Page 48 of Death in the Family
“You think youinvitedus here?” My voice was high, my ears under pressure. I swallowed to clear them, but no dice. I felt like I was underwater.
“That’s not how this works,” Tim said. His hands were up like he was miming the act of holding us back. Tim had more than enough muscle to contain Flynn, but he just stood there doing nothing.Small-town detectives are pathetic.
“Your brother’s gone,” I said. “All that’s left of him is a bloodstain the size of a goddamn garden pond.”
“Watch your mouth,” said Bebe, “you’re in the presence of an innocent child.” She tried to wrap a protective arm around Jade’s shoulder. The kid recoiled from her touch.
“Thatchilddumped boiling water on my hand for her own entertainment.” Even before the words left my mouth, I was sure. The spill was deliberate, and Jade was as sadistic as the rest of them. “Jade’s a long way from innocent. Are you aware she’s obsessed with her uncle? Or that her gossiping may have gotten him killed?”
“Shana,” Tim muttered, startling me. He’d broken character, undermined me by using my first name. I ignored him and blinked hard. The walls of the hallway were closing in.
“Howdareyou,” Bebe shouted as Jade’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll have you fired for this!”
Something happened to her then. As I watched, Bebe Sinclair changed. Her features became a collection of bloated, oversized parts. I knew it was an illusion, a quadrant of my brain adjusting her face to match the person I now knew her to be, but the effect was alarming.Breathe, I told myself.Let these images go and connect with the breath. But my mind was a zoo with the gates flung open, my thoughts stampeding like underfed beasts. There were skeletons in every closet here, hidden by people who shuffled grudges like playing cards, their diamonds with edges like blades. In the game this family played, the only hearts dealt out were bloodied and beaten until there wasn’t a beat left. In that moment, my perspective shifted. These people all looked like monsters to me.
I listened to Carson’s voice inside my head.
In your case, Shay, I believe you’re under extreme psychological stress.What happened with Bram, it messed with your mind.To put it simply, you’re no longer able to separate fact from fiction. We call this cognitive dissonance. Your beliefs are in conflict, fighting against each other, and that impacts your ability to make value judgments. You can’t trust yourself to know right from wrong. You’ll feel fear when you’re safe, see a threat where there’s none. And you’ll experience the aftereffects of this debilitating condition for a long, long time to come.
“Was it you?” I scrutinized Bebe’s hideous face. “Did you hold a pillow over his mouth when you stabbed him, or did you jump at the chance to watch him die?”
She gasped. Near the stairs, Abella wiped her mouth on her sleeve and swayed in place. My chest constricted under my shirt. No, not my shirt—Camilla’s. A million ants zigzagged over my arms, and when I clawed at the fabric I swear I felt their globular bodies pop and ooze under my nails. Hours and hours I’d been onthe island. The incubation period was almost up. These people were sick, I was at risk of contamination, and nothing, not even my clothing, felt safe. Under the gauze my hand throbbed.They did this to me, I thought.They caused all of this.
“This is outrageous!” Flynn strained against Tim to reach me. His voice was deafening.
“Or was it you?” I said, staring up at him. I had to know. I needed to hear I wasn’t insane, that Jasper was dead and they’d killed him. “How does it feel to know you’ll never have to compete with your perfect little brother again? I’ll find Jasper like Camilla asked me to, don’t you worry. He’s in the river, Mr. Sinclair. Right where you put him.”
Several things happened at once. Flynn shoved Tim aside and lunged at me. One of the women screamed. Before I could stop myself I drew my weapon, found my target, and squeezed the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot in the hall was tremendous. There was a moment of silence, and then all hell broke loose. Flynn’s body hit the hardwood with a mighty thud. There were cries and wails. Tim, on the floor next to him, shouted orders. His hands were already streaked with blood such a vibrant shade of red it hurt my eyes.
Without thinking, I ran. Down the hall.
Out the front door.
Into the storm.
TWENTY-TWO
Flynn was dead, I was sure of it. I was trained to make a shot count. The bullet had ripped through the man’s thick chest, just as I’d intended.
Flynn’s a suspect, I told myself.He’s dangerous.I had no choice.
You have no proof he killed Jasper.You don’t even know if Jasper’s dead.
I had no destination. All I wanted was to escape from the house, and everyone in it. Outside, a row of exterior lights illuminated a winding pathway to the steep stairs that led down to the water, a vast black hole at the base of the hill. That’s where I headed, taking the slick steps two at a time and praying my boots would find traction on the rocky treads. Without my raincoat, which still hung in the mudroom, Camilla’s shirt was soakedthrough in seconds. The way it clung to my skin made me want to scream.
Far below me a wave crashed against the stone wall and exploded with a sound like thunder. McIntyre was wrong to trust me with this job. Why didn’t I just listen to Carson? I should have known I couldn’t trust myself after I drew my weapon on Ned. I saw a killer in every face, a motive in every story. I wasn’t just a mess, I was a menace. What made me think I could recover from what Bram did to me? He’d rearranged my instincts and emotions like a kid tossing a puzzle in the air and laughing as the pieces rained down around him. He might as well have killed me in that cellar. The person I used to be—competent, steadfast, true—was dead.
By the time I got to the boathouse, my face was numb and the bandage on my hand was drenched. I stopped to unwrap the gauze. The last layer had fused itself to my seeping skin, but I ripped it off anyway. Savored the intensity of the pain.
The shirt came off next. I tore it open, struggled out, and threw the ball of wet fabric onto the rocks. I wanted to rid myself of everything belonging to the Sinclairs, but it wasn’t as easy as ditching Norton’s bandage and Camilla’s borrowed clothes. Just like Bram, they’d found a way inside my head. My only escape from the madness was to get off Tern Island.
The boathouse was dark. Even through the rain I picked up the rank smell of rotted fish abandoned by minks that couldn’t be trapped. I didn’t have the keys to the police boat and couldn’t have driven it if I did, but I didn’t think about any of that when, standing in my wet bra, I groped at the rough interior wall for the light.
“Shana!”
Tim’s voice was barely audible over the rumble of the river andtorrential rain. He moved faster than he should have been able to on those irregular, rainwashed steps. How had he caught up with me so quickly? Tim didn’t have his jacket either. His wet shirt was molded to the contours of his chest.
