Tom shrugged. “Claire sent her diary with a note. Make them understand what they did, Tom. All of them. So that’s what I’m doing. Making you understand.”
“It’s not our fault she killed herself.”
“YOU KILLED HER!” he roared. “Understand that. You killed my sister. She was special, sensitive, and trusting, and you killed her. All of you.”
“You can’t really believe that.”
“I know it.” His voice was shaky now. The emotion creeping in. At least something she was saying had gotten to him. “She was better than all of you and you never understood her.”
“I never even knew her!” Meg’s eyes darted around the boat, looking for a way to escape. She caught sight of the gun Minnie had dropped when she was shot, lying in a pool of Minnie’s blood by the stairs that led down to the main deck. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back another wave of tears. Minnie had died for nothing, and Meg was the only one left to tell the authorities what really happened on Henry Island. Meg opened her eyes and glanced back at the gun. If she could just get …
“Don’t move,” Tom snarled. He unshouldered his crossbow and pointed it straight at her. “Don’t even think about reaching for that gun.”
Meg felt the hope drain from her. This was it. This was the end. But she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
She thrust out her chin in defiance. “You won’t get away with it.”
“Meg,” he said. “I already have.”
THIRTY SIX
MEG WASN’T A PSYCHIC. THERE WASN’T AN intuitive or supernatural bone in her body. But somehow she picked up on Tom’s intention, saw it in his eyes or his movements. Even as his finger pulled the trigger, her body was in motion. No time to think about it, no time for a logical plan of action. She threw herself to the right, diving into the wheelhouse. She could actually feel the force of the arrow. It missed her head by inches. As she rolled on her side, she heard it puncture the wooden frame.
Thank God he was going for a kill shot. If he hadn’t aimed for her head, she might have been hit.
Tom swore.
She heard him toss the crossbow onto the ground. He must be out of arrows. Well, that was something. Time to move.
She leaped to her feet and ran to the captain’s chair. The keys were still in the ignition, and as she frantically tried to turn the engine over, she said a silent prayer promising to go to church with her mom every day for the rest of her life if only the damn engine would start.
“The harder you make it,” Tom said, “the worse you’ll suffer, I promise. Just come out and let me shoot you.”
She felt the boat shift.
Oh my God. He was climbing aboard.
Meg spun around, frantically searching for a place to hide just as a gunshot rang out. She instinctively hit the floor as the port window of the wheelhouse shattered. Broken glass sprinkled across the cabin floor. Shit. She’d forgotten about the gun.
Meg huddled behind the captain’s chair and forced herself to think as rationally as possible. Forget the crazy maniac trying to kill you. Her eyes drifted to the dark outline of Minnie, lying lifeless on the deck outside the wheelhouse. She wanted to give up. To give in.
No! She shook herself, trying desperately to clear her head. Focus, Meg.
She had two choices. There was the staircase leading belowdecks from the wheelhouse. It was the fastest and surest escape, but also the one Tom would probably follow. And once he had her below deck in the dark, she’d pretty much be trapped. The second option was the door on the starboard side of the wheelhouse. As best as Meg could remember, it led to a balcony that stretched around the front of the boat. Maybe if Tom went below she could lower herself to the main deck and escape before he even realized she was gone? It was worth a shot.
Meg cringed. Bad choice of words.
As quickly and quietly as she could, Meg crawled across the floor of the boathouse. She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out as shards of broken glass cut into her palms and knees, digging deep into her flesh. The three feet across the wheelhouse felt like three miles, and her hands and legs were bloody by the time she reached the starboard door. She silently unlatched it, then pushed the metal door open a fraction of an inch. By some stroke of luck, the hinges swung open silently. Without a second thought, Meg slipped out onto the balcony, then carefully closed the door behind her.
Just in time. She barely got the door completely closed when she heard a crunching sound. Boots on broken glass.
