Perhaps it was also a sort of awakening because he was no longer mad at Ethan for killing Diane—he understood why he had to do it. (Besides, he had almost done it himself, not that long ago.) But, oddly, there was still something nagging at him, as if something had been left unfinished.
And Ethan could tell. He struggled back to his feet and wiped away the blood from his upper lip with the back of his right hand. “That felt good, didn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Martin said, breathing slowly, letting the smell of gunpowder linger pleasantly in his nose.
“Better than shooting the BB gun.”
“Yeah.”
“But there’s something else, isn’t there?”
Martin looked down at his father—the stranger—whose blood was now dripping down his oversized belly onto the hardwood floor. He could see bone and something fleshy that might have been brains through the hole in the forehead. But it didn’t disgust him the way he thought it might.
“Or should I say someone else?” Ethan asked.
“You could say that.”
“Who is it?”
“You know who it is.”
NOW
THE DELUSIONS MARTIN had suffered while alone in the darkness, and the fear that had accompanied them, had faded hours ago.
They were certainly nothing to worry him now. He and Ethan had come down here for a reason. Now that he and Cynthia had found a way out . . .
He backed away from the ridge, told Cynthia to do the same.
As she did, Martin thought, She’s still beautiful. Bloody. Dirty. But as beautiful as ever. The same anger he felt for his father, he felt again now. Beautiful as ever. Perfect as ever. But she doesn’t love me. . . . Or does she?
He put a hand on Cynthia’s cheek and leaned in to kiss her. Her eyes opened wide with surprise. She took a quick step back. “What are you doing? We need to focus on getting out of here.”
No. She doesn’t.
“I’ll never be good enough for you, will I?” He’d exercised control, caution, discretion the entire time he’d been in the cave. Cynthia didn’t know how he had grown since she’d last seen him. It was time to show her.
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
Martin and Ethan had brought Paul because they needed a guide. They’d brought Gina because it’d be strange to bring Paul without her. But the plan had always been to get Cynthia alone—to fall behind the others intentionally, to make sure Cynthia had an accident, to make sure she never got out.
His hands locked tightly around her neck. She choked and pawed. He squeezed tighter. No amount of hunger or exhaustion could stop him from killing her.
“We had to stay together until we found a way out!” he shouted. “It was the smartest thing to do. Three heads are better than one. I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”
Nor did it matter that Ethan went insane. Martin no longer needed him. The lessons he’d taught had forever changed him. Happiness was about control.
Taking what you wanted was happiness. Justice and revenge—they were happiness.
Strangling Cynthia meant all these things to Martin. With his father dead, with her dead, there’d no longer be anyone left to make him feel like a failure.
He’d almost forgotten how close he was to this freedom when he told Ethan he was considering calling off the trip. That would have been a terrible mistake, because now, in the wake of this new freedom, in spite of all the hardships he had to endure to get here, he could be the man he wanted to be. No longer would he settle for a second-rate job, a seat in coach because he couldn’t afford first class, a thirty-minute wait at a restaurant.
Now that he knew what he was capable of, he was as powerful as every god man had ever worshiped.
Suddenly, Cynthia stopped pawing at Martin’s hands. She was weaker than he was and would never get him to let go. She felt the ground around her, found a loose rock, and swung.
A sharp pain shot through Martin’s skull, and he screamed. Cynthia pushed him off her, swung the rock again, harder than she had when Martin told her to knock Ethan unconscious.
And the cave, the tomb that had been meant for Cynthia, would bury him instead.
DAWN
NOW
CYNTHIA HADN’T MEANT to kill Martin. She’d meant to knock him out. But she let only a single tear fall before taking off her helmet and jumping into the icy water. Her breath froze in her chest. Her heart almost stopped. Then, after she’d adjusted to the temperature, she filled her lungs to their capacity and dove.
The river had come in through a tight water-worn tunnel. Cynthia swam against the gentle current, regularly using one hand to check for pockets of air above her. She found them frequently enough to get oxygen when she needed it; only occasionally did the water’s surface meet the rock for great enough distances to make her fear drowning.
When the water spilled out into sunlight, she opened her eyes and climbed onto the nearest bank. Trees and shrubbery extended in every direction. The smell of the forest filled her nose. From the north, she could hear the roar of a busy road; but she was too exhausted and sad to walk to it just yet. Instead, she rolled onto her back, shivering until the tears came.
She’d loved Martin, even though she’d never told him. She’d wanted him to come with her to California, but he’d declined the offer. She’d wanted him to kiss her when they were lying on the rooftop of his mother’s house, but he didn’t do that either. So until he tried to kiss her in the cave, she had no idea how he felt.
And she had only stepped away from the kiss because it had taken her by surprise—that, and the mood was wrong. She wanted their first kiss to be romantic. She wanted to be wearing an evening
