Three For A Girl (Isabel Fielding Book 3)

by Sarah A. Denzil

She seems convinced of that. It almost gives me an existential crisis. Have I changed? Or am I the same person who almost allowed Leah to drown me? I’m not sure. It surprises me that I don’t know anymore. Should I even care? Whether I’ve changed or not, the outcome is the one that has been inevitable from the start. I get to finish what I started, but with a slight twist, which, thanks to Cassie, makes this even sweeter.

  “Come here, Leah,” I say in my softest voice. She’s hesitant at first. She shakes her head and a few tears begin to run down her cheeks. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Her eyes flick towards Cassie’s lifeless body. Then she rises, body slightly crouched, as though she’s preparing for fight or flight. She takes two steps and stands in front of me. “I want you to hurt him.” I nod towards the director.

  Leah’s eyes follow my own to the man tied to the chair. Her brow furrows in confusion. This isn’t what she expected to happen.

  “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a sex pest,” I say in explanation.

  “I can’t stand people who kill children,” Leah snaps.

  “People?” I laugh. “I was a child myself when I killed Maisie.”

  “You don’t get to make yourself a victim,” she says. “Not after everything you’ve done.”

  “That’s fair.”

  She seems surprised that I agree with her.

  “I’m no victim,” I continue. “I made my choices and I don’t regret any of them. Not having a conscience helps greatly when faced with problems like this. I wanted to murder Maisie, so I did. I wanted to murder you, so I tried. Now I want you to indulge your own dark side and hurt that man. A man who drugs young actresses and whispers lies into their ears as he’s fucking them, making them believe that he’ll turn their careers around if they comply with whatever it is he wants. And whatever he wants is carnal, every time. He’s a narcissist. Those women are there to act for him. He tells them what he wants them to do. When to take off their clothes, when to parrot the lines he’s written for him, and it’s not so he can create art, it’s so he can get off on it.”

  Snow drifting in through the broken roof continues to blanket the director’s head and shoulders. I watch him shivering, and then I turn to Leah. There’s a flash in her eyes I can’t read. Have I broken through, to that dark part of her personality that I know exists?

  “He’s the one who wanted to make a film about your life without your permission. He wanted to take you out to dinner, to buy you champagne and let you order lobster. But there would be an exchange, wouldn’t there? Isn’t there always? You eat and drink while he talks and talks. You’re a shy woman, a natural listener with too much empathy for anyone but yourself. You’d let him speak, nod along, and then never get an opportunity to speak your mind because he wouldn’t let you.”

  “Shut up.”

  Her eyes drop to Cassie’s body. I’m getting through to her, unlocking a hidden part of her mind.

  “It’s a tragedy, isn’t it? That two women here have been turned monstrous by their experiences. Poor Cassie. Poor me. We weren’t loved. We were made, not born. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what happened to you?”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Monsters made by men. That’s what we are. Take the knife, Leah. Let it out at last. I know what’s inside you. I know you’re just as full of rage as I am.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Tom

  It’s the sound of the water that alerts him, but I crossed the stream close to him, not giving him time to react. By the time he turns around to face me, I’m lunging right at him before he can aim the gun. We fall into the snow together, my weight on top of him, the snow flattening to mush beneath us. As we fall, I try to push the arm with the gun away from me. But he pushes back, trying to raise his arm. I press the wooden handle of the hammer down on his wrist. His face strains.

  I quickly assess his injury from the axe, noting the blood seeping through his coat by his left shoulder. As we’re both struggling for the gun, I take my free hand and thrust it into the wound. Spittle flies from his mouth, his teeth clench together in agony. His legs scissor kick beneath my body.

  “Let go of the gun and I’ll stop hurting you,” I demand. “Let go and the pain stops.”

  His face is red with the effort of keeping hold of the gun. His teeth set together. But when I push against his injury one more time, he lets out a cry of pain and reluctantly drops his weapon.

  Still on top of me, I snatch up the gun and raise it, throwing the hammer into the trees. Then I aim the gun directly into his face. Owen’s body goes limp beneath me. He lifts up his uninjured arm as if in surrender.

