The sound of her pain sent a tremor of satisfaction, of rightness, through him.
“Leave me alone,” she garbled into the pillow, the words almost incoherent. She’d clearly been drinking. Her voice was strange and rough. “I told you… I’m done with you. I hate you.”
After everything she’d done, she hated him.
Mint’s vision turned red. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently, hearing the sound of her head hitting the headboard, again and again, sharp little thwacks. “Say you’re sorry.”
She was making some sort of noise, but it wasn’t language. It wasn’t an apology. She must think he wasn’t someone who counted, someone to be afraid of. Wasn’t a man.
Impotence filled him, and the fire exploded.
Mint stumbled back from the bed, hitting the desk, and then he saw them. Massive, sharp-pointed scissors, the blades like knives. And what to do seized him, the rightness of it hitting him as swift as a lightning strike. He swept the scissors off the desk, gripped the handles so hard his fingers hurt, and drove them down like a pike into her back.
She screamed into her pillow, arms flailing. It was like opening a dam, all the rage and pain flowing out of Mint and into her. He wrenched the scissors out and stabbed her again, feeling the solidness of her flesh resist, then accept, the blades. This girl who’d humiliated him, who was trying to ruin him—now he was hurting her, making her weak, making her flop like a fish out of water. The tables had turned.
He punished her again and again, taking the apology from her body since she wouldn’t give it to him in words. It felt so good that the feeling frenzied him, making his heart smash against his rib cage. He twisted her onto her back, pushing the scissors into her stomach—the power of it—and he knew with every fiber of his being that he wasn’t his father, that he had a backbone, that no one could laugh at him. She kicked wildly, foot catching the curtains, wrenching them open, and moonlight flooded the room. He looked at her with a thrill of anticipation, wanting to soak in the pain on her face, the horror and regret.
Blond hair, not brown.
His grip loosened on the scissors. They clattered to the floor.
It wasn’t Jessica’s face that stared back at him, eyes wide in terror, mouth open, fighting for a slow, gurgling breath.
It was Heather.
“Oh god,” Mint said. The room spun, fire draining out of him, and he went dizzy, nearly dropped to his knees next to the scissors. What was Heather doing in Jessica’s bed? And why hadn’t she spoken clearly, said something to identify herself?
What had he done?
Heather’s eyes tracked him as he took a step back, and suddenly Mint saw the scene for what it was, in all its terrible truth. He saw the blood everywhere, across the bed and climbing the walls and marring the skin of his hands, the white of his dress shirt under his black suit jacket. He saw the girl who had been his friend, shuddering with pain. He saw Heather, not Jessica. Heather, rasping and blinking, Heather, who he’d stabbed.
He was going to burn for this. He was going to be sent to prison. Everything—whatever was left of his family’s fortune, his spot at Columbia Law, his friends, his family, his future. This time there was no question he would lose it all. His mother would know what he’d done. His father, if he ever woke up. Everyone in the world.
His life was over.
No. Defiance cut through the panic. He’d made a mistake, that’s all. He didn’t deserve to have his life ruined because of one mistake, provoked by Jessica anyway, and by Trevor Daly, and Charles Smith, and Jack, and his father. It was their fault, not his. But he would fix it. He would save himself.
Mint scrambled to his feet and dashed to the bathroom. Now that the frenzied feeling had worn off, he was viscerally aware of the slickness of his hands, the heavy, coppery smell that clung to him. He scrubbed his hands furiously at the bathroom sink, digging under his nails. Then he saw his face and cursed. Peeling off his clothes, he showered, scrubbing hard, then put the dark suit back on. It was even starting to dry.
Looking one last time in the mirror, he caught it—there, on his neck. A bright-red mark, prelude to a bruise, peaked out from his collar. Heather must have hit him at some point. He pulled his bow-tie higher, hiding it, then closed his jacket over the white shirt so no one could see the blood splatters. He was fine now, covered.
He rushed back to the bedroom. There was no telling how long he had. He grabbed a T-shirt someone had left slung over the door and used it to wipe the handles of the scissors. Then he placed them securely inside his jacket.
