Page 140 of Losing Wendy

Darling, oh so trusting.For some reason, I hear the sentiment in Captain Astor’s voice.Trusting, except for the one time it actually counts.

“And Freckles?” My voice warbles. I imagine them luring him out to the cove, far enough away that no one would hear hisscreams. Was it Nettle who drove the dagger into his belly, ruthless and vindictive, or Simon, apologizing to Freckles for what had to be done?

Nettle’s blade quavers. “Freckles’s response to Thomas’s death was unnatural. He didn’t care like the rest of the Lost Boys. It was almost like he was glad Thomas was gone.”

“Youwere glad to be rid of Thomas!” I practically scream.

Nettle shakes his head slowly. Like he feels sorry for me. “I did what was necessary. I bore that burden for everyone else. For Freckles to be pleased about his friend’s murder just because he was jealous of the attention everyone gave Thomas… You can’t tell me that wasn’t a sign of something sinister.”

I can hardly breathe, hardly address Nettle’s way of thinking. Instead I ask, “What if we can keep the other boys out of trouble? What if we can keep them from showing signs of murder? I’m sure there’s something to be done.”

Nettle shrugs. “It’s our fate, Wendy. Did you escape yours?”

Panic floods me. There’s no reasoning with Nettle, and the knife in his hand flashes at John’s throat. Still, he could have killed John immediately, but he didn’t. He wanted to explain himself to me. Needed to explain himself to me.

Wendy Darling, an expert at making others feel heard. Just a mirror, showing people the parts of themselves they’d like to see. Never my own person.

I’ve always hated that quality of mine, but now that I’m face to face with John’s potential murderer, I realize something.

Mirrors can be sharp, too, when they’re already broken.

I nod, gulping, and then I do what I do best. “It was cruel of the Sister to trap you here. Cruel of her to give Peter hope for you, when she knew all along this was inevitable.”

Nettle blinks, surprise overtaking his face. “I don’t blame Peter,” is all he says.

I shake my head. “I know you don’t. How could you? How could any of us? He’s only been trying to protect us from ourselves.”

“He likes to pretend that everything is happy. That everything isokay. He’s wrong, but it was nice getting to pretend for a while, wasn’t it?” says Nettle. “But now that I know the truth, I can’t go back to pretending.”

“I know. I know you can’t.”

And then I let my voice shake. Let it rattle in anger. “The Sister should have let Peter take the rest of you. Should have killed Thomas in his bed. He was the one that was the true threat. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for him.”

“It was his idea the whole time. He was the one who planted it,” says Nettle. “And once that seed took hold, got its roots in me, I couldn’t yank it out, no matter how hard I tried. I never wanted to thirst for blood. I never wanted any of this. I never…” The muscles in his neck flex as he wrestles with the words. “I never wanted to have to hurt my friends. They’re my friends. You know that, Winds.”

“I know,” I whisper.

I’m halfway across the cliff now, my hand outstretched slightly, hoping Nettle will welcome my embrace. He’s just a boy, after all. A boy who never had anyone hold him just for the sake of keeping him safe. Even now, with all he’s done, though the dread of him makes my skin crawl, pity wells up within my stomach.

And for a moment, I think it’s going to work. But then Nettle squints, locking his eyes onto mine. Pleading.

It’s a look begging for forgiveness. Forgiveness I’m not going to be willing to offer.

“I won’t hurt Michael,” he promises. “He’s innocent. And Peter will take care of him. You and I both know that. He’ll be safe, and none of us will ever corrupt him.”

“Nettle, please. No one has to be corrupted.”

“Maybe that was true once,” he says. “But not anymore.”

His hands tremble, and I lunge.

There’s a moment when everything slows down, though not to a halt as it should. I watch as blood beads on John’s skin as Nettle presses the blade to his throat. Self-loathing warps Nettle’s face, but it does nothing to curb his impulses.

He felt the urge to kill, so he found a way to justify it. A way to make it righteous.

The scream is on the cusp of my throat as Nettle’s hand flexes, as he begins to slide the blade across John’s throat. My hand is outstretched, but I’m not going to reach him in time.

But then the knife falls, clattering against the rock beneath. John’s limp but unharmed body is next, the grass softening the impact of his head against the ground.

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