the ground and turn for Grey.
He’s right behind me. “Come on!” I reach out a hand for him.
There’s a moment when everything is perfectly still. The house no longer sucking in the fresh air. The flames retreating. Grey’s fingers brush against mine.
And then it’s nothing but fire. I’m thrown, no up and no down, just me twisting in the air and then my shoulder crashing onto the patio. Above me the sky explodes into a brilliant orange of shattered glass and smoke that swallows the balcony whole. Flames rip through what used to be the doors to my room.
“Grey!” I scream. I have no idea whether he jumped or whether he was caught in the blast. “Grey!” I scream again, pushing to my hands and knees, panicked.
In the distance I hear sirens approaching. I can’t be found here, but I can’t leave—not until I find Grey.
I can’t be responsible for his death.
“Grey!” I shout again, spinning to scour the patio for him. That’s when I see the body, sinking through the ash-smudged water of the pool, limbs limp. “Oh God,” I croak, scrambling toward him. I dive in after him and he doesn’t fight or even react as my arms circle around his chest.
“Hang on, Grey,” I tell him, when I get him to the surface. Except he doesn’t cough. He doesn’t even move.
I haul him out onto the edge of the pool deck, my hands moving by rote memory as my mind screams: Not Grey. Not him too. I pound at his chest, and water dribbles from his mouth and finally—finally—he draws a shallow, shuddering breath.
I’m kneeling over him, my hands wiping across his forehead, pushing wet hair from his face, when his eyes flutter open.
“You’re okay,” I tell him, the words coming out in a relieved sob. “You’re okay.”
A smile twitches along his lips. “You’re alive,” he whispers.
I’m trembling, my relief is so overpowering. I almost laugh, more of a choking cry than anything else. “I’m not,” I whisper, pressing my hand against his cheek, letting my fingers dance across his skin. “I died in the fire—I never made it out. I’m just a ghost, I promise. This isn’t real.”
He raises his hand to mine, but his grip is weak. “You feel real.”
“I’m not.” I try to smile but fail. “I never have been.”
His eyes flutter closed and for a moment I’m worried I’m about to lose him again. But his breathing continues, slow and steady. “I saw the texts—I wasn’t the one to send them. I’d never put you in danger like that,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry about Shepherd.”
“Shh, I know it wasn’t you,” I tell him.
He struggles to focus on me. “Dad swore to me that you’d be safe—that you wouldn’t get hurt. I shouldn’t have believed—” His voice breaks. “Dad was just a pawn. Thom was the one behind it all. I tried to get here in time when I realized he’d gone after you.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezes.
Sirens blaze from the front of the house as the fire trucks arrive. I only have moments left.
“I’m sorry too,” I whisper.
But his grip tightens on my hand. “No, I mean for the Persephone. For Frances. For all of it.”
I lower my face and press my forehead against his. “I know. And if Frances were still alive, she’d forgive you too.”
He looks at me confused. “But you’re Frances.” He scores a thumb down my cheek.
I shake my head. “No, you were right before. I haven’t been Frances for a long time.”
“But—”
“I promise you’ll understand soon,” I whisper against his cheek.
I let my lips touch against his, lighter than a sigh. “Good-bye, Grey.”
And then I’m gone. I grab the two waterproof bags and race down the boardwalk to the beach. To where there’s a Zodiac anchored in the dark just beyond the breakers, waiting for me.
To a new life.
FIFTY-FOUR
Shepherd’s asleep, surrounded by an army of beeping machines, when I slip into his room at the hospital. I know it’s a stupid risk for me to be here, but he deserves the truth. He’s suffered enough because of me.
I set the stack of Libby’s journals on a table beneath the window, a stray piece of paper tucked into the top one. All it says is
For all old myths give us the dream to be.
We are outwearied with Persephone;
Rather than her, we’ll sing Reality.
I sit for a moment by his side, my fingers wrapped through his. Hating how bruised his face looks under the fluorescent lights. In a soft voice, I tell him everything Libby said about him at the end, when we were on the life raft together. About how much she loved him. How much he meant to her. Several times I have to stop, my voice cracking.
“She is yours again,” I finally whisper, pressing a kiss against the back of his hand.
As quietly as I entered, I slip back into the hallway, keeping my head down and shoulders hunched. But my steps slow as I pass an empty hospital room, my attention caught by the television mounted on the wall.
It’s turned to a twenty-four-hour news station and an image of my charred house flashes on the screen, the rubble still smoldering as firefighters pick their way carefully through it.
“Police have confirmed that two sets of remains were found in the wreckage,” a young man reporting from the site says. “And while DNA tests will still be performed to confirm the identities, police believe one of the bodies belongs to Elizabeth O’Martin. According to an unnamed source with the arson investigators, they think she was in bed asleep when the fire broke out.”
Glancing around, I move farther into the room. I press my fingers to my lips, trying to hide my giddy smile over such tragic news.
“And the second body?” the female anchor interrupts to ask.
“Well, that’s the more interesting question. Again, these bodies were very badly burned so more tests will be needed before the police will officially confirm anything. But that same source tells me that the second body belongs to Thomas Ridger, a man who apparently worked as a special security consultant for Senator Alastair Wells.”
“Speaking of Senator Wells,” the female anchor continues. “We have someone on the ground over at his house as well. Let’s check in.”
The camera switches to a middle-aged man standing in a swarm of reporters. Behind him, the Senator’s house fills the screen, its front driveway cluttered with cop cars.
“It’s been a busy morning at Senator Wells’s house. Police have been speaking with the Senator for several hours, and just a few minutes ago, we started to see some activity.” A buzz goes through the reporters as the front door to the h
ouse swings open. The camera shakes for a moment before zooming in as two cops step outside.
And then I see Senator Wells and it’s the most amazing sight ever. Even handcuffed, he attempts to appear poised and put together, his back straight and face betraying nothing. But there’s just enough off about his appearance to show he’s shaken: His face is unshaved, casting his chin and jaw in shadow, and his hair is not as perfectly polished as usual.
I draw a sharp breath as the police escort him to a cop car. Reporters explode into a cacophony of shouted questions, but the Senator ignores them all.
“Wow,” the reporter says, eventually stepping back into view. His expression is stunned. “I’m getting confirmation that the police have arrested Senator Wells in connection with the death of Elizabeth O’Martin.”
“Is there any word on what the evidence against him is?” the female anchor asks.
The reporter glances down at his notepad. “So far, everything we’re getting is off the record. But apparently his son may have been the one to implicate him.”
At this my knees go weak and I sink into a chair. Grey? I press the heels of my palms to my temples, trying to understand.
I’m interrupted by a knock at the open door. I don’t even think twice, I turn toward the noise.
“Nice haircut,” Morales says. She’s wearing the same old Carolina sweatshirt and jeans. A faint odor of smoke drifts around her like perfume. And though her voice may sound light, it carries an undercurrent of something stronger. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
My hand lifts automatically to run my fingers through my new pixie-short hair. “I—” It comes out more as a squeak than anything else, which is fine because I have no idea what to say.
“Mind if I join you?” Morales asks, already stepping farther into the room. I glance toward the door. It’s the middle of the night and this wing of the hospital is practically empty. Even so, I’m fairly certain there’s no way I could outrun her. Especially given the state of my body after falling from the second-story balcony.
