by Stacy Green
“I told you I got it under control.” He cocked his hip, and his face twisted into a boyish, arrogant grin that turned Erin’s stomach.
“That was you at the CID the other day,” she said. “After I asked Sarah about being molested, she changed. I thought Sarah had just reverted to a self-defense mechanism, but you took over to protect her, didn’t you?”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Charlie rolled his eyes. “And I am the self-defense mechanism. That’s my job.” He tapped his chest with his fist.
Erin held up her hands and tried to believe she really faced an angry teenage boy. “Dude, okay. But you’ve got blood all over you. Are you hurt?”
“Not me.” He noticed the nightgown and made a face. “She keeps fucking everything up. We just want to live our lives.”
“Jane?”
Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about Jane?”
“She’s signing her name at the crime scene,” Erin said. “She’s doing some bad shit, Charlie.”
“I know!” The voice cracked again.
Ridiculously, Erin pictured Brad at that age. Every week, he seemed taller and his voice different. Erin got stuck with the acne, and Brad had taken her to a makeup artist to learn how to cover it up without caking the concealer on.
“We had her under control for a long time, and then Sarah went looking for Bonnie. Brought all that shit back up again.”
Erin didn’t know a lot about multiple personalities, but its proponents believed horrific childhood sexual abuse to be the root cause. A child’s fragile mind split into various parts to cope with the abuse. “At least Ted Moore is dead.”
Charlie’s cheeks flamed. “How did you know about him?”
“I figured it out.” Erin lowered her voice, trying to sound friendly. No big deal. Two friends talking. “Did Jane kill him too?”
“Bonnie thought money would hurt him more.”
“Bonnie knew about Jane and you and Mina?” Erin hoped no more people lived in Sarah’s head.
“She didn’t believe we were real.” Charlie gazed at the knife handle. “When Sarah first told Bonnie, she still had control. That’s what therapy was about—integrating us. We all worked together. Sarah didn’t have blackouts. Most of the time, we stayed quiet. And then Bonnie happened. And she didn’t believe us!”
“That made you all mad?”
Charlie watched the blood dripping off the knife. “It made Sarah mad—and Jane, but Jane’s always mad. Jane started being louder, and Sarah couldn’t stay in one piece. I tried to speak up, but no one listens to me. Mina’s the only one I can help.”
The protector. Charlie cared about Sarah and Mina. Maybe Erin could use that to her advantage. “So what happened?”
“Sarah decided to prove it to Bonnie. She let Jane come out, and Bonnie recorded it on her stupid computer. She freaked out, but I don’t think she believed it. But then everything went wrong. Jane kept coming out more and more. Sarah broke down. Me and Mina tried to hide.” Charlie suddenly glared at the knife. “Fuck!” The voice cracked again, going from a burgeoning baritone to a high tenor.
The sun continued to creep up in the east. Neighbors had to be starting their day. One of them would look outside and call the police.
Beckett would be here any minute.
Erin edged back a step. How far had she thrown the gun? “So why did she kill Bonnie?”
Charlie’s heels rocked back, legs taut as if prepared to charge. “Sarah told Bonnie she was thinking about going back to therapy. Sarah knew Jane had taken over more and more, because she lost big chunks of time. And then she caught that Arab raping Bonnie. Except Bonnie liked it! She wanted him to do it! And then she told Bonnie about Simon, about what she saw him do ...”
“What did Bonnie see Simon do?” At least Erin had been right about the trigger to Bonnie’s murder. The rest of the stuff she had yet to truly process.
“I tried to keep Mina from seeing it. But Sarah walked in and heard Bonnie screaming from upstairs.” Charlie’s head whipped back and forth, his free hand smacking against his temple. “We thought she was dying. That fucking Arab had her pinned down and did it to her from behind. She bled, too. We screamed at him to stop hurting her, but Bonnie said she needed him to do it. What the hell?”
“Bonnie was all kinds of messed up,” Erin said. “Because of what happened to her and Sarah when they were kids. Sarah split apart, and she had you to help her. Bonnie didn’t have anyone. What did Simon do? Did he abuse the girls too?”
