“Someone like you,” Freya says.
Paul yanks her head back, his finger twitching on the trigger.
“Don’t,” I say, moving closer.
“Stay back,” Paul says, turning the gun on me.
I raise my hands as I try to imagine what happened all those years ago, how Paul manipulated Reid—a twelve-year-old boy—into doing what he needed done. Who was at fault? The adult or the child? My mother told Hadley she feared Reid would own his choices; now Iquestion when they became his to own, and how else Paul used those choices to control my brother into adulthood.
“You said Reid helped you to the end,” I say. “Did he know about you and Freya?”
Paul laughs. “Who do you think took photos of Freya and me when we were out together? Especially during those years Reid attended NYU.”
“He gave you plausible deniability,” Freya said. “And I fell for it.”
“You told him to steal that nail polish from Freya’s apartment,” I say. “And what to write on her truck.”
“He made that decision on his own,” Paul says. “Reid was an idiot. He thought he could escape me.”
The stolen nail polish. The chase through the woods. The tiny dot of blue. I picture Reid standing in that stark, white bathroom watching the single drop of liquid splatter to the floor. “Reid brought the stalker to New Hampshire,” I say, testing out a theory. “He hoped an incident up here would narrow the list of suspects enough for you to be caught. Then he’d finally be free.”
“Not bad, Charlie,” Paul says. “You underestimate yourself too much, unlike your brother. He thought he was smarter than he was. He was easy to manipulate, though. Back then, when I needed Isaac taken care of, I told Reid your mother was destroying your family, and someone brave had to cut out the evil before it took root.”
Those are the same words Paul said to me by the firepit that night before my mother died, the same words I repeated to her later as I headed to bed. I remember how she looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost.
In a way, she had.
Off in the distance, a light appears over the lake, followed by the steady thumping of a rotor blade. The silhouette of a helicopter crosses the full moon. Maybe Seton will ride to the rescue, after all.
“They’re coming, Paul,” Freya says. “It’s over.”
I inch forward as Paul drags Freya to the very edge of the cliff. “You don’t want the story to end like this,” I say.
“There’s no other choice,” Paul says.
“You’re smart,” I say. “You’ve stayed two steps ahead of the cops for years.”
“Not this time,” Paul says, wrapping his arms around Freya from behind and pulling her to his chest. He glances over his shoulder, steeling himself, I imagine, for one final, magnificent act of misguided love.
“My mother,” I say, quickly. “Did Reid kill her? Tell me what he did.”
I’ll take the answer, whatever it is, if it will delay Paul long enough for the cops to arrive.
Paul inhales the scent of Freya’s hair. “You’ll never know, Charlie.”
The helicopter rises over the ledge, then swoops above us, a flood lamp shining across the summit. The turbulence knocks Paul off balance. Freya digs a heel into his foot and smashes a fist into his nose. She falls to the ground, rolling away from the ledge. I charge. My shoulder slams into Paul’s side as the gun goes off. Freya scrambles across the granite, toward the cabin.
Seton’s voice sounds over a loudspeaker. “Drop the gun, Paul. There’s nowhere to hide.”
The helicopter swoops low. I fall to the ground. When I look up, Paul looms over me, gun in hand.
I stand, arms raised.
“You tried to take Freya from me,” he says.
“I wasn’t yours for the taking, Paul,” Freya shouts. “Let Charlie go. You and I can talk to the police together. They’ll understand.”
“One more word,” Paul says, “and I’ll kill your boyfriend while you watch. This time, I’ll make sure to finish the job.”
