I remembered my list of who had voted on killing Peter—my mother, Elizabeth, Cyrus, Veronica…I’d never figured out the fifth.
“So Garrett was in on the plan.”
“Don’t be absurd. He’s far too messy. Psychiatric cults, mixed with”—she shivered a bit—“the art market.I’m surprised it’s proven so fruitful. But it was merely an excuse.”
“To make me fall in love.”
“Love.” Grandmother looked up from her knitting. “Do you still believe that’s what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you kill her?”
“Because you told me to,” I said.
“And you obeyed—that was the real you.”
I closed my eyes, and in that darkness, as always, was the small room.
You’re Jessica. But not the one I know. The real one.
Hiromi’s sharp eyes had seen something behind my mask. But after the murders, there had been only adrenaline, exuberance, triumph.
Until…“The car crash. Was that real?”
“Real enough. Cyrus certainly made a mess of the Cadillac, and little Dwight’s oak tree, and your fine Morton nose.”
Cyrus, whose son I had murdered.
“But yes, the crash was intentional,” she went on. “To change your face, and to start you on the pills.”
“To give me empathy.”
“So that you…” she began, waiting for me to finish.
Patience, our old ally.
“Could become someone else,” I said. “An infiltrator.”
Elizabeth was beaming now, pleased at how far I’d come. “You never would’ve fooled them on your own—not our little prodigy, who had to learn from the other children how to cry. We had to give you that light behind your eyes.”
I looked into Grandmother’s eyes. There was no light there.
“I didn’t fool anyone,” I said.
“No?”
“This is me now, with or without those pills.” I leaned forward, pushing down my terror. “I’m not going to tell you anything. You don’t own me anymore.”
Elizabeth smiled again, gathering up her knitting.
“We never owned you, Jessica. We’ve only treasured you. We treasure you still.”
70
She waited five days before visiting me again.
Five days in this room, reading, climbing, and dreading how I would change without the pills.
