“You’re wrong!” I shout as he takes another step and another and another.
“I don’t think I am,” he says calmly. Martin is nearly at the top of the stairs when Belinda appears dressed and brandishing a letter opener that I had on my dressing table. Kat is right beside her. I shouldn’t have shouted at Martin to stop. God, I shouldn’t have.I awakened Kat and she should not be seeing this or hearing this. But I can’t think about that now. Between the three of us and the door to freedom is Martin.
The sight of Belinda, however, is enough to cause him to freeze in his ascent.
I expect him to be taken aback in shocked surprise at seeing Belinda standing there, but he merely cocks his head.
“I thought I might find you here,” he says to Belinda. “I was in San Rafaela yesterday. Your dear friend Elliot told me you asked for a ride to the train station so that you could go to San Francisco. He said you were looking for me, that you found an address in my coat pocket and that you were worried about me.”
It is as he is on the last stair, just inches from me, that I see his coat and shoes are mud spattered and his hair is mussed. He’s been traveling by foot to get back here. I can’t puzzle out why. Belinda raises the arm that holds the letter opener.
“You!” she says, her voice trembling at the same speed as her shaking hand. “How could you do what you did to me? What you did to yourdaughter? How could you tell your little girl her mother was dead?”
Martin stares at Belinda for a moment, as if her questions are too trivial to answer.
“It was easier,” he says finally.
“Easier?” Belinda echoes desolately.
“It is easier to remove obstacles that complicate my endeavors than to tolerate them,” he says calmly, evenly. But his eyes narrow a bit, and I can see that right now, in this very moment, Belinda and I are obstacles. I can see, so very clearly, that, yes, he did do something to cause Annabeth to be thrown from her horse, and, yes, he would easily find a way to dispatch Belinda if he no longerneeded her, and, yes, he would do the same to me. I mean nothing to him. Neither of us does. Would he harm Kat, though? His own flesh and blood? More than he already has?
As if reading my mind, he tells Kat to come to him.
“Stay where you are, Kat,” I say.
“Kat,” Martin says coolly, motioning downstairs with his head. “Go into the kitchen and shut the door.”
I move to block her from his view. “Kat stays where she is. Go, Martin. Go now.”
Martin’s mesmerizing eyes turn dark with purpose. I don’t think he will harm Kat. He needs her for some reason. It’s why he didn’t leave her in Los Angeles. But Kat’s presence on the landing is what is keeping Belinda and me from harm in this moment. My mind races for a way out, but I am not quick enough to envision one.
In one swift movement, Martin takes the last step to the landing and lunges for Belinda and the letter opener in her hand.
The next moment is a cannonball of shouting, of screaming, and of hands and arms outstretched. We are, all of us, reaching out in all directions for different reasons, and I am stunned for a second by the overwhelming remembrance of a moment very much like this one, when arms had been extended, and hands and fingers had been stretched open like sea stars. I am suddenly back in Donaghadee and time seems to stand still for a second. I hear a whack-whack-whacking sound, but at the same time, I smell the tang of sea air and I feel the cold mist of evening fog.
And then in the next moment, I am back on the landing with Belinda and Kat beside me, and our arms and hands are back at our sides. The three of us are staring at Martin lying at the bottom of the staircase.
There is silence where there had been a rush of noise only seconds earlier. Martin is not moving. A knee is bent at an awkward angle, and blood smears a marble stair where his head smacked it on his tumble down.
Belinda is the first to speak. The letter opener is still tight in her hand.
“Is he... is he all right?” she whispers, dread thick in her voice.
For a second I cannot answer. Kat is standing next to me, looking down at her father’s crumpled form.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I say quickly, turning to face Belinda. “He just took a nasty spill because he wasn’t being very nice. You take Kat into her room and I’ll go down and help him on his way.”
“What?” Belinda says, as if I am mad.
I fix my gaze on her. “I said, I’ll go down and help him on his way. I’m sure he is fine. He just got knocked out when he fell. That’s all.”
Belinda stares at me, slowly comprehending what I am, without words, trying to tell her.
“Take Kat into her room and see that she is dressed,” I say, injecting my voice with an ease I do not feel. “We’re still leaving. Just like we said.” Then I bend to Kat’s height and turn her toward me. She stares at me, glassy-eyed. “It’s his own fault that he fell. Do you understand? He fell down the stairs because he was angry and he wasn’t watching what he was doing. But he’s been mean to us and we don’t want to see him right now. We want to go see your mama and we want him to leave. So I am going to help him on his way. All right?”
Kat just stares at me.
“All right, Kat?” I say, in the most authoritative tone I can muster that still rings gentle.
