“I’ll never love you,” I hiss, spitting in his face.
He gives a howl of anger, and twists my wrists so hard spasms of pain shoot up my arm. I writhe in his grip, and for a moment we’re motionless, grappling silently for control.
Then my feet are sliding out from under me, my body slipping out of his grasp, and I am falling. The last thing I see is his pale, shocked face, his hand still outstretched toward me. Then the darkness
swallows me, and the world is nothing but wind and stone.
I fall. Or rather, I tumble. My body careens off every outcropping of stone and every protruding branch. I flail around, grasping for any kind of handhold. For a minute my fingers close around a clump of
exposed roots. Then the roots tear free from the earth, and gravity has me again.
When I land, my lungs claw inside my chest for what seems like ages before I can take a breath. The world is brilliant with agony, shimmering and surreal. When my eyes focus again, I can see a shard of bone
protruding from my left leg.
From somewhere nearby I can hear something scrambling around. I try to pull myself up on my elbows, but everything goes white with the effort. Sweat and blood drip down into my face. And he’s here now,
standing over me. Ethan.
“Please help me,” I croak. “My leg’s broken. I can’t walk.”
Ethan kneels down next to me. For a minute his face is cloaked in shadows. He fumbles around next to me—I can’t see what he’s doing. Every time I try to move my head the world spins. But then a cool white
light illuminates the angles of his face. He’s pulled my iPhone out from my purse—I can make out the polka dots on its Kate Spade cover.
“There’s no service down here,” I say. Pain ripples out from my leg in sickening waves. “Please. You have to walk back to the parking lot and call 911.”
He looks down at me, his face strangely blank in the electronic glow of the phone. It’s almost like he doesn’t recognize me. For some reason this scares me more than anything that happened at the top of the
cliff. I start to cry, my body heaving in choked, painful sobs.
“I can’t believe you made me do this,” he says, his voice hollow with disappointment. “After everything I did for you. I didn’t want this. I thought you were different, Sutton.”
Then he’s kneeling down over me, fumbling at my shirt collar. His fingers close around the locket at my throat, and he pulls so sharply the chain breaks.
“Give it back!” I scream, my breath ragged. “Give it back, you asshole!” But he’s already moved away from me, into the shadows. The gentle twinkle of the stars has become pulsing and rhythmic. They throb
in time with my heartbeat, flaring and then fading, flaring and fading.
Then he’s back, looming over me. He’s nothing but a dark shape blocking out the stars behind him. There’s a jagged, pointed rock in his hands. He holds it high overhead.
“If I can’t have you, no one can,” he says.
I close my eyes, but I can still hear it whistling through the air as he brings it down over my head.
Before I can even scream out, the world explodes in light—the grand finale of a summer fireworks display—and then, just as quickly, my world goes suddenly, finally dark.
30
THE ENVELOPE, PLEASE
Emma stared down at the records in her hand. Written in black ink across the top form was the patient’s name.
Ethan Landry.
For a moment she thought about stuffing the paperwork back in the envelope, back into the Tampax box under the sink. She’d had the chance to look at this once before, when she’d broken into the hospital
about a month earlier. But she had chosen not to invade Ethan’s privacy—and she still didn’t want to.
Ethan had been honest with her about the whole thing. When she’d asked him about the files, he told her the story: how his dad had been beating his mom, and Ethan had intervened, hitting his father over the
head with a beer bottle—only to have his mother call the police on him. She’d reported him as “violent” and had him admitted to the psychiatric ward. Emma’s heart ached when she thought about it. In a
way, Ethan had been abandoned by his family, just like she had.
But her eyes moved across Nisha’s note again. Sutton, I’m so sorry. She’d been so certain that the evidence Nisha found was some kind of proof that Garrett killed Sutton. But it seemed obvious from her
note that Nisha had no idea Sutton had died. What had she called and texted so frantically about, then? Why had Garrett come to kill her if she didn’t have evidence against him? Emma’s fingers clutched the
folder sharply. She didn’t understand any of this.
But I did.