Now
She’s close enough now that I can start to study her face, rainwater running down the slope of her nose, the arch of her brow. It’s easier to take the details in without the obstruction of her thick frames. The slate gray of her eyes is Dad’s. And there’s something in the curve of her lip, the rare tight coils, that reminds me of…Claire.
“Have you been stalking me?” The gravel of my anger cuts her, her face flinching in a rare show of emotion.
“I…I might have followed you once or tw—”
“Jesus!” I take another two steps back. To infiltrate my life, pose as my therapist…She’s sick. Is she even really qualified? Who have I been talking to?
“Please, let’s just go back inside. If we get out of this rain, sit down, I can explain the rest of it.” She’s searching my face for an answer, and for the first time, I can see her mask slipping, see the desperation naked on her face. “Please,” she says again.
A storm of emotions rages inside me, but I want these answers. Am dying for them.
“Turn around,” I bark. “You walk ahead and do exactly what I say. No sudden movements.”
And I march her back into the house, maintaining a distance between us, brain whirring. I send her up the stairs first, and after she’s taken a few, I dash into the kitchen, grab the big knife out of the knife block. I find her paused at the top of the stairs when I emerge, eyes tracking down to the gleaming steel in my hand.
“I didn’t tell you to stop. Back in the bedroom. Pick up the letters and sit on the end of the bed.”
She does as she’s told. We eventually find ourselves facing off again, Dimple looking up at me as I brandish the knife in my hand. I’m by the doorway, ready to run if I have to. Ready to gut her if I have to. Gut her. My sister? A flash of Claire, her bleeding temple, blinds me for a moment. And then Claire’s face is suddenly Dimple’s face. Bleeding, lifeless. I feel dizzy, try to shake it off.
“Explain. Did you have something to do with the letters? You know, I always wondered how James found them. He’s smart enough, but he’s not a particularly curious man.”
She looks at the knife, flicks her gaze back up to my face. “Could you please put that down?”
My grip tightens. “Answers. Now.”
Her jaw clenches. I don’t know how she has the nerve to be angry.
“Yes. I…When I read Dr. Foster’s notes, looked up your exes, it felt clear to me that you’d probably killed them. And your mother had already told me you’d killed Claire. She refused to give me any details and I suspected—”
“Of course she didn’t give you details—she wasn’t the one reaching out to you, was she?” The barrage of calls a few weeks back makes sense now. I’d just told Dimple my mother killed her dad. Dimple musthave confronted her about it. “And you thought what? I’dmurderedmy sister?” Emotion swells in my throat, threatens to swell in my eyes. I won’t cry in front of her. I won’t.
Her brows rise, and for a moment, I feel like I’m back in her therapy room. “Well, you were living a fantasy in which Claire was alive. You clearly already had a violent past. I don’t know aboutmurder, but having some responsibility for Claire’s death didn’t seem so far-fetched. A compelling reason to create a world in which she’s still alive, no?”
Rage, regret, and confusion compete for attention as I stare down at her. She looks so different from us, and yet, the defiance gives her features a distinctly Claire-like flavor. I realize the knife is trembling in my hand, fight to steady it.
“You still haven’t explained the letters.”
“You have to understand—”
My anger propels me forward, the blade suddenly at her neck. “Fuck. You. What exactly was the endgame here anyway?”
She looks me dead in the eyes, fingers woven tightly into the bedsheets but expression unruffled. She’s brave, I’ll give her that.
In the silence of our heated stares, I hear the creak of the floorboards behind me. Dimple looks past my shoulder and for the first time, she looks truly afraid. I risk looking away from her and cast my eyes over my shoulder. He stands in the doorway, giving new meaning to “dangerously handsome.”
James.
54
Now
James stares at the frozen figures of Dimple and me. His letters lie scattered across the wooden floor, secret hiding place still gaping open. He looks to them and then back to us with betrayal written clear across his face. As if we’ve somehow wronged him by finding him out.
“So you found them.” And then he looks at Dimple. “And what the hell are you doing here?” Then he spots the knife, sucks in a sharp breath. I expect him to back away, but he takes a decisive step forward, closing the gap between us.
“Thank god,” he says. My confusion grows louder. “Thank god, you found her out. I couldn’t…I couldn’t take any more.”
