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She took out a surgical saw.
McCallister took a step back. “What are you—”
Bryn didn’t answer, because she couldn’t. Talking required some kind of cognition she didn’t think she was capable of at this point. There was only one thing that was important, one thing that had to be done.
She had to stop the woman’s pain. There was no walking away from this, no choice. It had to be done.
She had to be the one to do it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to what was left of Violetta Sammons, and stared into those clouded, desperate, terrified eyes for a second before she put one hand on the mandible of her jaw, pushed up, and exposed the rotten column of her throat.
It didn’t take more than three strokes. The saw was very sharp. As the head rolled free, Bryn saw the life desperately continue in those filmed eyes, and then dim … and then, finally, mercifully, depart.
Byrne dropped the saw, staggered, and put her back against the wall.
That’s me. That’s me on the bed. That’s me.
Not yet, but it was coming, as inevitable as death itself.
Across the bed, Patrick McCallister stood frozen, watching her. He finally reached down and grabbed the canvas bag, retrieved the saw, and took her arm. “Out,” he said. “Come on. ”
Leaving that room was like walking out of a grave, and Bryn ripped the mask away from her face and gulped in deep breaths. She’d thought the air out here tainted before, but it smelled sweet now. Sweet as roses.
Her legs had gone numb, but McCallister helped her down the steps, past the line of ants, past the silent living room with its TV still playing, Scotch waiting.
Outside, into the clean breeze, and the sun.
Bryn collapsed against him, put her arms around his neck, and wept as if her heart were breaking. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God. I had to do it; I had to. I had to. ”
And Patrick McCallister held on just as fiercely. “I know,” he whispered back. “It’s all right. It’s over. ”
“No. ” She gasped, and fisted her hands in the collar of his suit. “That was me. Going to be me. ”
“No. Bryn, you’re alive; hear me? And I won’t let that happen to you. I won‘t. I swear it. ”
“What if—”
“Don’t. ”
“You saw; she could still feel—”
His voice turned fierce. “I won’t let it happen. I will never let you suffer, Bryn. Believe that, even if you never believe anything else about me. ”
She did believe him. She believed that if he had to, Patrick McCallister would take up that saw and end things for her, once and for all. He had the strength of will.
She’d never thought she did. Not until the moment when she’d had to choose.
That terrified her, the fact that something like that was hiding inside her—something so strong, so cold, so capable. She didn’t want to know that about herself.
She didn’t want to know what it was going to be like in the end, either. She’d looked into her future, into the ruined, screaming eyes of Violetta Sammons.
McCallister held her until his security team arrived to sanitize the scene of the crime, and she was glad he did.
Fifteen minutes after they’d started the … removal proceedings, McCallister stepped back into the house. He donned an extra pair of coveralls stored in Bryn’s go bag, a ball cap, a thin Windbreaker that had the Fairview Mortuary logo on the front, and said, “I’m going with you. You shouldn’t be alone. ” His team had their orders. They also had come in disguise as renovation workers, with their own van, tools, coveralls—they even put a sign out by the curb. Anyone looking out would see nothing but normal life, although what was going on was far, far from sanity in there. “We need to get the van out of here. It’ll raise questions. ”
The Fairview logo was small and discreet, but he was right; it was visible to anybody who really looked. Bryn, who’d finally gotten feeling back in her arms and legs, started to unlock the driver’s-side door.
McCallister took the keys from her. “No. I’m driving. ” She didn’t feel able to argue the point. It felt good to let someone else take charge, at least for the moment. Maybe the protocols are kicking in again. But she didn’t think so. It was just shock, and the drugged exhaustion that followed extreme emotional stress.
