Ali’s eyes filled with hot, thick tears as she realized what he was saying. Sarah never wanted to die. That choice was taken away from her.
“I didn’t come here planning to kill her, you know. Okay, maybe I brought a rope and a shovel in case she refused to leave with me, but the suicide bit, that was just ingenious timing.” He lifted the cuffs of his jeans as he squatted by her, tilting her face upward. “And I hadn’t planned to kill you—until I saw him buy that ring.”
“Why?” Ali cried. “Why murder? Why not get revenge some other way?”
“Well, I guess it started with Sarah. She killed my baby,” he explained casually. “I killed her. It was an eye for an eye. But I liked it. And I think I’m going to like killing you too.”
Ali bowed her head and cried for a moment. Her heart broke for that poor girl, for what she must have gone through in those last moments, wishing Sam was here to save her but knowing he’d be gone all day; knowing how he’d feel to come home and see that she was dead—that her farewell note had now become a final, eternal good-bye. The last words she would ever leave him.
“Sam will be gone all night—looking for a boy that doesn't even exist.” Grant smiled to himself. “Only, there may come a point in the night when he realizes that, but when he puts it all together, it’ll be too late.” He glanced back as the smoke smothered the flames in the fire behind him and snaked out, stinging both of their eyes. “In a moment, you're going to write a letter. And in that letter you’ll give him the reasons you can't live anymore. And if you don’t, I’m going to strip you naked and have fun with you before you die.”
“If you touch me, I’ll kill you—”
Grant laughed over the top of the warning. “You're tied up, babe. You can't do anything to help yourself.”
When Grant stood and walked away, Ali dropped onto her side and tried to get her arms free, kicking off her slippers to give her feet more grip. Her elbows were stuck tight to her sides though and the ropes were cutting. “You can’t get away with this, Grant. They'll know it wasn't a suicide.”
“How, exactly?” He looked up from the bookshelf where he stood, bringing a piece of paper and pen over to her.
“The ropes. They’ve grazed my arms. They'll know. It’s a sign of a struggle.”
Grant laughed. “I doubt that.”
“They will, and then all this pain you want to cause Sam over my suicide, it won’t work, because he’ll know I was murdered.”
“Then you had better make your letter convincing.” Grant shoved the paper toward her, squatting down to uncoil the long rope from her body, leaving the noose firmly around her neck. Ali immediately reached up to free herself but Grant grabbed her left arm and twisted it up painfully behind her. “Write your letter.”
“No.”
He twisted it a little more, slipping his hand up her nightdress, his body pressing firmly against her back. “Write it!”
Ali couldn’t. She knew that as soon as she put pen to paper he would throw her over that rail. He’d measured just enough rope that her feet wouldn't touch the ground; tied it in just the right spot that her toes and hands wouldn't be able to grasp the spiraling rail as she went down.
When she refused to obey, he slid his finger into a sacred place and she cried out, tears wetting her chin and the rope around her neck. “Write it. Now,” he demanded, spitting in her ear as he growled.
She gave in and cried out a breathy, “Okay.”
As Grant released her and slipped his finger out from inside her, she fell forward onto her hands, her entire arm burning where he’d bent it. Her wrist shook trying to support her weight. She picked up the pen, bringing the tip to the paper, while Grant stood over her, licking his finger.
Ali shuddered, unable to see the paper through tears. “I don’t have my glasses,” she tried. “I can’t write without them.”
“Write it. Now.”
Sobbing, she put the stroke of ink to her death note, writing only “I’m sorry. I love you,” then she slid the letter over to him. “There.”
“Lovely. Cold. I like it,” he said, picking it up and tossing it over the edge so it landed by the last step, right where her feet would hang in a few moments.
Ali wanted to run away, fight, but with a rope tightly around her neck, it would only take one wrong move and she would drop to her death. But she was a writer, and she had learned from an early age that the pen is mightier than the sword.