Charlie’s head dropped, and his shoulders shook. But Erin quickly recognized the laughter. She took another step back, edging closer to the gun. Sarah’s head shot up. Charlie had vanished, and in his place, a feral cat appeared, her contrasting eyes gleaming with hate.
She pointed the dripping knife at Erin and spoke in a raw voice. “You shouldn’t have come.”
The British accent sent chills down Erin’s spine. “Hello, Jane.”
A smile as taunting as the knife she wielded sliced through the air. “Erin Prince. I’m so glad to get the chance to meet you.”
“You’re quite a difficult person to track down.”
“That’s how I like it.”
“I love your accent. It’s British, right?”
Another chilling smile. “Right.”
“So,” Erin’s trembling voice betrayed her fear. “Are you going to tell me what Simon did?”
Jane’s lips twisted until her delicate looking face seemed savage. “He’s a hypocritical bastard. He let a child rapist go free, even though he knew his own daughter had been a victim.”
“He wanted to protect his reputation.” Erin tried to slow her breathing, preserve her energy.
“And his hobby,” Jane snapped. “Daddy dearest always played dress up with Sarah and Bonnie when they were little. No big deal—good fathers do that sort of thing, right?”
Mouth tasting like she’d eaten wet sand, Erin nodded.
“But I guess he liked it. Because he kept doing it after Sarah grew up. And then he started going out and pretending to be a woman. Mister high and mighty morals was a cross-dresser who liked to go to strip clubs.”
Nervous sweat stung Erin’s eyes. “That’s why Bonnie got so upset with Tori when she gave him a lap dance. She recognized her uncle.”
“Aren’t you clever?” Jane’s accent dripped with sarcasm. “Bonnie didn’t tell Sarah at first. Not until we realized Bonnie was a whore who needed to be punished. Then she told us about Simon, like that would somehow make me not want to tear out her guts!” Jane held up the knife, watching as the blood dripped onto the wet grass. “I made Simon put on his favorite dress before I killed him.”
Fear made Erin’s throat swell nearly shut. She had to keep talking. “Are you Jack the Ripper?”
Jane threw back her head and laughed. “You dumb bitch. You think I’m reincarnated or I time travelled?” She held up the book. “Abberline was right about the Ripper. Let me tell you my favorite passage. I know it by heart.” Jane tilted her head back, the words coming out as melodic as a lullaby.
“‘A child saw me this morning on my way to the post and hid in the safety of her mother’s skirts. Lesions eat the flesh on my face now. My limbs work slower. Soon I will no longer be able to wield the blade. But a wasp has asked for my assistance in ridding her putrid body of the child she created in sin. She may be my last. I will make her my greatest.
—9 November 1888’”
“What is that book?” Erin asked, hoping to buy time.
“My ancestor’s diary,” Jane said. “Two greats down the line. A midwife. A noble woman trying to rid the world of the filth around her. Lost to history—until now.” She examined the knife, delicately tracing the blade with her finger and pressing her lips to the blood-covered skin. “I can’t believe you’re so surprised. Women kill all the time.”
Erin’s knees knocked together. She had no idea if Jane told the truth about the book or made up her own history. Both options
made her bladder weak. “So you decided to emulate her?”
Jane shrugged. “I took her name because she’s a hero. And Bonnie deserved to pay.” Her face twisted, her focus still on the knife. “The things she did ...”
“What about Virginia Walton?” Erin prayed she could continue to buy time.
Jane sneered. “She called Sarah after the murder. She said Bonnie told her about us, but the professor didn’t believe it. She didn’t want to go to the police without talking to Sarah first.” She held the knife up again, gazing at it as though she’d found a talisman. “I had to take care of her. But I couldn’t take all the credit. The real Jane inspired me.”
“The letters were a nice touch.” Erin tasted blood and tried not to allow her fear to overwhelm her. “If I hadn’t remembered Sarah’s initials, I wouldn’t have suspected her. Did she call the police when she realized what you did to Virginia?”
“Charlie’s dumb ass did that,” Jane’s mouth curled up. “Always meddling.” The glare of the security lights made her eyes black as a demon’s. “And Sarah is weak. She’s always been weak. I’m strong, and I take my strength from the heroine who scared the hell out of London in 1888. Gutting all those whores with such skill. No fear of anything. That’s the way I want to live.”
