The sheriff didn’t hesitate.
The taser crackled — a sharp, electric pop — and Vivian dropped like a stone, convulsing on the marble with a strangled shriek.
Lucia winced and crossed herself.
“Madonna mia.”
Henry’s lips twitched.
“Effective.”
Ben’s arm slid around my waist, steady and warm. I leaned into him as the deputies cuffed a twitching, cursing Vivian and hauled her to her feet.
“You’ll never prove anything!” she screamed, mascara streaking down her cheeks as they dragged her toward the door. “I’ll be out by morning! You hear me? This isn’t over!”
The sheriff tipped his hat to us.
“We’ll be in touch for formal statements. Y’all have a good night now.”
We watched from the porch — Ben, me, Henry, Lucia — as the cruiser lights painted the gravel drive red and blue. Vivian’s muffled shrieks faded as the car pulled away, tires crunching toward the gate.
The night settled back into quiet, cold and crisp, the house lights glowing soft behind us.
I exhaled, slow and steady, and murmured to the retreating taillights, “Checkmate, bitch.”
Chapter
Forty-Two
CHRISSY
January 5
The fluorescent lightsin Bayview Hospice always felt too bright, like they were trying to compensate for something dimmer in the rooms. Granny Irene’s door was cracked open, and when I pushed it wider, she looked up from her bed with that sudden, brilliant smile that still caught me off guard on good days.
“There’s my girl,” she said, voice thin but clear, reaching out both hands. “Come here, Chrissy-girl. Let me see you.”
My throat tightened instantly. I crossed the room fast, careful not to jostle the IV line taped to the back of her hand, and bent to hug her. She smelled like the same powdery lotion she’d used my whole life, faint under the antiseptic.
Ben followed quieter, carrying the little white bakery box tied with red string. He’d worn the soft gray hoodie today — hood down, scars on full display — because Granny always scolded him if he tried to hide. She reached past me and patted his cheek with surprising strength.
“And there’s my handsome boy. Don’t think I didn’t notice you lurking in the doorway, Ben.”
Ben’s mouth curved, the way it only ever did for her.
“Afternoon, Irene.”
We settled in. I pulled the rolling tray over so she could pick at the lemon cookies while I painted her nails the soft pink she loved. Ben took the corner chair, newspaper folded on his lap like camouflage, but Granny kept dragging him into the conversation, asking about the roses she insisted we should plant in the spring, teasing him about letting the jasmine overrun the solarium, demanding to know if Lucia had taught him to make a proper red gravy yet.
For almost two hours it was perfect. She was sharp, funny, present. She hummed while I worked on her nails, off-key but stubborn, like she was daring the disease to steal that too. She made Ben promise — again — to plant the thorny roses in the solarium come spring.
“The ones that bite back,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Like you.”
Then, mid-sentence, the light behind her eyes flickered.
She was telling me about the summer I turned seven, how I’d tried to rescue every frog from the drainage ditch behind her house, when she stopped. Blinked. Frowned at my face like she was trying to place me.
“Now… who did you say you were again, honey?”
