At the edge of some kind of platform, two figures were silhouetted by an aquamarine glow. One of them he recognized right away as Campbell. The other one—taller, also slender—was probably Danvers.
What were they doing up there?
Jordan got back in his vehicle and drove uphill.
EIGHTY-SIX
CARA
Can’t believe we have to say this, but fugitive rewards are NOT “dead or alive.” That practice ended in the 1950s. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet, folks.
—@USMarshalsHQ
Cara’s arms were pinned behind her back. Dylan pulled up on her wrists, hurting her and pushing her toward the edge of the infinity pool’s deck. Below her feet, the hillside fell away into darkness.
“Isn’t this the most beautiful view you’ve ever seen?” he asked. “I think it’s truly important to take in the beauty of the earth before we leave it.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“The proper way to say it on social media is tounaliveyourself. And everyone seems to think you’re planning to do just that. If you don’t want to jump, I can give you a push. Your choice.”
“How many people do you plan to kill?”
“This wasn’t what I had planned tonight. But when you looked at my photo, I had think to fast and change things up.”
At Karl’s gravesite, when she thought she was out of options and that she would never know who killed Karl, Cara had wondered whether she still wanted to live. Now, she raged to stay alive. She just had to figure out how.
“We can still record the podcast, just like you wanted. I won’t talk about any of this. It’ll be huge and?—”
“I’m already number one on Apple. But having you unalive yourself by jumping off my parents’ cliff? I’ll be the one who gets to tell your story. Of course, I’ll have to admit that I was wrong about you all along.”
“That kind of fame only lasts a hot second.”
She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the smile in his voice. “My audience loves me. Imagine what will happen when I discover another wrongly accused murderer in season two.”
Dylan was gradually pressing her forward. She had no way to push back. Her stomach felt as empty as the void below.
People had loved her. Karl unreservedly. Aunt Evelyn still did. Even Stephanie, in her own way. Once she’d had more friends than she could count—real friends, not social media followers—who abandoned her only because they believed the government’s claim she was a killer.
“You don’t know the first thing about love,” she told him, balanced on the edge, with nothing left to lose. “I loved, and was loved, and at least I don’t need to swallow psychedelics to think I’m feeling something real.”
“My vision was real.” Almost whining, a child insisting he was right.
Below, not all that far from where her body would land, she saw a police vehicle driving up the hill. Its flashers weren’t lit, but it was moving fast.
“The cops are here,” she told him.
As Dylan craned his neck to see, momentarily slackening his grip, Cara hammered her head back into his. She hit something softer than his skull.
“My nose!” Wobbling, he let go and grabbed his face.
“Fuck you, motherfucker!”
She shouldered him hard, and he tumbled into the pool. Dark blood clouded the water as he flailed toward the side.
Cara stared for only a second. Then she ran, faster than she had ever run, through the yard, through the front gate, and out onto the street.
Silhouetted at the top of the path was a lanky man in a Stetson hat.