Erin didn’t dare take her eyes off Jane. She visualized the yard behind her. The gun had to be close. “I think we’d all like to be able to live that way. Most of us don’t have the guts to try.”
“I’m not a fool,” Jane’s accent thickened, the menace still coloring her tone. “There are things I would have done differently.”
“You killed Yari Malek. Where’s Aleta Gilani?” The alcohol she’d consumed earlier might come up, but she had to act. “Nice of you to make sure you got both Bonnie’s and Virginia’s blood on his clothes.”
“Wasn’t it? I stole the same shirt he wore the night I caught him fucking Bonnie.” Jane spit out the words, her pretty face twisted into pure evil. “That little Arab bitch got away. I’ll find her.” Jane’s head was down, her eyes on the bloody knife, her hand white from her tight grip. “Ted Moore didn’t. He came first. When I realized he was back in town, I had to act. He was alive when I cut off his dick and stuffed it into his mouth.”
Erin gathered all her courage and took a quick step back.
Jane’s gaze flashed up, a predator suddenly aware its prey was trying to escape. She slashed the bleeding knife upward, her long legs closing the distance between them before Erin could do anything more than raise her arms as a shield.
She screamed as the blade sliced through the tender flesh on the backside of her forearm.
Jane’s fist slammed into Erin’s stomach. She staggered back, feeling her insides knot into one painful mass. Jane screamed a war cry, raising the knife again. Erin dropped to her knees, the concrete tearing her jeans and her skin, and rolled for her gun. Her fingers raked through the muddy grass for the weapon, her knees and feet slipping in the struggle. Blood from her arm streaked over the dead lawn.
“Bitch!” Jane jammed the knife into Erin’s calf.
She bit her tongue as the pain shot through her leg, every nerve ending on fire. But she kept digging forward.
Jane yanked the knife out, the burning sensation far worse than the attack. And then a strong foot slammed into the back of Erin’s knee, snapping the joint in the wrong direction. Pain worse than childbirth tore through Erin, and she screamed into the wet earth, tasting the days of rain and lawn chemicals. Jane kept pressure on her knee, but Erin squirmed like a fish tossed out of water until she got her hand beneath her and inside her jacket. The gun was still too far away.
Erin’s fingers closed around the Taser. She sucked in raw gasps of air, nauseated from the pain and the chemical taste on her tongue. Jane’s athletic legs and youth kept Erin pinned. Jane liked to see her victims suffer. She would want to see Erin’s face when she died. Going silent and forcing Jane to turn her over was her only chance. She forced her body to go limp.
A hand clawed at her shoulders. Erin allowed Jane to flip her over onto her back. She blinked against the bright yard lights, staring up at the twisted, bloody visage of the devil.
Her nightgown more bloody red than white, Sarah as Jane planted her feet on either side of Erin’s hips. She spit on Erin’s cheek.
A siren wailed. Nearby, maybe down the street, tires squealed. Erin blocked out the pain and made a final appeal. “Jane, let me talk to Sarah. We can help all of you to heal.”
Jane laughed again, a hoarse, nightmarish sound certain to haunt Erin’s dreams.
“You can’t heal a broken mind, Investigator.” She kicked Erin hard in the stomach and then squatted over her as though about to take a piss. “I heard about your brother. Such a tragedy for your family.” She grazed the knife down Erin’s cheek, leaving a trail of Erin’s own blood, and then down to her neck where her life force raced. “At least you’ll get to join him a lot sooner than you expected.”
Jane adjusted her grip on the knife, the blue eye cold as glacier ice and the brown gleaming like a cat ready to pounce.
“Stop!” Beckett shouted from somewhere behind them.
Jane’s angry eyes shot up, and Erin pulled the Taser out of her coat and shot it straight into the girl’s chest.
Jane wiggled like a beached seal. The knife fell. Erin grabbed it and threw it as hard as she could. She managed to roll onto her side as the other woman fell face first into the grass, her lean body still flopping.
