Chapter Twenty-Seven
Long after Angela had died, after Max had been separated from Witt, not seeing him since, after the police had asked her a million questions, after she’d told a million lies, and after some nameless, faceless cop had driven her back into the City to get her car, Max climbed up onto her front porch. The rain had stopped, darkness had fallen, and her light was on. The one step up seemed almost more than she could handle. Her feet ached, her legs cramped, and her heart had ripped messily in two.
She almost stepped on the small package before seeing it. The writing was unfamiliar, her name smeared by the rain across the brown paper. She held it aloft gingerly, as if some small part of her brain thought it might contain a bomb. Then she shook it, tried to bend it. And she knew. A video from Bud Traynor.
She unlocked her door and sat on the first stair to open it. The sodden paper came away easily in her fingers. Yes, it was a jewel case, two of them, in fact. And a note, his style bold and without flourish.
Two DVDs of Julia. Do with them as you wish. He’d signed his name, then added a P.S. beneath. These are the only copies.
She could believe him or not, her choice. Just as it was her choice to reveal the video to Julia, to apologize for believing her a killer.
The climb to the top of the stairs was almost more than she could manage. Her clothes ended up scattered across the floor. She could do no more than tumble into her bed, nightshirt forgotten, skin naked against the sheets. Closing her eyes, she listened for the sound of Buzzard climbing through the open window. She lay silent, waiting for him as he licked first one paw, then the other, turned in circles, and finally settled down against her belly. Rituals, every one needed them, even cats.
Though the rain had stopped, water still dripped through the trees and onto the roof. She smelled Cameron first, peppermints fresh as the rain-washed air. Closing her eyes, she felt him wrap his arms around her as if they were real, felt his breath against her neck as if he had a body to breathe with.
“I condemned her, and I made Witt her executioner.”
“She died the day she killed Lance. It was only a matter of time before her body finally gave up the ghost.”
“Horace said Witt would kill for me. And I made him do it. I was so stupid.”
“You trusted her, Max. You believed in her. Perhaps that’s why you didn’t have to utilize your psychic gifts as much this time. You understood why she did what she did, but you were terrified of finding out she could also kill him.” He sighed, a breath in her ear. “That wasn’t stupid. It was the most important thing you’ve done in two years. You trusted, Max. Understand that and forgive yourself.”
Her nose tingled. She sniffed to stop it.
“Trust Witt to forgive you.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them to stare at the little toy truck Witt had given her for her birthday. The one they’d played with using their bodies as racetracks. “I think I loved her,” she whispered, knowing Cameron would understand she was talking about something far more than sex or romantic love. “But sometimes people do things you can’t forgive. Or forget.”
“You don’t want to forget, Max. Not about anything. Remembering gives you the chance to understand that even beautiful people, people you love, even they have a dark side you could never imagine. And they do horrible things.” Silence, long enough to let it sink in. “But you love them anyway.”
I’ve done some very bad things. She didn’t open her lips to say it, knowing the words couldn’t be said aloud. Not yet. Not this first time. They had to be transmitted telepathically, from her mind to his.
“Throwing my cigarettes down the garbage disposal wasn’t the only thing you’ve blamed yourself for, was it, my love?”
Cameron had gone to the 7-11 for another pack. He’d died. But no, that hadn’t been her worst sin.
“Angela and I were sisters at thirteen,” she said as if it could somehow replace what she couldn’t say aloud.
“You were a child at thirteen, so was she.”
Thirteen. The turning point in a girl’s life. Where she either becomes a woman, or a monster. Thirteen. The point of no return. The point at which you could become a person who chewed cigarettes up with maniacal force, who sent her husband to his death. A person capable of killing innocence.
“Good people do bad things. Sometimes they’re forced to.”
A breath jerked in, out, then she settled. “Then they aren’t really good people after all.”
“Witt killed Angela.” He said it, left the sentence hanging inside her head.
“Angela killed Lance,” he added when she couldn’t seem to allow a thought to form in her head. “And you killed...” He didn’t finish, as if he knew she couldn’t survive the spoken word.
She stared at the truck until it blurred. “I can’t say it, Cameron.”
“And I can’t say it for you.”