“Fifteen years. No children. Nothing to show for it except this house. And memories, I suppose. Memories of love. Those arethe most dangerous of all, don’t you think? He was my first real love, the first person to come close to understanding me, the first person to let me be myself. I suppose that’s why I can never let him go. A trace of that old feeling persists, and I suppose it will persist forever. Like an enchantment. Or maybe a curse.”
She laughs and continues guiding me to the lawn’s far edge. Below us, we can see the river, a giant blue gash running through the forested hills. The sun is fierce.
“He helped me through some difficult times.” Is she expecting me to reply? As usual, I feel at a loss for words in the presence of this woman. I’m not a performer like her. I’ll always be an audience to the Graces of this world. “Particularly with my family. They have money, but they’re also very cruel. Now, he likes to say that my life must be easy because of money. But back then, he understood what they were like. I never made a single choice, not one, until I left home. My clothes, my friends, my education, it was all decided for me.”
I know I’m meant to feel sympathy, but I can’t manage it. Who cares that Grace didn’t have the freedom to choose her own designer clothes, her own spoiled friends, her own private academy? Try working two jobs through high school. Try waiting tables through your early twenties to look after your dying mother. If I had a choice of being trapped in wealth or poverty, I’d choose wealth every time.
She goes on.
“When I finally got to college, I thought I’d be free, but I completely fell apart. In my sophomore year, I had a nervous breakdown. Bradley was my TA. He was the only one who saw what was happening, and he helped me get through it.” Her eyes are fixed on the river below. “I guess I’m still terrified to leave him, because the last time I was on my own, my world fell apart.”
I take a step away and manage to free myself. I see with disgust that she’s left a streak of crimson on my arm.
“I should go,” I say, my voice small. “I need to take a shower while it’s still hot.”
“Wait, I need you to do one more thing.”
“I’m done for the day.”
“I know. Please. I’ll let you skip the kitchen and bathroom tomorrow.”
“What is it?”
“Just collect the shells from my little shooting range. I’m allergic to something down there, and when I go into the bushes, I get hives.” She touches my hand. “Please?”
“Fine.” I’ll do anything to get out of this conversation. “Where is it?”
“There’s a path down the hill. You can’t miss it.”
I stride away before she can say another world. The path down is steep, but there’s a clear trail through the trees to my right. I follow it, feeling relieved to be free of her. Not long ago, I was certain she knew about me and Bradley and was trying to hurt me. And now? It’s all a muddle. I can’t quite believe anything she says, but in the light of day, when she’s standing next to me, all one-twenty pounds of her, it’s hard to believe that she could hurt anyone.
I turn the corner and find myself in a large clearing. There’s a line of three posts to my left, each with a photo attached. The first is Bradley, smiling on a beach with his shirt off. There are a dozen bullet holes through his torso. The second photo is of an older woman who bears a striking resemblance to Grace. I’m guessing it’s her mother. This photo has a few bullet holes, but not as many.
The third photo has the most bullet holes. In fact, there are so many bullet holes that her face is barely visible.
Not that it matters. Because I know this photo.
Neil took it at my graduation earlier this year.
It’s me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I rip the photo down and fold it into my pocket.
She engineered it all. She played on my sympathies, tried to win me over—all for this reaction. Is it all just performance art? Am I just a character in some live-action novel?
But no. That’s just wishful thinking. The simplest explanation is the right one.
Just ten minutes ago, Grace was telling me about murders caused by infidelity, and now this. It’s an escalation. She knows about me and Bradley. If I stay, I’ll be lucky to stay alive another week.
I walk around the house to the barn, feeling the need to confront her, once and for all. But when I get there, the barn is empty. I’m about to go back to the cottage when I spot something in the corner.
No—it can’t be.
It’s a large red container, the kind you find at gas stations. I walk over and unscrew the lid, and the smell is unmistakable.
Gas. Bradley says they only have EVs, but maybe this is for the lawnmower? Either way, it’s all I need. I know that if I ask Bradley for a ride, he’ll find a way to sweet-talk me into staying.But I can’t stay, not after what Grace just did to me. Sooner or later, these little mind-games are going to escalate.