Erin tried to get to her feet, but her injured leg didn’t have the strength. Beckett’s cold hands closed around her wrist, and he hauled her up.
His voice trembling, Fowler recited the Miranda rights as he cuffed a now still Sarah.
Erin dug her fingers into Beckett’s shoulder in an effort to stand on her own.
“Ouch,” he said.
“Don’t tell me about ouch!” She shot back. “That crazy woman stabbed me twice.”
Beckett leaned down to look at her leg.
Her soaked jeans and the hot pain told Erin the wound cut deep.
“The paramedics are on their way, but you need to sit down so we can wrap that thing. You don’t mess around with leg wounds.”
She didn’t argue, allowing him to help her over to the driveway. He took off his sweatshirt and used the arms to tie off her leg. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“I intended to, but Mina called me.”
Beckett’s head swiveled from side to side. “Where is she?”
Erin stared at the young woman sitting up in the grass. Covered in blood, Sarah cried in pain, completely in a daze. Then, they locked eyes.
“Investigator Prince?” Sarah’s normal voice broke through her sobs. “What’s happened to me?”
Numb and cold to her core, Erin turned back to Beckett. “Right there, Todd. She’s right there.”
“You’re not serious.” Beckett’s legs jumped like he wanted to come out of his chair.
Erin sat beside him in the U.S. Attorney’s office, but she stayed quiet. John Marsh, the U.S. Attorney assigned to Sarah Archer’s case, liked to have the spotlight, and he didn’t appreciate being questioned. Beckett would learn in time.
Marsh folded his hands over his immaculate cherry desk. His thick black hair was slicked back with a product that made him look more stylish than smarmy. In his mid-forties, the guy had a face for the cameras and the personality of a fetid asshole. He also had a reputation for never prosecuting a case he couldn’t win.
“Investigator Beckett.” Marsh spoke in a disinterested tone. “In the last six weeks, two different psychiatrists from leading mental health programs—including a psychiatrist from Johns Hopkins who’s been extremely vocal about the legitimacy of DID over the last decade—have interviewed Sarah Archer and her various personalities.”
DID—dissociative identity disorder—was the updated terminology for multiple personality disorder. The semantics didn’t matter to Erin. She witnessed multiple perso
nas sharing a body. Most nights she relived it time and time again in her nightmares.
“And this psychiatrist agrees that Sarah Archer is very likely the real deal.” Marsh finished with the same firm tone he used at the end of his closing arguments.
Erin rolled her eyes and resisted the urge to remind him there were no cameras in the room. “Each personality is strikingly different, right down to body language, accent, and inflection. Sarah’s original psychiatrist who diagnosed her with DID provided recordings of their early sessions. Every personality acted the same as they do now, down to the smallest details. If Sarah faked all of this, she would have slipped up somewhere.”
Beckett rocked back in his chair. “You do realize this diagnosis is so overused by defense attorneys it’s cliché?”
Marsh’s face reddened, and a thick strand of his carefully styled hair cowlicked to his glistening forehead. “I have some experience in the courtroom, Beckett. But I have to make my decision based on the evidence presented and the diagnosis of people a lot smarter than I am.”
“And they’re absolutely certain she didn’t fake the entire thing?”
Marsh took off his designer glasses and made a show of cleaning them with a green cloth from his top desk drawer. “Nothing is certain in this world, Beckett. What I can tell you is after listening to the experts and watching the video recovered from Yari Malek’s safe deposit box, Sarah is a very sick girl. She believes she has multiple personalities, and there’s nothing to indicate she had any awareness of what went on—including the moment she sliced her father’s throat.”
Bonnie must have realized the danger from her cousin. A few days before her death, she mailed Yari Malek a flash drive containing the video of Sarah’s personalities. He’d put the drive in a safe deposit box and kept his mouth shut. For the past six weeks, Beckett and Erin had kept an eye on the unidentified females coming into the morgue, but so far, it appeared Jane had been telling the truth. Malek likely sent Aleta away to safety—but she hadn’t been sure she could trust him, so she’d provided Erin and Beckett with her side of the story before slipping away with her family. The FBI believed Aleta’s uncle to be one of the top men in the D.C. mob. Erin wished them luck proving it.
