Thirty-Two

THIRTY-TWO

Now I truly am stopped cold, staring as everything in me screams that this can't be what I'm seeing. That E must be a K. Patrick. It cannot be—

"Patrice," Shania whispers, and there's an odd note in her voice.

"Isn't that…?" Cirillo turns to me. "Isn't that the name of the girl who supposedly murdered your friend?"

Does he actually expect me to answer? I'm bound and fucking gagged.

"It is," Shania whispers. "Patrice Jones. Nicola had Patrice committed to a mental hospital for a murder Nicola committed."

I writhe and try to speak, but only muffled grunts come out.

"Is Patrice… dead?" Cirillo asks.

"Two years ago," Shania says, her tone oddly empty. "She died in that hospital."

I go still. I hadn't been able to find that online.

How hard did I look?

Not hard enough. When the answer hadn't come up immediately, I told myself there was nothing new in the case and moved on, presuming Patrice was still alive and in custody.

So what am I saying?

That Patrice is here?

That her ghost is here?

That's not possible. How the hell would Cirillo have conjured Patrice?

Does it matter?

"Patrice Jones?" Cirillo says slowly. "Am I speaking to Patrice Jones?"

The footsteps start again, as slow and deliberate as before.

Like upstairs, during the séance, when footsteps had circled me. Like the ones in the attic, circling above my head. I'd heard others in the sitting room, but they'd been normal steps. This is a taunt, a tiger circling prey.

As I hear those steps, any pity or grief inside me crystallizes, and I glare in that direction.

Cut this shit out, Patrice.

If you have something to say to me, say it.

God, I'm as bad as Cirillo, aren't I? Worse even. Instead of shaking my finger at a misbehaving spirit, I'm challenging one that seems to have…

My gaze goes to Brodie, and I swallow.

Patrice did that. Not Anton. Not Roddy.

Patrice killed Heather, and she killed Brodie, and maybe I should be backing away in terror, but all I can feel is fury.

I spent twenty-two years doubting what I saw that night.

Twenty-two years thinking I might have helped commit an innocent girl to a hospital for the criminally insane.

She did it, though.

She killed Heather.

Who toppled my chair once as a "joke"? Patrice. I remember it now. It was shortly after we met. Oh, she'd said it was an accident—she only meant to tilt it—but it was a test. Would I put up with her shit? Apparently, yes.

The footsteps stop right in front of me. I'm very aware then of the fact that I am on my knees, hands bound behind my back.

I am kneeling at her feet, defeated and trussed up like a goddamn offering.

I shift, trying to stand, but I'm not that limber. I'm stuck on my knees, looking up—

My nostrils pinch closed. I jerk back, but the grip is tight, and that initial startle of surprise turns to confusion.

And then I can't breathe. One second I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and then I can't breathe.

My mouth automatically opens for oxygen… only it can't get any. There's duct tape over it.

I still don't panic. It's just something—Patrice?—pinching my nose shut. An annoyance, an insult even. Mocking me.

I jerk back, but it's as if a vise grabs my head, pinning me in place. As my lungs begin to burn, actual panic sets in.

I can't breathe.

No, this is silly. Patrice is just holding my nose to mock me.

Pull away. Yank backward. Rip from her grip.

Only I can't. Something pins me there, keeping my head firm, my nostrils closed.

I can't breathe.

Oh God, I can't—

Hello, Janica.

I freeze. It's the voice I heard last night, the one that seems both inside my head and out of it.

The voice continues.

Remember Sandy's party? When you drank too much punch, not knowing it was spiked? You were always fun when you had a little to drink, but when you had too much? That's when I saw the real Janica. Sad and scared Janica. You started crying and babbling about how you were afraid to die, how you couldn't stop thinking about what it might be like one day, when your lungs gave out and you couldn't breathe.

The voice slides through my ear, straight into my brain.

Is it everything you imagined, Janica? I hope so. I hope you die in tears and terror, and I hope your last thought is regret. Regret for betraying me.

I can't answer. Can't think. My lungs burn and my vision clouds, and I am going to die.

I can't breathe, and I am going to die.

You knew what happened to Heather wasn't my fault. You knew I couldn't have been in my right mind. You were my friend. You should have protected me, made something up, told them you saw a stranger in the forest.

I can't see. Everything is dark, and my lungs are on fire, and why can't I break free? She's pinching my nose. Such a simple thing. I just need to jerk away, but I can't and I am going to—

"No!" Shania screams, and my heart leaps.

Oh God, thank you, Shania.

Hands wrench me away from Patrice. Surprisingly strong hands, ripping me from Patrice's grip and then yanking the duct tape from my mouth. I double over, gulping breath.