Meg hardly dared to breathe. She crouched on the far side of the door, her hand still gripping the handle. Had he seen her? Had he seen the door close? Her heart thundered so loudly in her ears she was positive he could hear it. She waited, half expecting a bullet to shatter the window above her head, or for the door she leaned against to come crashing open as Tom barreled through. Her legs burned. Her palms stung with a mixture of sweat and blood.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. Then his footsteps sounded more hollow. Thud, thud, thud.
He was going downstairs.
Yes!
As soon as Tom’s muffled footsteps faded from earshot, Meg sprang to her feet.
She tiptoed around to the front of the pilothouse, crouching low and trying to keep her head below the cockpit windows. If she could just make it to the port side of the yacht, she was pretty sure she could jump onto the floor of the boathouse. And then she’d run. And keep running. That was the extent of her plan.
She had just rounded the front of the pilothouse when gunshots erupted from the darkness. The window above her shattered. Meg screamed and ducked back behind the pilothouse, covering her head with her arms as broken glass rained down on her. She wasn’t sure how many shots he fired, but the next sound Meg heard was a shallow clicking.
No more bullets.
Finally. Finally something was going her way.
“Shit,” Tom swore from somewhere near the back of the boat. He was between her and the safety of the darkened boathouse.
She climbed over the rail of the pilothouse and lowered herself onto the foredeck below. At the bow of the boat, there was a small inverted dinghy mounted on a rack. She crawled beneath it, then wedged herself behind the winch that lowered the anchor, right in the pointed bow. It was an obvious hiding place and it wouldn’t take him long to find her. She needed to think.
Meg felt around her in the darkness. Was there anything she could use as a weapon? A coil of thick rope, the taut chain attached to the anchor, a life preserver hanging from the bulwark. So unless she was roping sheep or going overboard, she was out of luck. Perfect.
But instead of footsteps pounding toward her hiding place, she felt the weight of the boat shift again. Tom was climbing off.
She heard a clanging sound and a groan, before Tom spoke. “I meant what I said, Meg.” He sounded out of breath. “I’m going to make you suffer. After your little friend over there, you deserve it most of all.”
Meg poked her head around the dinghy and squinted into the darkness. What was he doing? “How do you figure?”
“You were there. You know.”
She heard a splashing noise, like he was throwing water onto the deck of the boat. Then the smell hit her. Gasoline.
He was going to burn her alive.
For one sick moment, she almost wished she was Minnie, lying there dead on the deck of the boat. No, don’t think that. She had to stay calm. She could figure a way out. She just had to think.
And keep Tom talking.
“Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she said, mustering up as much false bravado as she could manage. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Meg crawled out from her hiding place. There was just enough light from the failing lantern in the pilothouse for her to see over the side of the boat. There were only a few inches of clearance between the starboard rail and the side of the boathouse, but up where the bow curved inward there was a little bit more space, especially betwee
n heaves of the waves. If she timed it right, she could probably jump into the water without being crushed between the boat and wall, and maybe she could swim beneath the boathouse and get back onshore. Maybe.
It was the only chance she had.
“Fine,” Tom said. She could hear the impatience in his voice. “Let me refresh your faulty memory. Homecoming night.”
Homecoming. There it was again. Maybe this was all her fault after all? If she’d just gone to the dance with T.J., maybe Minnie wouldn’t have attacked Claire? And now they were all dead: Claire, Minnie, T.J., and most likely Meg too. All because she’d been afraid to confront her best friend.
She heard Tom flicking a lighter, then the entire boathouse was aglow in orange light. She peeked around the side of the dinghy and saw him standing with a homemade torch in hand, his shirt tied around an oar, doused in gasoline, she guessed. She was running out of time.
“I’m sure to you and Minnie and your intellectually challenged dates, what you did that night barely registered on your scale of importance, but it was an arrow through my sister’s heart. Pardon the pun.”