  “Where’s Leah?”

  A grin stretches across his smug face. “I don’t know.”

  Frustrated, I push the butt of the gun to the shoulder wound. Between screams, he makes an attempt to snatch the weapon from my hands, but I lift it higher, out of his reach. “You do know. I’m going to make this hard for you if you don’t tell me.”

  The whites of his eyes are prominent. This time he doesn’t smile like a Cheshire cat, he grits his teeth and remains silent.

  “Didn’t Isabel tell you that I killed Alison Finlay?” I say. “I know she figured it out. You’re not the only one here who can take a life. If you don’t tell me where Isabel has taken Leah, I’ll end you, and it won’t be painless.”

  “Maybe I’ll show you,” he says, “if you let me live.”

  I press the butt of the gun into his wound and he screams.

  “No. That isn’t an option. Tell me now.”

  “You’re going to kill me anyway,” he says. “So why should I tell you?”

  This time I bring the gun down onto the bridge of his nose, and blood bursts from it. I lift the gun, ready to deliver another blow, but his hands come up in his defence.

  “Let me go or I won’t tell you,” he says.

  I bring the gun down again, smashing into his face.

  “You die slowly or quickly,” I say.

  Owen’s hands tear at me. In horror, I see that he’s crying.

  “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” he says.

  “Tell me where Leah is,” I demand.

  “She’s at the abandoned farmhouse,” he says between sobs. “The one on the moors near your cottage. Cassie Keats is with them.”

  “Who?”

  “The little bitch cast to play Isabel in the movie.”

  “Why would some actress be there?”

  Owen groans as I apply more pressure to his injury. “All right, I’m talking. Stop it.” He catches his breath, blood and spit flying from his mouth. “Turns out she’s an apprentice psycho. I helped them take the director up to the abandoned farmhouse last night. They’re going to make Leah kill him, and then they’ll probably kill Leah too. I don’t know.”

  I lean back on my haunches, removing my weight from Owen’s body. Then I slowly stand up, all the time directing the gun towards him.

  “Don’t kill me. Please, let me go. I told you everything,” he begs.

  I’ve never shot a gun, but I hope it’s relatively easy. I can’t imagine Owen keeping the safety on if he’s in pursuit of us. Pulling the trigger would end this man’s life and the world would be better for it. Owen has brought nothing but cruelty to the world. He helped his family murder James Gorden. He helped Isabel escape from prison. There’s as much evil in him as there was my father. And me.

  He shuffles up onto his feet, nursing his wounded shoulder. And slowly he backs away.

  “You have to let me go. I told you everything.”

  “Did I say I’d let you go?” I say quietly, words almost stolen by the snow.

  He ignores me and turns away. A few strides in, he begins to break into a limping run. I pull the trigger. The gun fires, the force of it rattling through my body. Owen drops to his knees, the blast hit him squarely in the middle of his back. He falls to the ground as I approach. Whether he’s dead or alive, he’s now incapacitated. I quickly go through his po
ckets and recover as many bullets as I can. Then I shove them in my own pockets and begin walking in the opposite direction.

  On the way I see Seb staring out from behind his hiding place. One hand over his bullet wound. But I can’t stay and help him. I have to go. If I don’t go now, I won’t get to Leah in time. Seb nods once, knowing that I’m not going to wait with him. He knows the same things I do. At least the police will be here soon. I have another job to do. I have to save my mother.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Leah

  “This man is your father, the one who raped you,” Isabel says. “He’s your son, the one who murdered an innocent woman because he wanted to see how it would feel. He’s your boyfriend, the one who should be saving your life right now but isn’t, and who hired a private detective behind your back.” She pauses, licks her lips, turned on by her own intelligence. “Guess where Seb is now? I got Owen to pretend to be the investigator. He gave your lovely but quite dim boyfriend the address to find me. Seb might be there now, thinking he can save the day by coming after me. But he’s wrong.”

  My heart sinks. “No.”

  “Owen is waiting for him.”

