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“Yup.” I stared at her, wondering where she was going with this line of questioning.
“So why would the killer take your jersey?”
“Maybe he was just cold because of the storm outside. I have no idea.”
Sienna nodded slowly. “It could be something as simple as that. But if that’s the case, and the killer was a random drifter like the investigators eventually determined, then it doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Because why would a random drifter break in to the house, go all the way upstairs to the third floor, and grab a jersey that he had no way of knowing was even there?”
I frowned. “Sorry, I’m not following.”
“I mean, if he was cold, why not grab one of the jackets or coats the others left hanging on the rack near the front door on the first floor? Why specifically go all the way to the top floor to grab your jersey, when he should’ve had no idea it was even hanging there on the railing, and then go back downstairs to start the attack on the first floor? That just seems strange and pointless. Unless—”
“Unless he was already there at some point,” I said, comprehension finally dawning on me. “He had to have known my jersey was hanging there somehow.”
“Yes, exactly,” Sienna said, nodding fervently. “I guess he could’ve checked out the entire house before he started the attack. That would explain it. But what I’m wondering is—what if that’s not the case at all? What if the killer knew the jersey was hanging over the railing upstairs because he was already there long before the murders, and that’s why he ended up grabbing it to wear later? So really, what I mean is… one of the Forrester Five.”
I rubbed my jaw, heart suddenly hammering in my chest as her words sank in. “I think you’re right,” I said in a low voice. “I think it could’ve been one of us.”
Sienna
“You really think I could be right about this?”
I stared at Paxton with wide eyes, glad that he hadn’t dismissed my new theory out of hand. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did, given my history of incorrect allegations regarding the Forrester massacre.
He nodded. “I never even considered it before. But that was before I knew the guy was wearing my jersey,” he said, one hand gently stroking my arm. “I knew you always claimed whoever attacked you was wearing it, but I always thought you were making shit up.”
“You and everyone else,” I murmured, lowering my eyes to the blankets.
Paxton sat up straighter next to me. “So if it was one of us… who?”
“Well, I know it wasn’t you, and you know it wasn’t me,” I replied, looking him dead in the eye to show how much I truly meant it when I said I believed in his innocence. “But that means… it had to have been Justin, Tate, or Michaela.”
“Yup.” Paxton’s lips tightened. “So which one?”
“Maybe I’m just being stupid,” I said hastily. “Maybe it really was a random drifter, and he just happened to grab the jer—”
“Sienna.” Paxton grabbed my hand and squeezed it as he interrupted me. “Don’t doubt yourself now. I really think you could be right about this.”
“I’ve been wrong before. And it almost ruined your life,” I said softly, averting my eyes again.
He cupped my jaw in one hand, tilting my face so I had to look up at him. “Look, we’ve both said and done horrible, fucked up shit to each other. I don’t want you to feel guilty forever,” he said. “Now let’s talk about this. Let’s see what we can figure out.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath, trying to push away the guilt churning in my stomach. “I really, really hate to say it, but if we’re going to assume it was one of the other three survivors, then I think it has to be Tate or Michaela. It can’t be Justin.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Paxton said with a curt nod. “He was stabbed four times in the back. He couldn’t possibly have faked that.”
“Plus he’s right-handed. The killer supposedly used their left hand.”
“Okay, so what about Michaela?” Paxton frowned and tilted his head slightly to one side. “Is she left or right-handed?”
“Right. But actually… maybe we should forget about the hand thing. I think it would’ve been easy enough for someone to simply use their other hand.”
“True.” He rubbed his jaw. “So, back to Michaela—can you think of anything at all that would make you suspicious of her?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I can’t think of anything.”
“It is possible that she could have faked her attack and lied about it, though. Because she was stabbed in the front. It’s rare, but I’ve heard of cases where someone stabbed themselves like that to try and frame someone else.”
“That’s true. But I just don’t see any reason for it,” I said. “What possible reason would there be for her to do that?”