A plan was taking shape, guided by survivor’s instincts. He wasn’t going down for this; there was no way. It came down to a simple choice: him, or someone else. And he knew who he’d choose every time. He just had to be smart.
Mint gave Heather one last glance. And stopped. He couldn’t see her chest moving.
She’d died.
While he was in the bathroom scrubbing off her blood, Heather had died alone.
Tears flooded Mint’s eyes; he felt like his chest was going to cleave in half. His knees wobbled.
No. No weakness. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be as good as dead, too.
He shoved himself out the door and wiped the handle, then strode across the living room, opened the front door with the T-shirt, closed it behind him, wiped again, handle and PIN pad, then stuffed the T-shirt into his suit jacket, buttoned it to the top one final time. He’d burn these clothes as soon as he could, everything he was wearing, and no one would notice because he had a closetful of the same suits, dark and well cut and expensive.
He’d shower, put on another black suit, slip back into the party, act like nothing happened. Complain about drinking too much, having to throw up, if anyone even bothered to ask. Everyone would remember him there, as much as they could remember anything through the black tunnel of whiskey, a bottle for every couple.
From now on, he’d do whatever it took: feign tears and shock. Be a doting boyfriend to Jessica so no one would ever suspect. Fall in line behind his mother and the man she’d cheated with. He’d smooth everything over, wear the veneer of perfection until it was true, until the mask melted and fused to his face. This would be the ultimate proof he wasn’t his father. He wouldn’t give up his life for a single mistake.
He had just one stop to make, one smoking gun to plant. It was poetic, really. One betrayal in exchange for another. Jack Carroll thought he could send Mint to the cops, and now Mint would send the cops to him.
Chapter 41
Now
The whole world ended with Mint’s words. Everything I thought I knew gone in the blink of an eye, our past scratched out and written over with the truth, the words dark and terrible. And I was going straight to hell, because the first thought that crossed my mind when Mint unraveled was, I won.
Ten years ago, on Valentine’s Day, Mint had stormed out of Sweetheart, snuck into my room, and stabbed Heather seventeen times because he thought she was me. Heather was always taking what was mine, and the secret of her murder—the great, intractable mystery of her death—was that she’d simply done it one too many times.
It had been about me this whole time.
Then the shock cleared, and my next thought was, My body is turning inside out. I leaned over and threw up everything inside my stomach, acid bitter in my mouth.
The room exploded into noise.
“You killed her,” Eric screamed, lunging for Mint, but Mint was too fast, twisting away from him to the corner of the room where the shattered window met the wall. He bent and scooped something from the floor, gripping it like a dagger in his right hand. It was a massive, jagged piece of glass. A line of blood snaked down his wrist from where he held it, the same crimson as the Duquette polo he wore.
“Nobody come close,” Mint warned.
“Mint, it can’t be true,” Caro said. “Take it
back. You wouldn’t do that.” She clutched her chest. “You’re our friend.”
Mint pointed the glass dagger at me. “Where were you that night?” He spun to Coop. “With the professor, or him?”
My heart was pounding so fast it was going to break through my chest.
Courtney grunted, an unladylike sound, and her eyes rolled back in her head. Caro shrieked, but before she could do anything to stop it, Courtney wobbled, knees bending in unnatural directions, then collapsed on the floor. Caro dropped to her knees and pressed her fingers to Courtney’s throat. “Her heart’s beating. Oh my god.”
“She just fainted, Caro. I’ve seen it on the field. It’s going to be okay.” Slowly, Frankie turned from Caro to Mint, his hands spread wide in supplication. “Mint, why don’t you put the glass down. This isn’t you. Put it down and we’ll talk it out.” He took a hopeful step forward.
“Stay back!” Mint hissed. His golden hair was disheveled, flipped over his forehead so you could only see one of his eyes, making him look a little mad. Perfect Mint, campus big shot, heir to a real estate empire, king of the East House Seven. A killer.
