And maybe it was her dad, walking out and never looking back. Maybe it was her mom, giving up when raising them both stretched her too thin. But I know for a fact it was this motherfucker right here, baring his teeth, a knife in his hand, wobbly legs on the ice like a fish out of water.
And I don’t wait anymore.
I lunge for him, twisting his wrist when I circle my fingers around it, forcing him to drop the knife. He’s not getting that back.
Then I trip him, a call even the most devout fan couldn’t argue with a ref about.
And when he’s sprawled over the ice on his fucking spine, staring over at me and floundering with his limbs like he doesn’t know what to do, how to move, I recognize the opportunity.
The accident.
And I skate closer, pick up my right foot, and let the blade slice over his fucking throat.
SIXTY-SIX
NEVE
SIX WEEKS LATER
In my head, the blood is stark against the ice. Melting and puddling into white, the rink unstable as the generators failed. It took Detective Lincoln and his team only seconds to restore the power—Nolan had simply unplugged it. Nothing so bold as what he’s been doing this entire semester.
They found a bag in his truck, parked just outside. The same rental at Sky Arena that no one had laid eyes on for months. It had Tasia’s phone, Will’s, Jackson’s. The others he simply pickpocketed. Ace’s and Mitchell’s he didn’t take, and I wonder if he read my message to him the night he murdered Ace, when I asked if he was okay. And he couldn’t respond.
Now Nolan won’t be able to either. He’ll never answer my questions. How he tracked me so closely without me knowing—although the abrupt stop to his FaceTiming should’ve been my clue.Whyhe decided I needed so much protection now, although the collection of prescription pills, mostly stimulants, found under the cushion of my couch—where he’d been sleeping—might explain that, too. He was having trouble keeping up with his workload. Took a leave of absence.
Then he only had me to focus on.
And no one questions a brother with a key, do they? He was right there, quite literally sleeping inside Darkmouth, and I never truly believedhewas the one.
Detective Lincoln’s name splashes across my screen as I sit in the study of Faust’s home, the door closed, my thoughts spinning. The boys are cooking, Cynthia and Tylone and Karter are supervising, and I’m meant to be writing an essay for my psych course onpersonality,of all things.
But I answer the phone, my notebook and MacBook in front of me, but none have been touched.
“I thought you’d take Sunday night off,” I say by way of greeting. My voice is hoarse. Crying has done me no favors.
The detective sighs through the phone. “You and me both, kid.” He’s less suspicious with me now. Less hesitant. I don’t know if it was my face, my words, my voice or what that convinced him I had no idea what Nolan was doing when they questioned me in the aftermath of everything that happened on the rink. But no handcuffs were placed around me.
Not like they were with Faust.
I close my eyes tight in the study. “What do you want?” I ask it without bite.
“Have you solved all of your mysteries?” He asks it with less lightness than he’s said anything else.
My eyes snap open and I stare at my blank, red notebook, my pulse lurching. In my head, there’s Jackson.
Then Nolan.
They died so similarly, both staring up, flat on their backs.
Nolan looked to me, though. Even in the dark, I could see the whites of his eyes angled my way, as close as I was.
The stench of iron was the same, too, but thatlook…It’s worse than his absence.
“What do you mean?” My words scratch out.
“Mr. Bennet might not have had video footage, but the cafe next door did. And I watched it from the last few months. Well, me and the team. A lot of boring stuff, to be honest. Although something caught my eye.”
I wonder if he’ll ask about Sylvan coming in and breaking Will’s nose.
