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He had proof.
He carried it with him everywhere.
“Lavender wrote me a note. The day she committed suicide, she left it along with a lock of her hair in our special place.”
“Did you ever actually see Lavender?” Brady asked.
“Her mother hurt her, that’s why she committed suicide. But when Victoria would lock me out in the snow Lavender would come, we’d talk, and when we got older, sometimes we would kiss.”
“But she would always blindfold you, wouldn’t she?” Brady persisted.
“They sounded different,” he insisted. “They smelled different. Lavender always smelled of lavender, Victoria didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Dante, but Lavender died when she was thirteen, two years before you were born. You were thirteen when Victoria pretended that her daughter committed suicide. Maybe that meant something to her, we’ll never know. But what you did, you thought you were doing it for the girl you loved. In a way you still were. You stabbed Victoria, just like you stabbed Christine Morginson and Maeve Franklin. You were only thirteen, and because she had abused you, they sent you to a juvenilepsychiatric facility until you turned eighteen, and then your records were sealed, you started over with a clean slate.”
Started over, that was a joke.
He hadn't started over. He had barely been surviving each and every day since then.
Lavender was dead, and he had taken a life. In the hospital he had been treated like some sort of insane imbecile by the staff and his parents had been as disinterested in him as they had always been.
His life was hell.
It was nothing.
Hefelt like nothing.
Until Samara.
She was the first person ever, other than Lavender, to show him an ounce of kindness. To take time to make him feel like a real human being. She had cared enough to stop and find out if he was okay, and in doing so she had saved his life. Because of her, he hadn't jumped off the bridge and ended everything.
But now he knew the truth.
Lavender was nothing more than the imagination of an insane woman who had lost her mind after killing the daughter she had tortured.
Samara was all he had.
Sirens sounded in the distance, and the cops would be here soon. They would drag Samara away from him by force, shoot him if he resisted, throw him in prison for the rest of his life if he went with them peacefully.
Either way, the result would be the same.
He would be alone.
Again.
Without Samara.
He’d rather be dead.
Dante kept Samara close and jumped backward over therailing and off the bridge.
This was the only way they could be together.
Together in death.
Together for eternity.
No one was taking Samara away from him.
