“Sounds like you think I say a lot of things.” I step back. I feel a wetness at my heels. The river. “What else did I tell you?”
“You said I ran after her. That I chased her onto the beach. This beach. That I strangled her. And threw her into the river.”
“I said all that?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“So did you do all that?”
“No. I did nothing.”
“You didn’t chase her down?”
“No.”
“You didn’t put your hands around her neck?”
“No.”
“You didn’t say, ‘you made me do it?’”
“I — what?”
“Did you say, ‘you made me do it’?”
“No — I didn’t say anything.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“You didn’t apologize for killing her?”
“No.”
“You didn’t say ‘it was just a game’?”
“How did — no.”
“You just pushed her in the river without saying anything?”
“It wasn’t — I didn’t kill her.”
I take a step toward him, out of the water. “A witness says otherwise.”
“There was no witness.”
“Yes, there is.”
“It was dark, and foggy. No one could have seen.”
Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha. The fish is on the line.
“So, in other words, it was a night like this.”
He doesn’t say anything. Then he starts to tremble, his shoulders and arms and hands, shaking.
“Why did you do it, Eric? What threat was she to you?”
“I didn’t — she wasn’t — she wouldn’t listen to me!”
“What did you try to tell her?” Was that a movement behind the drift log?
“We were just kids. It didn’t mean anything. And if she didn’t like it she could have said.”
The words feel ugly, a monster under the surface. “What didn’t mean anything?”
“She liked it. She liked me. We were just kids. It would have been okay.”
“Was this before she moved away?”
“That bitch. She wouldn’t leave it alone.”
“What? Who?”
“Her mother.”
“Whose mother?”
“Vee’s.” His voice is angry and impatient. “I didn’t hurt her. She liked it.”
“That’s what you told yourself, wasn’t it? But it did hurt her. I’ve read the book. When she revealed the childhood abuse. And when she talked about reparations, and resolution.” And redemption.
“We were just kids.”
“You were seventeen. She was twelve. She trusted you, she thought you were her friend, and you betrayed her in the worst way possible.”
“We were just kids.”
“Technically, yes, you were still a juvenile. And maybe that will play for you in court. But you were old enough to know better.” Now my voice is shaking with anger. “When she published her book, the whole world would know what you did. And you had to stop her, didn’t you?”
“She had it all wrong. You have it all wrong. It was just a game. We were kids! She wanted to reveal it all and ruin my life!”
“Like you ruined hers?”
His breathing comes in hoarse pants. His hands clench and unclench.
Look out!
He lunges at me. I take an involuntary step back. But Zoe’s voice put me on alert. Water sloshes into my shoes. He keeps coming. I dodge, and splash along the shore. Backwards. Not daring to turn my back on him.
At least you’re not wearing heels.
Zoe’s sardonic tone steadies me. “You killed her, Eric. You ruined her life and then you killed her.”
“She ruined her own life! She could have gotten over it, but no, she turned it all into a sympathy shit-show at that godawful excuse for a church.”
“Maybe she wanted you to apologize.”
“I gave her the painting. What more did she want?”
“A painting isn’t an apology.”
“A picture is worth a thousand words.”
“Oh, please. That painting was for your own glorification.”
“Not for me. For her.”
Zoe’s strident sarcasm emerges from my mouth. “She didn’t want you, did she, you pathetic fuck? She told you to stop bothering her as a child. And as an adult, you tried to make her love you by giving her that painting. But she put it in the church — not what you had in mind, was it? And then Daniel Chandler sold it to cover church expenses. It wasn’t a religious icon — it was just another painting. Not any more remarkable than dogs playing poker.”
“You’re wrong. It was a masterpiece.”
“So not only was Victoria going to bring your ‘youthful misdeeds’ home to roost, neither she nor Daniel appreciated your genius. I guess that’s why you had to kill them both.”
North’s face goes white. His mouth curls in a snarl. “They had no right.”
“Poor baby. So misunderstood.”
He lunges at me, once again faster than I would have believed. I fire my gun, but the shot goes wide. He’s too close. His hands close around my neck. His momentum carries us both down, and I land on my back in the water. It covers my face, my nose. I thrash, kick, try to force his hands apart, losing my grip on the weapon.
He’s too strong. Far stronger than I.
Wake up! Find a weak spot! Fingers, eyes!
A weak spot. I stop trying to pull his hands away, and grab for his pinky fingers. His skin is slick with moisture, and slips beneath my hands. My sinuses sting as water enters my nose. At last I have one small finger in my grasp. I yank it down and out, away from his clamping hand, and feel the thin bone snap.
He screams and stumbles back, clutching his hand. I sit up, coughing and retching. I hear the sound of pounding feet, and Jane’s strident voice.
“Don’t move! You’re under arrest!”
A warm arm circles my shoulders and I blink the water out of my eyes. Seth Takahashi kneels beside me.
“Audrey, are you all right?”
I gasp for air, coughing. “Yeah, yes — I’m good, I’m okay.” I let him help me to my feet, and then unwind his arm and go to where Jane is holding her gun on a kneeling Eric. His rage ripples off him like heat waves.
“Got cuffs?” I ask.
She nods. “On my belt. Want to do the honors?”
I unhook them, and walk to where the artist crouches on the sand. He doesn’t struggle as I put the handcuffs on, only wincing as I brush his broken finger. Accidentally on purpose.
“My hand — I can’t paint — what have you done to me? This
