He shakes his head. “No chance I’m leaving you here. I’ll call the police. Let them deal with her.”
“The police?” I whisper-scream. We both know we won’t convince the police to do a thing, and if we do, they’ll get there too late. “Rafael. We can’t let her die.”
He hesitates, watching me, then the phone. I know he’s worried about me, but I also know he’s a much better person than people give him credit for. “Promise, no matter what happens next, you’ll go home.”
I hesitate, but seeing his expression, I know there’s no point in arguing.
“Promise. You’ll walk straight home, and you won’t move until I’m back.”
Oh God. He’s being dramatic, isn’t he? But I know he won’t agree any other way, so I say, “Fine. Go.”
He groans and then, after stealing a kiss, turns around and walks away, rushing down the stairs.
“Vanessa? Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” she whines.
“You said you love me, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you love Paige?”
“I really do, Scarlett. So much.”
“Then please, don’t hurt us any more than you already have. Step away from the tracks, and we’ll talk.” I hold the phone closer, as ifthat’s going to help. “I know that you’re not a bad person. That this whole thing just…” How do I justify a year of lies and stalking crowned with multiple murder? “That it just got away from you.”
“It did,” she insists.
“So we’ll deal with it together. I’m your friend, Vanessa. I care about you, and Paige does, too.”
For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence.
Maybe it’s a good sign. Maybe I’ve convinced her.
I wait, and it feels like my heart does, too, the beats slowing down as if they’re waiting for her answer. Then there’s the horn again. Louder. Closer.
“Goodbye, Scarlett.”
the emotional fallout[trope]
the inevitable, soul-crushing moment after the case is closed when the detective (or amateur sleuth, who really should be in therapy) stares into the middle distance, questioning their life choices; symptoms include insomnia, excessive whiskey consumption, and monologuing about the darkness of human nature
“Still no word from Rafael?” Paige asks, burrowing farther into the couch as her spoon scrapes against the bottom of the bowl she’s holding.
Immediately, I set the phone down and meet her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from hours of crying. The skin beneath is dark and smudged, and tear tracks still cling to her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m just…”
“You’re worried, I get it.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Does it make me a horrible person if I say I hope she jumped in front of the train?”
“No, because you don’t mean it.”
“Don’t I?”
I shake my head. Of course she doesn’t want Vanessa to be hurt or, worse, dead. She’s just rightfully heartbroken. Traumatized, angry, confused. Hell, who wouldn’t be? I’ve seen Paige pour out love for years, barely getting any back. And now, with Vanessa, it really felt like she’d found something good. Something that would withstand the test of time.
But she’s a stalker. A liar, and a sick individual. A murderer, too… right?
Right, I tell myself, brushing the thought away.