Eric ignored Mint’s warning, stalking toward him. “You planted the scissors in Jack’s room.” It wasn’t a question but a puzzle piece fitting into place. “You framed one of your best friends, threw him to the wolves. Sat back and watched his life go down in flames because of what you did. All our lives. And then what, you kept dating the girl you tried to kill, just to keep up appearances?”
That’s right. Oh god. Mint had come to me after Heather died, drowning in an ocean of emotion he could barely keep contained—guilt and fear and anger. I’d assumed it was survivor’s guilt, nothing more than an intense reaction to what had happened to our friend. I could remember now. He hadn’t let me touch him for hours, nearly a whole night, even as he’d insisted we recommit to our relationship. And I—awash in my own misery and guilt—had been grateful for the lifeline, the chance to make my life normal again. I was desperate to feel the way Mint used to make me feel—like I was valuable, a somebody.
I grimaced as I remembered the night he’d broken up with me in New York, the way he’d looked at me with revulsion when I’d begged him not to. That had been a glimpse of the true Mint, what he really felt. Everything else had been a lie, carefully calculated by a man who’d actually tried to kill me. My first real boyfriend, who for a few triumphant seconds in the dark thought he really had done it.
My legs went weak. I dropped, unable to hold myself up.
Mint’s steel eyes turned to me as I knelt, taking measure of me in that way he had. But this time, instead of wanting to straighten my spine and stand taller, I wanted to cower. To be anywhere other than where he could find me.
“Jack was going to report me to the cops for hurting Trevor,” Mint said, his voice cold and detached, almost thoughtful. “I never felt bad about what I did to him. But you—I did feel bad about you. Really. I tried to forgive you for Garvey, to move on in New York. I figured if I could just get rid of my anger, that goddamn fire in my chest, I could wipe the slate clean. But I couldn’t. And it turns out I shouldn’t have even tried to forgive you, because it wasn’t just Garvey. It was him, too.” He pointed the tip of the glass at Coop, whose gaze was already locked on Mint, eyes narrowed, shoulders tensed.
“For that, I’m going to finish what I started,” Mint said. For a second, I thought he was talking to Coop—he was still looking at him. But then he turned to me, his eyes strangely vacant, and I knew the truth. Of course. It was me he hated. Me who’d turned him into his father.
His voice was so measured. “I’m going to do it right this time. You did everything you could to humiliate me, and now you have to pay, for balance. I—”
Eric rushed him in a burst of speed, but Mint reacted quickly, meeting Eric with his foot, kicking him square in the chest. Eric hit the floor hard, hands catching the glass shards. They turned bright with blood.
Coop lunged, trying to take advantage of Mint’s distraction, but Mint twisted away and slashed Coop with his jagged glass, making a vicious line across Coop’s chest. Caro screamed as Coop staggered, clutching the long gash, his T-shirt gaping open.
I fell backwards to the floor. It was one thing to hear Mint’s confession, another to see him strike his friend and draw blood. The surprise must have caught Frankie, too, because he paused his forward momentum, giving Mint the precious seconds he needed to thrust his hand inside Coop’s pocket and wrestle out the lighter he’d known Coop would be carrying. He flicked up a flame, as fluid as Coop had taught him to be.
“Don’t—” Caro started to get up from where she crouched near Courtney, but Mint leapt past her to the stack of old newspapers and touched the flame to the paper. For one glorious instant it seemed nothing happened, but then the fire spilled from the lighter, racing over the newspaper, and suddenly it was ablaze. The fire caught the arm of a nearby couch, licking across the cushions, until it covered the couch like a blanket.
Mint was setting the room on fire. We’d discovered his secret, and now he was going to kill us.
Eric had rolled to his knees, still struggling to breathe from Mint’s kick, and now he and Frankie grabbed Coop’s shoulders—ignoring his moan, the hand pressed to his chest—and pulled him back, away from the flames. Caro was trying with every ounce of her strength to pull the deadweight of Courtney’s body toward the doorway.
As Mint rose, the fire rose also, as if a cobra, entranced. It was so hot I could feel it on my skin, even across the distance. And it was growing bigger, engulfing the old couches to form a wall between me and my friends. Between me and the door.