  She hasn’t mentioned Tom. Perhaps there’s still hope while Tom is out there unaccounted for. Isabel does appear to know about Tom’s murder, but perhaps she believes Tom would side with her over me because of it. Or perhaps she simply couldn’t get to Tom before she put this in motion, I’m not sure. Either way, I decide not to mention him. Let her forget about him.

  “They’ve all let you down,” she continues, her silver tongue working its way through my barriers. “And they will continue to let you down.”

  “Give me the knife,” I say, holding out my hand.

  Her eyes flash, but she hesitates. “I know you better than that, Leah.”

  A ripple of frustration passes over my body and I notice that I’m grinding my teeth together. Why is she always one step ahead of me?

  “Hurt him with your bare hands,” she says. “Punch him. Kick him. Gouge his eyes out with your fingers. If you want this knife, you have to earn it.”

  She’s sick. This is sick. Neal’s terrified eyes dart all around the ruin. He keeps making panicked bubbling noises through his gag. I let out a sigh. If I do this, I could buy some time, keep Isabel talking. I lift my right hand, open my palm, and slap him hard around the face.

  Isabel starts to laugh. “Is that it? Is that your rage? A pathetic slap around the face. No, Leah. You can do much better than that. Or have you forgotten what you did to me? Have you forgotten the knife you plunged into my neck?” She caresses the scar at her throat.

  I think about apologising to the man in the chair, but I don’t. Instead, I close my fist and take a deep breath. When was the last time I hit anyone? Isabel in the cove was the only time I’ve ever truly been violent to another human being.

  I withdraw my fist and Neal shakes his head, begging with his eyes. He screams as I connect with the cartilage of his nose. My knuckles throb, but I can’t deny the release that spreads through my body. I do it again, and again. And then I kick him. In the ankle, then the calf. Then before I know it, I’m bringing my heel down on his crotch and he’s screaming. He’s crying and screaming and he’s not Neal anymore, he’s my father. I roll up my sleeves and bring my fists into the soft abdomen area, ignoring the screams. Ignoring the ripple of laughter behind my back. Finally, I stagger away, staring at the blood on my hands. Did I do that? Did I break his nose? I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or vomit.

  I’m a mother, I think. I’m a mother and I did that.

  A cold object is pressed into my palm, the cut one, dried blood and Neal’s blood all mingled together. I’m gently pushed towards the director. Yes, I’m a mother, and there’s a baby growing inside me. If that baby is a girl, I don’t want this man to be around. If I kill Neal Ford, then one less sexual predator will be in the world.

  But there will be one more killer.

  Because of everything that has happened over the last few weeks, I hadn’t actually noticed the sense of relief I’d felt when Tom confessed to me about Alison’s murder. I was devastated that my son did something so terrible, but once and for all, my guilt was washed away. I finally knew for certain that I had not killed anyone. Finally. If I take this man’s life, I will be a murderer again.

  But this is different. This is taking a bad person out of the world.

  “Do it,” Isabel says. “No one will miss him. No one will grieve for him. He’s nothing.” She comes closer to whisper in my ear. “Take your power back. Take it. Remove this cockroach from existence.”

  I screw my eyes shut and open them again. Tiny, dark ovals begin to pour out of the snow.

  “No,” I whisper.

  Isabel watches me carefully. I see her gaze follow mine. “What is it?”

  “Cockroaches. Dozens of them.”

  She frowns. “It’s a hallucination. Aren’t you taking your medication, Leah?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  There’s a squawking above our heads. A magpie must have flown into the building. It comes down above me and I shield it with my arms. Flapping wings bat against my forearms and I hear a scream. The scream is from me.

  “Stop that!” Isabel says. “It isn’t there.” Two hands grab my shoulders and shake me back to reality. “Whatever you’re fighting against isn’t there.”

  But I ignore her and try to slash at the wings fluttering around me.

  “Focus, Leah,” she says. “Kill the man.”

  Finally, my mind comes back to reality, and I remember that Isabel wants me to murder someone. Why does she want me to do this? Is this her way of toying with me before she kills me? Destroying my soul before mutilating my body? If there is a God, Isabel is evil. She’s pure evil. An empty vessel filled up by Satan.

