It Ends With Her

by Brianna Labuskes

  But she’d blinked back into consciousness, the pain in her jaw welcome because it meant she was still alive. If she was still alive, she still had a chance.

  When Bess tried to call out, her voice cracked, a rasp against her dry throat. She coughed, then screamed as loud as she could, ignoring the way her tired vocal cords burned, rubbing themselves raw.

  “Stop,” Simon said from the top of the stairs. It was habit more than anything that had her mouth snapping shut.

  Don’t lose it, she told herself. Don’t lose the fight. Don’t retreat and cower and become the girl who shut up just because someone told you to.

  “No,” she forced out past chapped lips that wanted to hold the word inside her mouth. “No.”

  Simon started down the stairs, and she couldn’t quite remember how to swallow. Instead of watching him draw closer, Bess closed her eyes. It was black and velvet behind her lids, and she thought not about Simon and his fists and his feet and the power in his limbs but of Jeremy.

  This whole time she thought she’d been weak with him, for him. When he told her to stop, she stopped; when he hit her, she apologized; when he humiliated her, she accepted it as fact. He’d broken down her personality and told her he loved her while doing it.

  But maybe she was wrong. Maybe she hadn’t been weak. It took strength to survive. If she could take nothing else from what she was going through, she could take that.

  It took strength to survive.

  It wasn’t about who could break fragile capillaries beneath even more delicate skin; it wasn’t about who could twist arms so ligaments stretched and tore; it wasn’t about who could snap bones with angry hands. It was about who woke up every day in a world that made that decision a painful one, but did it anyway. It was about who made the choice to live when giving up would be so much easier.

  Yes, maybe she was broken because of Jeremy. But that had made her strong.

  And that’s why she would survive Simon.

  She opened her eyes to find him studying her, his expression curious, watching her in a way he’d done only a handful of times before. As if she were the only thing in the world he could see.

  Her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip. He followed the movement.

  “What are you going to do with me now?”

  His mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Can you . . .” She stopped. Cleared her throat. Her voice was stronger when she started again. “Look, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone what happened.”

  He shifted back, propping a hip against the wall across from where she was tied. “Don’t beg. It’s beneath you.”

  “How do you know that? You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Do you really think that?”

  No. Yes. She didn’t know anymore.

  “You think just because you’ve watched me, you know me?” Despite the bravado, the idea of it, of his eyes on her when she hadn’t known, left a sick, twisting feeling in her stomach.

  “I know on Wednesdays you take the long route home to walk through the park,” Simon said, his voice an intimate caress.

  Don’t lose the fight. Don’t let the fear take hold. “You know my walking route. That makes you a stalker. That doesn’t mean you know me,” she shot back.

  He hummed, deep in his throat. “I know why you do it.”

  Not even Jeremy knew that. “You don’t.”

  He smiled. “It reminds you of the park near your mother’s apartment. You used to play there when you were younger.”

  “What?” Her tongue tripped over the word, and black flecks floated into her vision.

  The corner of his lip tipped even higher. “I know a lot about you, my dear. Do you still think it was an accident that we met? That it was the simple bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  Of course she did. Who let themselves imagine they’d been stalked? Hunted? Studied so meticulously.

  He walked over to her and curled a strand of her hair around his finger. “So naive.” He was laughing at her.

  “But that doesn’t make sense. You never even paid attention to me. You always talked to Anna.”

  That came out wrong.

  “Were you jealous, pet?” he asked softly.

  If she denied it, something told her he would only laugh. “Why me?”

  When he let go of his hold on her hair, he didn’t look annoyed. Instead, it was almost as if he were debating with himself. There was a shrug in his voice when he answered, as if he couldn’t see why not to tell her. “You, my dear, are bait.”

  Bait.

  The answer ricocheted off the inside of her skull, and she couldn’t force it to make sense. Bait for whom? Jeremy? No, that wasn’t right. It’s not like she had a family who would miss her. The friends she’d gathered at school and at work had been slowly drifting away from her as her relationship with Jeremy deepened. They were acquaintances at this point, if that.

  “No one cares.”

  She’d meant it to come out as a question or a demand, not a whimper.

  “I didn’t think I would like you,” Simon said.

  She blinked as the sudden shift took her off guard. “And you think that bothers me?”

  “You surprised me, though,” he continued, unperturbed by her interruption. “Congratulations, that doesn’t happen very often anymore.”

  “Oh, I feel so special.”

  He smiled at that. “You should. You are. Just”—he paused, twirling a long, slim finger in the air—“not quite special enough. I’ve been told that happens with sisters. One thinks she’s never as good as the other.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Sisters,” he said, watching her with vicious expectation. “Sibling rivalry and all that.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” But her hand trembled where it was caught in rope.

  “Oh, pet. Remember, I know you. I know you’re not slow,” Simon said.

  “You don’t know me,” she screamed, but her tongue was lethargic. She knew what he was implying. “You don’t know . . .” Her voice broke on a sob. Something heavy was pressing in on her chest. She wondered if it would crush her ribs, her heart, her spine.