Leaving me and Mint on the other side. Alone, together.
He turned to me, dropped the lighter, and smiled.
I scrambled backwards, toward the cool air of the broken window, but Mint closed the distance between us too fast, seizing my leg with his free hand. I was too terrified to scream as he yanked me across the floor, my hands scraping the ground but finding no purchase.
Then I was underneath him, looking up at his face. Even crazed, even in disarray, he was still so beautiful. The best mask in the world. The boy who had everything, who no one would suspect. I breathed faster, coughing as I sucked in smoke. When had Mint become this other person—senior year? Junior? Had this been inside him all along, this dark potential? Should I have known freshman year, the day we sat on his bed, knees touching, and he’d told me what he’d done to his father, how good it had made him feel? Or even further back than that, the day he’d snapped over the drawing on the float?
He had shown me slivers of who he was. And instead of recoiling, I’d leaned toward him. Because he was Mint. The prince of Duquette.
I choked again, and all the while Mint was leaning over me, sinking closer. Why wasn’t I fighting? What power did he have over me, what spell had he cast that kept me, even now, in his thrall?
“Why?” I managed to ask, pushing the word out past the ache in my throat.
Mint ignored me, eyes flicking over my neck, my lips, my cheekbones. “You know, my father tried to kill himself. The week of Sweetheart. I never told anyone until now.”
Danger, get away. I tried to roll, but he caught me by the throat, his large hand squeezing painfully. I thrashed, gasping, my arms and legs slick with sweat from the fire, but Mint held me fast.
“He failed everyone, so he took the coward’s way out. But I’m not like him. I fix my mistakes.” Instead of shocking me, Mint’s words rang with a painful familiarity. And I realized: our fathers were alike. They’d walked similar paths, and all this time, Mint and I had hidden it from each other. My whispered words from over a decade ago floated back: I think I hate my father, too. Maybe we were the same. Mint and Jessica: two sides of the same coin.
Mint squeezed my neck, and I felt my windpipe constrict. Red flooded my vision, the whole world narrowing to a
single, desperate need: air.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to my ear like a lover, like he’d done a thousand times before. “You’re a terrible person,” he whispered. “I want you to die knowing that.”
Then he plunged the jagged glass into my side.
Pain. It was an electric shock, a strike of lightning, the burning heat of thousands of nerves dying. I wrenched against his hand, the world closing in—the thickening smoke, his unrelenting grip, the pain—the pain—worse than I’d ever known.
He pulled back to stab me again and I saw it, like déjà vu: I was going to die like Heather. She’d taken my place ten years ago, giving me a decade-long reprieve, but now fate was back to claim me.
Suddenly Mint toppled sideways, his hand freeing my throat, the jagged glass flying out of his grip. Coop and Frankie were on him, their shirts and pants smoking, their skin a bright, scary red. They’d pushed through the wall of flames. Coop wrapped his arms around Mint’s shoulders, twisting him away, and I lurched backwards, screaming when the movement ripped open my side.
I pressed my hand over the wound and made myself keep moving, even though I couldn’t tear my eyes from where Mint wrestled Frankie and Coop, the three of them tumbling over the broken glass.
I gulped air that was mostly smoke, ignoring the pain in my throat. The room was in flames. I could only see the top of Caro’s head over the fiery wall of couches, and I couldn’t see Courtney at all. Where was Eric? We needed to leave, now.
Sharp movement snapped my attention back to the fight. Mint tried to shove Coop, but Frankie wrestled him to the ground, pinning his arms, both their chests heaving, sweat rolling from their temples. The look on Mint’s red face was monstrous. “Get off me!” he screamed, kicking his legs, but Frankie held on.
Mint changed tacks. “Frankie,” he begged, “you’re my best friend. Let me go—we can talk.”
Frankie’s face was an open book, his struggle—pain and confusion, love and regret—written across it plainly. Nearly two decades he’d worshipped Mint, been steadfastly devoted. But now he closed his eyes and shook his head, gripping Mint tighter.
In My Dreams I Hold a Knife Page 27