“The countdown has begun,” Winston announces.
23
Countdown?” Brynn says, looking around fearfully. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re dead by dawn unless I intervene,” he says. Sydney gasps, and my fear spikes. I’m not sure we can stop it by then. I touch my temple, picturing a ticking bomb.
Leandra grabs a steak knife off the table and holds it out in front of her, pointing it at Winston. Unlike the other times I’ve seen her commit murder, she doesn’t look confident. Instead, her hands are shaking terribly.
“What are you doing?” Winston snaps, dismissing her rage. “Put that down.” He turns back to us, showing no concern over Leandra’s threat. Then again, he’s never seen her kill anyone. How well does he really know Leandra?
“You were never going to set me free, Winston,” she says. “Were you?”
“I helped you get here,” he says. “I freed you from thatawful man, that awful school. What did you want from me? Immortality?”
She scoffs, leaving Brynn behind as she takes a step closer to him. “None of us are asking for that. We just want you to let us live. Leave us alone and let us live our lives!”
“You say that like you deserve it,” he replies bitterly. “Tell me, Leandra, what does an appliance deserve? Wouldn’t I just get a new model rather than endlessly fixing something so dated?”
“We’re not washing machines!” she says, and she swings out her knife once, swiping over his coat without cutting him. He jumps back, startled, his eyes narrowing on her. In a swift movement, he reaches out and wrenches the knife from her hand, snapping her wrist in the process. Leandra cries out, holding her forearm with her good hand. She backs toward the fireplace, and Brynn rushes over to stand in front of her, protecting her.
“You may not be a washing machine,” Winston says, looking at the knife before throwing it across the room, away from us. “But you are just a product, Leandra. You don’t dispute that, do you?”
“We’re alive!” she tells him. “You’ve said so yourself. We’re alive and we feel. We hurt.”
“But you’re not human!” he snaps. “And that’s what matters.”
“And what are humans?” she asks, tears streaming down her cheeks. Winston advances on her, and Brynn holds up her hands to keep him back. “What have you done other than destroy each other, destroy the planet?” Leandra shouts from behind Brynn’s shoulder. “These girls have tried to save you from yourselves, butI see now there was no point. You’re bent on destruction.”
Winston doesn’t seem moved by her words. In fact, the more Leandra talks, the more resolved I think he becomes. Resolved to end us.
And I’m sure of it now: Winston Weeks is going to kill us. The moment I think it, I feel Sydney tense, as if the same thought popped up in her head too.
Winston thinks that we serve no purpose to him, and therefore, no purpose to anyone.
He looks at us, his dark brows pulled together. He darts his eyes to each of us, and I think it may occur to him that he’s outnumbered, even with the remote to the kill switch.
Winston turns back to Leandra, a concerned crease in his forehead, and she grabs a poker from next to the fireplace. She passes Brynn, pointing it at Winston like she means to use it. She’s breathing heavily, her eyes wild.
“Now, let’s be rational,” Winston says. “There is still much that can be done. There’s no need to get hysterical.”
Annalise coughs out a laugh. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Winston swallows hard, taking another step toward Leandra, keeping his eyes on the poker in her good hand. Winston tilts his head.
“Darling,” he says softly, privately, to her. “Let’s talk about this.”
And there is a moment in Leandra’s expression that I don’t quite understand. It is a cross between rage and love, anger, destruction, misery. She is an inferno. With a loud scream,Leandra lunges forward and buries the sharp end of the poker in Winston’s gut. Winston gasps, and Leandra continues to press until it slides through him, all the way up to the handle in her hand. Winston sputters, blood dripping from his mouth. He slumps against Leandra, his eyes wide, his face twisted in pain. Rather than push him again, Leandra wraps her arm around Winston, as if they’re in an embrace. They were never lovers, but there was indeed some strange and twisted connection between them.
No one deserved to kill Winston more than Leandra Petrov.
Winston gasps in air, and by the wispy quality, it sounds like his lung has been punctured. He pulls back, staring at Leandra. She reaches up to place her palm on his cheek, and tears fall from her eyes. I’m surprised when Winston leans into her touch, as if he can’t miss out on her comfort, even now. Even after he planned to destroy her. Even after she destroyed him.
“These two,” Annalise mutters. “What a weird relationship.”
Brynn comes over to us and steps into Marcella’s arms, and we all watch the death of Winston Weeks. As usual, he makes it dramatic.
Winston stumbles, reaching for the fireplace mantel to break his fall as he lands on his knee. Leandra keeps one hand on the poker stabbed through him while her other caresses him, broken wrist and all—the duality of their relationship. Winston blinks slowly, dropping to the other knee. He’s fading, blood flowing easily from the wound.