  He hummed again, unaffected. “I know that you never knew who your daddy was. Did you ever wonder, pet? Did you daydream that he’d ride in, a white knight to save the day?”

  She dropped her head, the position bending her windpipe and taxing her already-struggling lungs, but she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t give him that satisfaction.

  But he took it anyway, tipping her chin up so that she had to meet his eyes.

  She blinked up at him, the moisture making her lids heavy. “I didn’t need to be saved.”

  He rubbed his thumb against her cheekbone. “I didn’t expect to like you,” he said again, then stepped away. “I’m going to tell you about him anyway.”

  It’s not like he was waiting for her agreement, so she didn’t offer it. She just waited.

  “Your father met your mother while he was already married,” he started, watching her. Like she was supposed to be surprised.

  She lifted one shoulder and let it drop. She wasn’t.

  “You knew?”

  For the first time since she’d woken up, she felt amusement tug at her lips. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

  He sniffed and touched a finger to his swollen nose. It hadn’t been often that she could throw him. “He had another family.”

  While in her mind she’d known there was a possibility her biological father had been the married guy her mother always talked about after consuming too many glasses of wine, and that that meant there could be other children, it was another thing hearing it confirmed. She tried to keep her nonchalance wrapped around her like a blanket, a shield.

  He saw through it anyway, his eyes lighting up at her confusion, her pain. “Your father was not a good man.”

  “Because you’re the expert on good me
n?”

  “So feisty.” It seemed to please him. “No, I am not an expert on good men. The father figure in my life was a sadistic bastard.”

  “Am I supposed to feel bad for you?”

  “No,” he said. “I would never expect that from you.”

  “So what’s the point of this little mindfuck?”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “The point?”

  “Or is it just that you get off on emotional torture?” she asked, knowing the answer. There was a sick excitement around him that he couldn’t disguise despite his attempts at indifference. It made her want to push him, rattle him like he was doing to her. “Can’t get it up any other way?”

  That earned her a slap. “Ah, ah, ah. Don’t push it.”

  She looked away, squeezing back the tears of pain that had sprung to her eyes. It had been worth it.

  “Don’t you want to know about that family your father had?” he asked. “The real one? The one he loved.”

  It was a taunt, like it was supposed to hurt. Maybe it would be better if he thought it did. She let two tears slip over onto her cheeks, looking away at the same time as if ashamed of her own emotions. He wasn’t the only one who could play mind games.

  “No,” she whispered.

  She heard the smile in his voice. “Mmm, I don’t actually care what you want. Funny that.”

  There was a pause. Perhaps he was waiting for a reply, or perhaps he was settling in. She didn’t know and didn’t care to look up.

  “Your father died in a car crash,” he finally said. “A tractor trailer slammed into his car. He was killed on impact, but his wife was alive until the paramedics got there. Their daughter watched them die.”

  Their daughter. Their daughter.

  “That’s who this is all about,” she said. Finally realizing.

  His lips twitched up. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re meant to be together,” Simon said, sending shivers along her raw nerves.

  “So, what? What was Anna?”

  Fury tightened his face into a stone mask. “Anna was a poor substitute.”

  “And others? Have there been others?” She needed to know.

  “It doesn’t matter. None of them have mattered.”

  “Just her,” she said. That’s what this was all about. A sick obsession with some girl. Jesus Christ.

  Before he could say anything more, though, she heard it. So did he. The sound of a boot on a squeaky floorboard.

  The unwholesome anticipation that had been a low-level burn charging the air around them ramped up as he glanced toward the ceiling.

  “Our visitor is here.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “A little early. That’s my girl.”

  Bess couldn’t react. She was frozen. Absolutely paralyzed from her vocal cords to the balls of her feet. She wanted to shout out or throw herself toward the floor. Anything. Her body wasn’t listening to her, though. All it could feel was . . . sister. The word ran along her spine, snaked around her hip bones, and dug into the pit of her belly. Was this her sister? Was she drawing her sister to her death? Who was this woman who would come after a stranger? Blind terror warred with hope in a battle that left her helpless.

  Simon wasn’t wasting time, though. He held a finger to his lips and then faded back into the shadows of the room, where the weak light from the single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling didn’t reach.

  She’d lost track of the boots now, so Bess had no idea where the “visitor” was, or if she was coming down to the basement. If she did, would she be prepared to handle Simon? Was this person just walking blindly into a trap? God, Bess hoped she was smarter than that.

  Bess tried to think, but her brain was foggy, and everything was a little bit sideways.

  Focus.

  Two against one could work in their favor, even if she was tied up. Don’t lose the will to fight. The will to survive.

  Before she could formulate any kind of plan, though, the door at the top of the short flight of stairs pushed open.

  Bess couldn’t make out anything but a shape, but then, gun first, the figure started making its way down, keeping sideways to create a smaller target. The weapon soothed Bess. Simon had at least a knife and one gun that she’d seen. But her potential savior hadn’t rushed in empty-handed.