In one quick move, she scrambled to her feet and jammed the pen into Grant’s neck, forcing it in hard as he screamed. Loudly. Hopefully loud enough for a neighbor to hear.
Grant stumbled into the bookshelf, losing his balance as he drew the pen from his neck and pressed firmly on the wound to stop the bleeding.
Ali stood with her feet apart to give her lungs more power and drew in a mighty breath, sending it back out again as a raw, shrill roar. “Help me!” she yelled, the sound vibrating around the tiny room. “Help!”
A bloody hand came down across her mouth, the salty, metal taste making her gag. Her eyes went to his neck: not damaged enough that he’d die. Not even enough that she could escape in his cloud of agony. Just enough to make him furious.
“DNA,” she tried to say, struggling against his palm. “DNA.” She got her mouth free enough to mutter it out in the hopes that it might send him away. “If you leave now, take this rope off my neck, I won’t report you. But if you do this, they have your DNA.”
Grant looked at the blood on his hand and on the rope, on her skin. Ali thought she saw him falter, plan his escape, but his eyes hardened. “Then I’ll set fire to the house before I leave.”
“And ruin the shock? How’s Sam supposed to find me dangling if the house is burned down?”
“Enough!” he yelled, picking her up. She kicked and screamed and shoved at his chest, fighting to get herself onto the ground before they reached the rail. But it was futile. His grip on her was like a vise, so she fought the rope instead, wedging her fingers under the knot at the side.
Just as Ali thought she’d loosened the noose enough, Grant dropped her hard to the ground and his fist came down like a rock into her stomach. She coughed out her shock, thoughts flying immediately to the fragile life growing inside her right now, and the words “Sam’s twenty percent” circled around her. She couldn't breathe, couldn't get up, just folded around her stomach like a pathetic waste of space while Grant tightened the rope all the way, forcing her tongue forward.
“Give my regards to Sarah,” he said, picking Ali up again. She screamed, feeling all hope slip away from her like air through her fingers. Her hands fastened around his neck but he was too quick; her grip was loose and her hands broke apart as he tossed her over the edge. As if life slowed down into suspended animation, she heard her lungs draw air in a panicked breath and saw her hands fly out, trying to latch on to him. She had time only to bend her elbow and twist her wrist around the rope a few times before she went down.
A strong jolt winded her as she landed. It took a moment to realize she’d grasped the banister as she swung around and hit the sides with her hips, screaming loudly and stopping the fall. Her toes pointed and she frantically felt around for something to ground her, but the lower railing was too far away.
In her distraction, she didn't see Grant make his escape, but he was halfway down the stairs by the time he realized she wasn't hanging by the neck. He stomped back up, the irritation growing under his anger, and stopped where her toes hung just an inch away from the ledge.
Ali’s grip was like iron as he tugged her downward, superhuman as she fought not just for herself but for the life of her child.
“Will you just die already!”
“No.” She kicked him in the nose, but he held as tightly to her as she did to the rail, the rope cutting off all circulation to her arm where she twisted it up as she went down. “No!”
Grant took one giant leap and left the stairs, using the entire weight of his body to drag her down.
Her grip broke, all sound washing out of the room as her hands desperately reached out for something else to grab. She couldn't scream or call for Sam; the force and the shock left her with nothing but a grunt as she went down and a yelp as the twisted rope caught on her arm up and yanked it so hard there was a loud pop, and then no pain at all.
The noose tightened around her neck as she dangled at an odd angle, her mangled arm catching most of her weight, but not enough to save her life. In the back of her throat, her tongue felt fat and she couldn't get a scream out, couldn't call for help, could only hum out a high-pitched noise, hoping it would be enough.
As smoke filled the room, Ali glanced up, certain she saw a woman’s face looking at her over the banister. The oxygen left her slowly, draining out like air through a tiny hole in a balloon, so she only half noticed Grant taking the stairs back to the top floor. She didn't see his haunted white face. She didn't see the horror in his eyes as he saw the impossible right there before him. Ali only faintly heard his scream, closing her eyes as an amber glow bloomed brightly against the world above her.