“That’s not a pun,” Meg said. She couldn’t stop herself; the words just flew out of her mouth. Even though she was about to go up in flames Joan of Arc–style, she was tired of feeling like a victim. If she was going out, she was going out swinging.
“SHUT UP!” he roared.
Way to go, Meg. Poke the angry man-eating lion with a stick, why don’t you. But he was still talking, which gave her more time to try and read the timing of the heaving boat. The more she stalled, the better her chances.
“I don’t know,” she said, trying to sound unimpressed. “I mean, killing a bunch of us idiots off shouldn’t be that hard.”
Tom laughed. “Not hard. But brilliant. Do you have any idea the months of planning that went into this? Preparing the house, luring you all here, dealing with the Taylors … All for justice.”
“Not for the Taylors,” Meg said. “Unless they stole a choir solo from Claire too?”
“Collateral damage,” Tom said.
“I’m sure their family won’t see it that way.”
“Had to be done. It was the only way the plan worked. Every detail, every contingency had to be prepared for. By me. Who pretended to be Mr. Lawrence on the phone? I did. No one even knew I’d left the house. Climbed out my bedroom window and was across the isthmus and back in fifteen minutes. And who made sure that Jessica and her friends were all invited to a different party this weekend? Yeah, I thought of that, too, so if any of you brought it up to her, she’d think that’s what you were talking about. Hacking into Jessica’s Facebook account, dummying Tara’s cell phone to invite Kumiko, drugging the beers so you’d all sleep through Lori’s murder.”
“What?”
“Exactly,” Tom laughed. “Brilliant, right?” It was. “I couldn’t have one of you waking up while I was hauling her carcass up to the rafters, could I? I thought of everything.”
Meg saw an opening. A chink in Tom’s thick bullshit coat of armor. “Not everything.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t think of everything. You missed one really, really big thing.”
“Impossible.”
“Nope.” Meg laughed. “I wasn’t there Homecoming night.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Claire said you were.” For the first time, Tom sounded less than confident. “She told me she was going to confront you and T.J.”
“Maybe she meant to, but I canceled on T.J. that morning. I stayed home. I wasn’t there.”
Silence. Clearly this was the one outcome Tom hadn’t accounted for. Still, it wasn’t like it mattered. He couldn’t exactly let her go, and he’d already shown with the Taylors that he was willing to kill innocent people in order to avenge his sister. Meg concentrated on the motion of the boat. It was now or never.
“Whatever,” Tom said. “You’re guilty by association.”
Great logic, crazy. Meg threw a leg over the rail. She wasn’t sure this was going to work but it was better to smash her head on the side of the boat than go up in flames. She took a breath, trying to brace herself for the cold water.
Tom cleared his throat. “Enough. Meg Pritchard, it’s time to say good—”
A roar interrupted him. “Get away from her!”
THIRTY SEVEN
MEG SPRINTED TO THE PORT SIDE OF THE BOAT in time to see T.J. launch himself at Tom, hitting him square in the stomach with his shoulder, like a defensive end taking out the quarterback.
“T.J.!” Meg cried, her heart thundering in her chest. She couldn’t believe it. He was alive.
Tom was just as surprised, clearly not expecting there to be anyone else on the island. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him. He dropped the torch as he flew through the air, and Meg heard them both grunt as they careened into the pile of gas cans.
T.J. rolled off the side of the pile into a puddle of pooling gasoline on the floor. He pushed himself up to his knees, using just one arm. The other was tucked up by his chest. Meg could see a large dark spot on his sweater near the collarbone and thanked God she had absolutely no aim. She’d managed to shoot him in the shoulder, wounding him but not killing him.
Tom leaped to his feet and ran at T.J. Meg barely had time to react.
“Look out!”
But T.J. must have been weakened by his injury. He barely raised his head at Meg’s warning, and Tom kicked him in the stomach with such force that T.J.’s whole body lifted off the ground.
“I knew I should have checked for a pulse,” Tom snarled.
