Even if it kills me.
I reach the landing on the second floor, the double doors open onto the second-floor hallway. I walk through like I’m in slow motion, like I’m wading upstream, but I’m not stopping now, so I turn left and head toward the master bedroom, the bedroom where Melanie Phillips and Zach Stern were brutally tortured, where various Holdens over the years committed brutal acts on others and on themselves.
“Aiden Willis!” I call, forcing the words out. “Aiden, I was wrong about you! I know that now! You—you saved my life that day. I remember now. You got me out of this house. Just—just please, please talk to me!”
One foot in front of the other down the ornate red-and-gold hallway, shining my dwindling flashlight beam in front of me, until I reach the threshold of the master bedroom.
“Aiden, are you in here?”
I shine my light over the room. Empty. Nobody here.
But near the bed, a lamp—another kerosene lamp, the liquid full in the hourglass-shaped clear bowl, a short wick protruding from atop the metal dome. Next to it, a book of matches. I tuck my gun in the back of my pants and pin the flashlight between my arm and body. I strike the match and light the wick, producing a healthy orange glow about the room.
Light, precious light, as my flashlight is on the verge of dying.
I head to the corner of the room, to the French doors and the wraparound corner balcony outside. I push open the French doors, cool air hitting my face, the wind swirling, and look out over Ocean Drive to the west.
I see a glimpse of him, the signature straw hair, the slight hunch to his posture—Aiden Willis running north on Ocean Drive, away from the Atlantic, from this house, from me and my questions, and disappearing into the woods.
I lean against the railing, the wind playing with my hair, my eyes fixed on that point where Aiden ducked into the woods. I’ll never catch up with him. He’s too far ahead, and much more familiar with every nook and cranny of this town.
Come here, he said to me as a boy. Follow me.
I’m trying to pull more from that memory, but the more I reach for it, the farther away it gets. I shake my head. It’s no use trying to force it. It’s like turning on high beams to see through fog; it only muddies it up more.
I remember his face, remember his words, remember the relief sweeping through me when he guided me out of that basement and up those stairs.
“But then what?” I whisper.
And why—why did Aiden come through Justin’s window the other night and try to attack me with that knife?
Deflated, defeated, I push myself off the railing. I curve around the corner to enter the bedroom from the south.
Where Noah Walker stands, training a gun on me.
117
“DON’T MOVE, MURPHY. Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
I show him my empty hands. The flashlight left behind, on the bed. Justin’s revolver stuffed in the back of my pants, which he can’t see.
Focus, Murphy.
Assess—assess the situation.
I’m on the balcony by the railing. Noah is maybe eight, ten feet away, inside the room but just at the entrance to the balcony. The lamp, behind him, is sufficient to give me a decent look at his features—his eyes narrowed from the wind licking his face, stinging his eyes, his face crumpled up in anger, the gun trembling in front of him.
Anger—at me? For screwing up his plans? I guess he was having a pretty easy time killing people before I came along.
“I should kill you right now,” he hisses.
“What’s stopping you?” I say. My eyes cast about for options, but it’s pitch-black out here on the balcony. About my only option is jumping from the balcony and hoping I avoid the spiked fence, hoping I survive with just some broken bones.
Or charging him. He doesn’t look that comfortable holding that gun. Most of the people he killed were cut or stabbed or impaled. Maybe firearms aren’t his thing.
Still, he’s so close to me. He couldn’t miss me if he tried.
“I have a few questions,” he says.
“And you think I’m going to answer them?”
“Yeah, I do,” he says, “because I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to kill your boyfriend Justin.”
Justin. Roped into this because of me.
“Justin has nothing to do with this, Noah. Leave him out of it.”
Noah pauses. “He doesn’t know anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Murphy. I’m done with you screwing with my head. You know I actually started to care about you? What a freakin’ joke.”
Emotion in his voice with these last words, choking on them. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He’s upset, coming unraveled.
Something I can use, maybe.
“I started to care about you, too,” I say.
“Shut up! I don’t wanna hear that!”