All she felt then were hands on her legs, pushing her up. She expected them to be cold, she expected them to be weak and maybe ethereal, but they were strong and solid and too late. His voice echoed in her darkness as death sucked her down, asking her to help him. Help me, he screamed. Help me . . . help me . . .
With a snap and a sudden release of pressure, her entire body floated down to the ground and her first giant breath was filled with smoke, making her cough. Above, climbing the walls and licking the roof, hot flames ate the ancient wood like hungry termites. Ali saw it for a moment before she blinked and came out under the dark clear sky.
“Please be okay,” the voice said, grass cradling her cold body, fingers parting her lips and angling her head back. “Please be okay.”
“Sam?” she muttered, unsure if she actually spoke. She needed to tell him that she didn't try to kill herself. She needed to tell him that Sarah hadn't done it either. She wanted to tell him that Grant had been there, but she closed her eyes instead, and it never came out.
~21~
Nothing Left to Lose
Sam shuffled through the ruins in heavy boots, crushing what was left of his home with every step, or shifting it away in ashy piles. Ahead of him, volunteers dug through the rubble to find anything salvageable, but so far they’d had no luck. Every heirloom, all his paintings, his computer, Ali’s novels, and everything tangible that ever mattered to him went up in flames last week.
The town was still reeling from the shock, expressing their sorrow and regret with casseroles and cakes. But no amount of beef and potatoes could erase what Grant had done.
Sam stood with his hands on his hips, watching the crows land on the skeletons of his home and caw loudly, as if to torment him further or demand he go away. The charcoal rubble seemed to seep a mucky black liquid onto the crisp white snow bed it lay on, the memories of his past, of his great-grandfather’s past, bleeding away to be forgotten.
“Sam.” Marv slapped him on the back and stopped beside him. “I, uh . . . not sure if you want this, but the guys just found it out front there.”
Sam glanced back to where Marv pointed and then looked down at the small long box in his hands, complete with a bright blue ribbon. Not a smudge of smoke or soot on it, other than what came from Marv’s hands. “Where did you say this was?”
Marv pointed to the garden.
Sam frowned, clearly recalling Ali hiding it in her closet. He’d looked for it under the soot that might have been her bedroom, but had no luck.
“Birthday gift I take it?” Marv said.
“Yeah.” Sam wanted to cry, had to fight hard with himself not to.
“Ah, well happy birthday.”
“Uh, thanks. It was on Friday.”
Marv’s eyes widened and he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, not sure what to say. A burned house, complete with a corpse, was not Marv’s idea of a great birthday gift. “Well, looks like someone was making sure you got one good birthday present.” He slapped Sam on the back again and trudged away, certain anything else he said today was going to upset him.
Alone, checking over his shoulder to see if any volunteers were nearby, Sam pinched the blue bow between his fingertips, unsure if this is what Ali would want him to do. He could hear a voice in his head calling out to stop, but he’d listened to that voice once before and it was wrong. This is one thing he would not leave unopened for fifteen years.
He pulled the bow and released the lid, confused for a moment by what he saw. And then he thought about it: he thought about how many times he’d found her staring out a window with a thoughtful expression on her face; he thought about the stomach flu she’d had a few weeks ago that lasted too long; he thought about the grand idea she had to eat pickles with ice cream, and his hand came up to his mouth. Tears blurred the small plus sign on the test and his knees buckled, forcing him down to the ground.
Marv caught sight of it from across the wreckage and ran to his side. He took one look in the box and sighed, coming down to kneel beside Sam among the ruins of his unfairly tragic life.
“Pregnant?” Marv said.
Sam nodded, resting a hand on the ground to hold himself up. “She never told me.”
“My guess is she wanted it to be surprise.”
Sam nodded, pressing his fist to his mouth.
