Kate looked into Jennifer’s eyes and saw anguish and rage. “How old were you when you killed him?”
“Eleven. He didn’t care about me. After he died, I saw all the 1740 men using my mother. Turning girls into an unending stream of Belles.”
Kate saw Jennifer glancing at Caroline, then at Sam.
“You two would be next,” Jennifer said. “That’s how it goes here. Ask Maeve and Suzanne.”
“Stop it, Jen,” Maeve said. “It’s over. Let them go.”
“Oh, now you’re on their side?” Jennifer asked. “You let my mother plant you in the art gallery. You hired Suzanne and sabotaged the wedding. And now you want to let them go waltzing out to tell everyone what you did?”
“I’m sick of it,” Maeve said. “I hate what we’ve done. What you’ve done.”
“Me?” Jennifer asked.
Maeve nodded. “If you hadn’t killed her ...”
“My mother?” Jennifer asked.
Kate watched Maeve and Jennifer sparring. Maeve shot her a glance that let her know that she was doing this to divert Jennifer, so Kate tapped Caroline’s arm and began inching toward the door.
“Belle deserved it,” Jennifer said. “It was bad enough that she spent the last year planning how to get invited to the wedding and how she had me make that little ring to resemble the one she claims Conor gave her when they were kids ... It took up every minute of her life, her concentration. It was like I didn’t exist other than to do things to perpetuate the fantasy. The ring. Stealing Kate’s dress so she could try it on. Cutting up Kate’s veil.”
“What was the point of any of that?” Maeve asked. She was shifting her position so that Jennifer would have to pivot, leaving her back to Kate, Caroline, and Sam. Kate nudged Caroline, and they started moving faster toward the door.
“Her obsession was the point,” Jennifer said. “And I’d had enough.”
“I don’t blame you,” Maeve said. “All that, and you were just at the age for her to turn you into the new Belle.”
“I hated her for that, and I hated you for making her go so crazy,” Jennifer said, turning to face Kate. “Your marriage to Conor was going to finish her off.”
Caroline caught her toe on the rug and stumbled. Kate stopped her from falling. Sam charged forward to the front door and slid the bolt. Kate heard the door open, and she heard Conor’s voice: “Where’s Kate?”
Jennifer must have heard it too. Or maybe Conor’s presence didn’t matter at all. Maybe she would have killed Kate no matter what, because when Kate looked over, she saw Jennifer holding a knife above her head, charging toward her. The knife blade flashed silver, and Jennifer gripped the handle so tightly, her fingers were white.
“Conor!” Kate called.
Hearing his name enraged Jennifer even more, and she let out a guttural scream. Kate tried to fight her off. She grabbed for the knife, felt searing pain as it slashed her palm. She stumbled and nearly lost her balance. She backed away from Jennifer, but Jennifer caught her, raised the knife overhead, and brought it down into Kate’s chest, stabbing her over and over. Kate felt liquid running down her ribs. She looked at thefloor and saw it covered with blood. She couldn’t stand anymore, so she knelt in the blood, then lay down in it.
She heard Conor yelling, crying, saying her name. She felt him pick her up. She tried to keep her eyes open so she could look into his face. She saw agony in his eyes, and she wanted to tell him it was okay, she loved him. She loved him more than anything. They had had their time. She wouldn’t have traded that for anything.
42
Thursday, July 8; 11:30 p.m.
Conor sat beside Kate’s bed in the intensive care unit at Rhode Island Hospital. She had been flown there by a medical transport helicopter two nights ago, had gone through multiple surgeries, and had been on life support ever since. Conor stared at her in the bright hospital light. She was hooked up to so many machines, with a breathing mask over her face, that by looking, he could barely tell it was Kate, but by his heart, he would know her no matter what.
Last night, her heart had stopped twice. The knife had barely missed it. Doctors determined that the thirteen stab wounds had caused extreme heart and lung failure. Her other organs began to fail, so they hooked her up to ECMO—an extracorporeal membrane oxygenation device.
It kept her heart and lungs going, doing all of the work for them. It kept her alive.
It was hard for Conor to remember everything that had happened back at Maynard-King. He had carried Kate outside after the stabbing, felt her hot blood soaking into his clothes, and laid her on the ground as gently as he could, kept his gaze fixed on her eyes as he held his hands over the gashes—so close to her heart. She had penetrating chest wounds, and he heard that telltale sucking sound as she struggled to breathe.
Tom had met them there on the lawn, and Joe showed up with a line of police cars, lights and sirens going. Conor pressed his hands into the knife wounds and tried to keep Kate’s blood from pouring out of her body. Air hissed through the stab wound in her left lung.
“We need a helicopter,” Tom shouted.
Conor was a first responder. He knew what to do—he had done it countless times. He saw Kate’s life draining away, just as he had seen other victims of violent attacks losing their battles to stay alive. His muscle memory took over ministering to her injuries, while the rest of him tended to the part of Kate that was leaving this earth.
