“Brie, Jesus. Are you OK?”
I don’t respond. I feel like I’m sitting with my head in a guillotine.
“Snap out of it,” he says. “We can fight this. Whatever it is.”
“It’s over,” I whisper.
“What was that?” he says.
“The rock. The murder weapon. We threw it over the side of the bridge.”
“Christ, keep your voice down!” He leans across and shakes me. “Could you be more stupid?”
“You’re being cruel.”
“That’s an interesting word,” he says slowly. “I believe you’d know.”
“You have to be kidding me!”
“I suppose all is fair in love and war. And murder.” He pauses. “Why couldn’t you love me like that?”
I feel whiplash from the change in topic. “I did. Once.”
“Not like that. Not obsessively. You were never hungry for me. You never suffered for me. You’d never kill for me.”
“I didn’t kill for him, either!”
He picks up his coffee cup as if to finish it, then slams it onto the ground, where it shatters. I jump out of my chair, and the restaurant immediately goes quiet. “Apologies! Dropped my cup.”
“You need to go.”
“Gladly,” he says, but he doesn’t get up until the staff come over to clear up the mess. “I apologize. Don’t leave the motel. I’ll get you out of this mess. I promise.”
I feelthe color leech out of the world. The street, the buildings, the people—everything looks pale and worn.
Neil can’t promise, because how could he? Bradley planned everything from the beginning. There will be more evidence, and soon the case will be irrefutable.
The divers will find the rock, conveniently located inside a black plastic bag. And then it will be over.
I go back to the motel and spend the day watching reality television with the blinds down. I watch shows about dating, shows about house renovations. Wives being swapped, homes being demolished and rebuilt, near-naked people hopping from bed to bed.
Sometimes, I go out to buy snacks from the vending machine. By the end of the day, I realize that I’m not panicking anymore. I’m not scared either.
I’m resigned.
When night falls, I switch the television off and look up at the ceiling. I immediately see fragments of a dream. Grace dying, again and again. Her head collapsing under the weight of the rock.
My life is over, one way or another. Either Jesse gets me, or the courts do. As soon as the police find the real murder weapon, they’ll cross-reference it with the autopsy. They might even talk to Madeleine from the window place. I’ll be done. My fingerprints or DNA will be on the murder weapon somewhere—and most importantly, Bradley’s won’t.
It’s over.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
I wake just after midnight to find tears streaking my pillow. My phone is lit up. I swipe it open and see messages from Neil.
I have a lead.
Text me when you get this.