  “I can’t.” I stare down at the knife. Now the change in medication is kicking in. At the exact moment I need to concentrate more than ever. A long line of ants dance across the edge of the blade.

  “Yes, you can,” Isabel insists.

  I don’t know what compels me to take a step towards Neal, but I do. He begins to shake his head. He’s crying so hard that snot is coming from his nose. His eyes beg me to stop. Please. Please. I can make out muffled through the gag.

  One thought seems clearer than the others. If I plunge the knife into Neal, the ants and the cockroaches will all go away. Everything will stop.

  Neal’s pleading is the first to stop, but I haven’t stabbed him yet. He’s listening. He turns his head sharply to the side, and I hear it too. There are voices outside the building. Young people’s voices. Young people’s laughter.

  “This is it,” someone says. “This is where it happened.”

  The dark tourists I warned Cassie about. My heart begins to thump. Isabel has heard them, too, I see her walk towards the entrance to the room. She’s covered in Cassie’s blood, a dirty knife still in her hand. I glance down at my own hands to see the clean weapon there. She gave me a new knife when she almost persuaded me to kill Neal. I wipe sweat away from my forehead. How close did I come to committing murder?

  Isabel walks quickly, but not hurried, still in control. I have to help those kids because they don’t know what they’re walking into. More importantly, I need them to help me. They need to call the police I follow Isabel, but not too close. Perhaps I can catch her off guard while she’s focused on the walkers.

  We step lightly through the house at the same moment the two young people walk in. My stomach flips over, the two teenagers are about sixteen years old, if that. The girl notices bloody Isabel before the boy and drops a part-empty bottle of vodka to the ground. She backs away, one gloved hand pressed to her chest, snow shimmering off her cagoul. Isabel says nothing, she simply slashes at the closest teen, the boy, catching him on the arm of his coat. I lurch into action, sprinting the last few steps. I manage to shove Isabel away from the kid before she gets her knife on him again.

 
“Run!” I yell.

  The girl is already out of the door.

  Isabel trips, but my push doesn’t knock her to the ground. She uses that imbalance to dip low and stab my thigh. It’s a deep puncture, and I can’t help but scream. I grab the wound, applying pressure, watching in horror as Isabel directs her attention to the boy, now halfway to the exit.

  He’s not quick enough. She leaps at him, knocking him onto his back. I stagger towards them, but before I can reach Isabel, her knife lifts and plunges into his chest. It’s the same as with Cassie, I watch her in a frenzy of violence, blood on her hands, face, clothes. For a split second I’m frozen. Stuck in a time when Tom was held by David Fielding and I was tied up able to do nothing, fearing that my son would be taken from me too soon. And then I spring to life. I pull Isabel away from the boy, who must be dead or close to dead.

  She is momentarily dazed, and I try to stab her in the chest, but the knife hits the sternum, not cutting deep enough to kill her. She inhales sharply, the air in her throat like a last gasp. But it isn’t a last gasp, it’s nothing but shock.

  I remove the knife and back away. The boy, somehow still conscious, drags himself forwards, managing to half crawl. He coughs up blood on the concrete and I have no idea how badly he’s hurt. I want to help him onto his feet, but Isabel recovers quickly. I have one chance to get out of here and find help. One chance.

  I begin to run.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Isabel

  Where she stabbed me is in agony, but my heart beats and I can breathe. I’m alive, that’s the important part. More alive than I’ve been for a long, long time. But watching her stumble out of the house stirs rage inside me. Come back, Leah, I’m not done with you. I have the small matter of taking your life to deal with.

  “Please don’t hurt me again,” the boy says, eyes leaking, body moving and squirming with blood seeping out of all his wounds. He’ll be dead soon. I step around him to get out of the house.

  There was another intruder who will no doubt have phoned the police by now. The irony is not lost on me. If I’d kept Cassie alive, none of this would have happened. She was supposed to help with any annoying interferences like this, but I have impulse control issues.