“You want me to take you down there—”
“No.” Sam got to his feet, dusting off his knees. “I need more time, I think.”
“Hey,” Marv said, waiting until Sam met his eyes. “It’s only been a week. She’ll come out of it soon.”
Sam nodded, but he didn’t believe for a second that his Ali would ever wake up, and he wasn’t sure a fetus could have survived what happened to her.
***
“That’s a good girl, Ali,” said a woman’s voice soothingly. “Come on now, sweet pea, that’s it. Wake up.”
Ali didn't want to. She was more tired than she had ever been in her life and she hated school. Her head moved in an insistent “no” but they kept coaxing her. “No,” she said groggily in a voice that wasn’t her own. Her eyes flew open then and two hands pressed her chest as she flung herself forward, fighting for air and freedom.
“It’s all right, Ali.” Di appeared beside her, pressing both shoulders until she lay back. “You’re safe now, petal—”
“Where’s Sam?”
“He’s . . .” Di looked at the nurse and pulled a face that worried Ali. “He . . .”
“Di, where is he?” she said, about to cry, her throat sore and her voice weak.
“He can’t bring himself to see you like this, petal.”
“Where is he?”
“He went back to the house to see what could be salvaged.”
“Salvaged?” she cried, tears poised, waiting for the bad news.
“It burned down—all the way to the ground.” She cocked her head, pressing her mouth in a sympathetic line. “It’s all gone, petal. Your novel, your clothes, everything.”
Ali covered her face and sobbed into her hands, her left arm tight and sore all the way down while a strong pit of pressure prevented too much mobility. “What happened? I . . .”
“You don't remember?”
“I remember . . . oh god. I remember bits,” she said, bringing her face out from behind her hands. “I . . .” Then it clicked. “Grant.”
“Dead.” Di sat on the bed and the nurse moved away, checking the monitors Ali just realized she was strapped into. “Got caught in the fire—”
“He tried to kill me,” she wailed, her chest sinking and expanding too fast to get the words out.
“Shhh,” said the nurse. “You mustn't get yourself worked up—”
“But you believe me, don’t you? I—”
“Shhh. It’s all right, petal. We believe you—”
“You don’t. I can tell. You—”
“Sam had surve
illance in that room,” the nurse said. “He put it in after Sarah died—”
“To see the ghost, some say,” Di added.
“Mm-hm.” The nurse nodded. “It was wired to his computer which sent all the data files to his Cloud.”
“When this happened, Sam turned the tapes over to—”
“USB,” the nurse said.
“Huh?” Di looked over at her.
“Not tapes. A USB.”
“Whatever.” Di waved a hand. “Sam turned them over to Marv and when they saw what was on them . . . what happened to . . .” Her face paled a little, the shock still too real.
“Saw what?”
“Saw what he did to you, petal.” She covered her mouth, eyes brimming with tears. “You fought a good fight and we’re all so proud of you—the whole town.”
Ali’s face flushed with shame as she recalled the things Grant did to her to make her write that note. “The whole town has seen it?”
“Oh, no, petal. But people talk.”
“Did Sam see it?”
Di nodded apologetically.
“Oh my god.” Ali buried her face. “Poor Sam.”
“No, he’s more worried about you—”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“He . . .”
“He watched his mother die in a hospital,” the nurse said. “He said he couldn’t sit here and watch you die too.”
Ali frowned at this woman with her blonde hair and blue eyes, trying to place her with a name, but she couldn't. “Who are you?”
“Ginger Ross. I’ve known Sam for twenty years—”
“You mustn’t hold it against him, petal—his not being here,” Di cut in. “Sam’s just lost everything, you know. He was scared of losing you too.”
“No matter what we tried to say, he was convinced you weren’t waking up,” Ginger added. “Wouldn’t hear what the doctors said. Not even Mrs. Beaty. Stubborn as an ox, that man—when he gets his mind set to something.”
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