T.J. staggered to his feet. “I was playing possum,” he panted. He turned his head and spat. “Wanted to see who was still alive in the house. Wanted to know whose ass I was going to kick.”
T.J. swung his fist, but Tom easily avoided it. Whatever strength T.J. had mustered for the initial attack had drained out of him. He struggled to maintain his balance as his blow missed Tom’s face. Then Tom retaliated with a vicious punch to T.J.’s jaw.
T.J. reeled and fell back against the wall of the boathouse, then crumpled to his knees. Tom was on him in a flash. He pounded on the side of T.J.’s head with his fist. Over and over.
“Not so tough now, huh? Not the big man anymore?”
T.J. tried to fight back but his strength had abandoned him. Tom straightened up and in the flickering light of the dying torch Meg could see him smile. “I wish my sister could see you now. Pathetic.”
Get up, Meg wished with all her heart. Get up, T.J. Please.
But he didn’t. Tom shoved his hand into his pocket, and Meg heard the clicking of his lighter. He held the flame in front of his face. “Good-bye, Mr. Football.”
They say there are moments when time seems to slow down. Suddenly you can see things clearly, a moment of unobstructed understanding. Meg saw Tom standing there over T.J., the lighter poised in his hand. Tom, who had killed her best friend before her very eyes, who had destroyed so many lives, who had manipulated her into trying to kill the boy she loved. He’d taken enough. She was not going to stand there and let him win.
Something in her snapped.
Meg heard a roar, a scream that was at once primal and terrifying. It must have come from her own throat, though she was never quite sure about that. In the same moment, she hiked her foot up on the bulwark and pushed off with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, launching herself at Tom. All the fury and rage that had been bubbling beneath the surface erupted. She landed square on his back, knocking them both to the floor.
Meg’s hand locked onto Tom’s wrist. The lighter was still aflame, and all Meg could focus on was keeping it away from T.J. They rolled across the wooden deck of the boathouse, and as they spun she managed to knock the lighter from his hand. It flew through the air and landed on the deck of the boat.
It took half a second for the gasoline-drenched aft deck to burst into flames. The fire rac
ed up the port side walkway, up the short ladder to the pilothouse, and down the curved lines of the bow.
Meg started to get up, but Tom was faster. He was on top of her before she could get to her feet, his hands wrapped around her neck. “I told you I’d make you suffer.” His long fingers dug into her throat, cutting off her air.
Meg tried to pry his fingers away, but he was too strong. She reached out with her arms, searching for anything she could use as a weapon. Her lungs burned and she felt as if Tom was going to squeeze her head off as she stretched her fingers, praying for a miracle.
Then she felt it. Something cool and metallic. A gas can.
With all the strength she had left, Meg lunged to her right, wrapped her hand around the handle of the can, and swung it at Tom’s head.
He grunted, and his grip on her throat lessened enough for her to catch her breath. She swung again, harder this time, and he ducked, pulling his body away from her. That was what she needed. Meg wedged a knee up between their bodies and kicked Tom square in the stomach.
He flew off her, staggering backward toward the boat. It was engulfed in flames. The heat was intense, and the roof of the boathouse was already ablaze. Burning roof tiles fell to the wooden dock on which they stood, igniting the spilled gasoline that sprang to life with dancing flames. They raced across the dock, following the trail of fuel from Tom’s mad frenzy to douse the boat. Before Meg knew it, Tom was surrounded by the flames, trapping him between her and the burning shell of the boat.
Meg backed away. Tom tried to dart through the wall of fire, but he must have gotten a significant amount of gasoline on his clothes. The sleeve of his shirt caught fire first, then the leg of his jeans. He tried to pat the fire out with his gloved hand but that only spread it faster.
In a moment of horror, Tom’s eyes locked onto Meg’s. She could see in his face the realization, a man coming to terms with his own death. But there was no fear. In fact, Tom smiled at her, then calmly walked through the wall of flames, his arms outstretched toward her.
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