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“No. No.” She slips out of my grasp and walks to the other side of the room. “Why are you doing this? You’ve already taken everything from me! I’m your prisoner. And you have what you want. Julia knew. She knew all along. I told her she was wrong, that it couldn’t be. But you’d been swapping out my pills. So how can I believe you about this? How can I believe you about anything? You want me isolated. You have me under lock and key. Why are you doing this now? Why would you try to make me think…make me believe the one person who’s been my friend—”
“She’s not your friend. She was never your friend!” I walk to the dresser and open a drawer to take out one of the syringes Dr. Barnes left. She sees it before I can tuck it into my pocket.
“What is that for?” She asks as I eat up the space between us and take her by the arms. She’s not going to see reason tonight. “Let me go!”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll show you the proof. Right now, you need to calm down before you hurt yourself or the baby.”
“You don’t care about me. You care about the baby. At least be honest about that! You want to hurt me some more by telling me about this man…this man who is Christian’s murderer’s brother? You want me to believe he’s trying to kill me. That Julia would…”
“Isabelle. Last warning.”
“That she would do something like that? Something only monsters and devils are capable of, Jericho St. James. And you are a devil. It’s what I thought that first day. Did you know that? And when you’re done with me—”
“I’m not going to be done with you.” I spin her to face away from me, uncap the syringe with my teeth and spit the cap out. “Don’t you get it?”
“Let me go!” She fights but she’s not strong enough. Not even close. I nudge her leggings down a little and push the needle into her hip.
“No!”
But it’s too late. It’s already working. When I pull out the empty barrel, her knees give out and I lift her in my arms to carry her to the bed.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to tell you this way.”
“When you’re done with me, are you going to bury me beside Nellie? Let weeds grow over my grave so no one remembers me?” she asks, words slurring.
“That again?” I pull her to a seat, hug her to me. “No. Never. Never.”
I sit on the bed holding her on my lap. “Why do you hate me so much?” she asks, her voice almost too low to be heard.
“I don’t hate you. The opposite. God knows I never intended to, but it’s true.”
I feel the weight of her head drop to my shoulder. I close my eyes, holding on to her tight. So tight.
It’s true. What I feel for her is the opposite of hate. It’s love. And hurting her tonight hurts me as if someone’s got hold of the muscle inside my chest and is squeezing hard.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I lay her down, lift her legs onto the bed. I look at her so small and vulnerable and innocent in a world of devils. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
I brush her hair back from her face and stand up, slip off her shoes, her leggings. When I do, something falls out of her pocket and lands on the floor. I tuck her in, bending to pick it up and my heart stops. Because I’ve seen the rosary before. I recognize the handwriting on the sheet of paper it’s wrapped around. And I swear I smell the stench of the cellar on the sheets.
I lower myself to sit on the edge of the bed and look at the papers in my hand. Look at the sleeping Isabelle. And I unwrap the rosary to open the letter.
27
Jericho
I read that letter a dozen times and I still don’t understand. I still can’t make sense of it.
Zoë’s suicide note. She did leave one. She’d left it for Zeke and he must have read it then hidden it only to have Isabelle find it.
Fuck.
I swallow a deep mouthful of whiskey and look at the mausoleum wall. Look at her name. The date of her birth and of her death. At least the whiskey isn’t my father’s brand. I hate the stuff he used to drink. Always have.
I read the letter through again, the rosary wrapped around my fist, biting into the back of my hand as it clenches into a fist.
Zoë killed herself because our father was hurting her. Touching her.
A wave of nausea has me thinking I’ll throw up, but I don’t. How could we not know? How could that go on for a full year and we didn’t fucking know?