Shania is still screaming. Still screaming "No!"

I shake my head to tell her I'm okay. Then my vision clears, and I see her running at me, the spade in hand. I manage to fall to the side before she reaches me, but she's not aiming for me. She's aiming behind me. At the person who really did free me from Patrice's grip.

Cirillo lets out a sound, half anger and half shock. I twist to see him almost dodge the spade, the blade skimming his shoulder. He grabs it in both hands and wrenches it from Shania.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouts. "It was trying to kill her."

" It is Patrice Jones," Shania snarls, hands out as if she's still holding the spade. " It is a friend Nicola betrayed. It is a woman who died in a mental ward because of Nicola."

I struggle to find my voice, and when it comes, it's a raw croak. "No, Shania. I don't know what you read online, but I told the court exactly what I saw that night. Nothing more. I never said I saw Patrice holding a knife. I never said she killed Heather."

"Liar!" she spits at me. "You are such a fucking liar."

Cirillo says nothing, but I can feel him behind me, cutting at my bonds in silence, letting Shania rave while he gets me free.

"I'm not lying," I say. "Read the trial transcripts."

"I know the truth. I didn't read that story online. She told me. She told me everything ."

I got still. "Patrice? Has her ghost been talking to—"

"Her ghost?" Shania's high-pitched laugh rakes down my spine. "You're so self-absorbed you never look beyond your own little life. I tested that when I told you my sister died of an infection. If you gave two shits about Patrice, you'd know she died two years ago of a staph infection. A simple cut on her hand. That's what killed her."

I stare as the pieces try—and fail—to jam together. "You're…?" I shake my head. "No. Patrice had a brother, but you're too young to have been him."

Her shoulders convulse, as if I struck her. Then her face twists. "You lying bitch. Don't pretend Patrice didn't tell you about me."

I rack my brain for any memory of Patrice mentioning a much younger sibling. Then it comes. Something she said once when Heather and I invited her to the movies.

Can't. Gotta look after my mom's new brat.

Patrice's parents had been divorced, and she spent most of the school year with her father and his second wife. Her mother had remarried and had a baby.

A baby who would have been about thirteen years younger than us.

"I'm sorry, Shania," I say, voice soft. "I forgot Patrice had a much younger sister. She absolutely did talk about you. And I'm sorry if she felt I'd done something to her, but please read those transcripts. I—"

"You murdered Heather. That's what Patrice said." She looks around the room. "Patrice? I know you're here. I brought you here to make this right."

Cirillo leans toward my ear. He's been silently working on my bonds, and when I glance at the floor, I see the steak knife is gone.

"Keep her occupied," he whispers. "Just keep talking."

"Shania?" I say. "You want Patrice to confront me. I get that. You've summoned her—"

"Me? I didn't summon her. Dr. Cirillo did." Her lips curve in a smile. "Who do you think is in that box, Nicola? Not your sainted husband. I dumped his ashes in the trash back at your condo. I swapped out the ashes after convincing you to bring them here."

I blink, and the world seems to slow as I process what she said. As I struggle to fully comprehend what she means. When I do, something inside me shatters.

Two minutes ago, I truly thought I was about to die, but this is what breaks me.

How many times had I told myself it wasn't Anton in that box? It's not, but that box represented my final promise to my husband. A promise that I'd find a place for his remains to rest. I would protect them. I would look after them.

And Shania dumped them in the trash.

She threw my husband's remains into the trash.

I can regret not being careful enough, but I was careful. The only thing I regret is that I ever suspected Anton of killing Heather. If there was any doubt left, it disintegrates as my entire body shatters in grief.

Shania threw his ashes in the trash. That wasn't anger or revenge. It was simple disdain and disrespect for a man she'd never known. She disposed of his bodily remains so she could put her sister's ashes in his box and sneak them into Anton's séance. In hopes that Cirillo would summon Patrice instead.

The grief itself disintegrates, consumed by a red-hot explosion of rage. I lunge at Shania, but my legs aren't free yet, and I writhe and snarl as Shania only watches me. Then she goes still, and her gaze flies behind me.

"What are you doing?" she says to Cirillo.

She stomps toward him. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Cirillo cuts the last of the rope around my ankles and scrambles to his feet, his setting jaw nearly hiding the fear in his gaze. "That's what I need to ask you, Shania. I don't know what the fuck you are doing, but it ends here. Nicola and I are leaving, and—"

The steak knife twists in his hand. That's all it does. It doesn't fly dramatically from his grip. It just twists and flicks… and his wrist opens in a gush of blood.