  The woman finally stepped into the very edges of the light, and Bess realized she was holding her breath. She let it out as they locked eyes.

  She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. It wasn’t this woman, though. She wasn’t wildly beautiful, as Bess had been imagining. No Helen of Troy to inspire wars or psychotic serial killers, as it were. And she didn’t look like Bess. At all. Maybe around the nose a little. But other than that, she didn’t see a resemblance.

  Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was slim but toned, and several inches taller than Bess. She couldn’t see her eyes.

  But it was the general aura of confidence around her, the way she carried herself, that truly set her apart. Bess couldn’t imagine the woman—her sister?—ever finding herself in the position Bess was in. So she just gaped at her. Unable to form coherent thoughts.

  The woman’s attention wasn’t on her, though, even as she rushed over. Her eyes were searching the recesses of the room, where she couldn’t see. Where danger was lurking. Bess wanted to tell her Simon was there. But the problem was that she couldn’t get the words out.

  “Hi,” the woman whispered, kneeling by her chair. She slipped a little knife from the pocket of her coat. Only when she went to work on the rope around Bess’s wrists did she meet her eyes. They were shocking and vibrant. And something in Bess slipped into place. Sister. The word thrummed around her racing heart, into the blood that was pulsing through every part of herself. “My name is Clarke Sinclair. I’m with the FBI. I’m going to get you out of here. Do you understand?”

  The words were a rush against the pounding in her eardrums. Bess thought she understood them. FBI. She got that. Was her sister with the FBI? Or was this not the woman Simon was waiting for? Still, she wasn’t able to say anything. Nothing was working. She screamed in her own head, feeling trapped and weak. Her mouth worked to form the words, but no sound came out.

  “It’s going to be all right. We’ll get you out of here.” Clarke Sinclair patted her arm with her free hand while she continued to slice through the thick bindings. She almost had one completely cut, even as her eyes were somewhere else, looking, searching.

  Get it out. There was something important she had to tell Clarke Sinclair. Say it. Do it, Bess. Don’t fall apart now.

  She sucked in as much air as she could and let the rush of oxygen push through the confusion that had settled into her brain. Let it flow through all the crevices and folds.

  “Simon,” she finally gasped. Clarke Sinclair froze.

  “What did you say, honey?”

  Make her understand. Make her understand. Why was nothing working right? She’d just been talking. Swearing even. “He’s here.”

  “Yes,” Clarke Sinclair said, and that made Bess feel better. She knew. The knife sliced through the final strands, and her right hand was freed. “He’s here?”

  Bess nodded. It wasn’t good enough. “He’s down here.”

  Clarke Sinclair just nodded, her eyes tracking the dark corners of the room while she slipped the knife back in her pocket. She picked up the gun she’d laid on the floor.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she singsonged, moving to stand over Bess, her weapon tracking every movement in the shadows.

  Simon’s voice came from behind Bess. Smooth and cloying.

  “Ah now, haven’t we grown out of such games, Adelaide?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CLARKE

  July 17, 2018

  “You tell me, Simon. You’re the one who likes to play games,” Clarke answered, her gun trained on where she guessed he was. “And it’s Clarke these days.”

  I
t was surreal to be this close to him again. For all that she’d talked to him, obsessed about him, hunted him over the years, she hadn’t seen him since that night.

  “Clarke,” he said in that way of his, letting the k hit hard and sharp. Mocking. Derisive. “So ugly. Adelaide fits much better.”

  “Adelaide hasn’t fit for a long time,” she said, inching closer but staying in the light. Letting him pull her into the shadows would give him the advantage.

  “And your hair.” His voice broke as if it truly pained him. “Your poor, glorious hair. Brown is so boring.”

  “I was tired of being interesting,” she murmured. A puzzle, he’d called her. Well, she’d never wanted to be one in the first place. Had never asked for that.

  “We can fix it,” he said, still lurking out of sight. She was caught between a desperation to finally see him again and the revulsion she knew it would bring.

  At some point, she’d thought, she’d hoped, she’d prayed, for the memories of that night to fade, to become blurred images that shifted in her nightmares to something she couldn’t really identify. That happened to people sometimes after traumatic events. They would forget. Black everything out. If only she had been so lucky.

  For her, the images only became sharper so that she could never escape. She still knew the exact spot Mrs. Cross had scratched angry welts across his cheek with desperate fingernails, still saw the manic tinge in his eyes when she closed hers, still could picture the arc of steel the moment before it slipped into flesh.

  Would seeing him now replace one nightmare with another? Would she slip back into the paralysis that had gripped her that night as he grinned at her across the room, his clothes saturated with blood?

  Saliva gathered in the back of her throat, and the bile pressed up against her esophagus. She swallowed hard.

  “Drop any weapons you have, Simon.” The order, the reminder that she was here not as a terrified teenager but as a trained professional with a gun, helped quiet the wave of nausea. It was going to be different this time. “Come out with your hands up. Slowly.”

  “No, I don’t think I’ll do that, Adelaide,” Simon said with a hint of laughter.