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“Here,” she murmured to St. Ivany.
They both paused, twenty-five feet from the boat.
They both saw the hand, dangling over the side.
Lifeless.
“Shit,” St. Ivany muttered, before she pulled her walkie-talkie from her belt. She was still murmuring orders when Raisa boarded the boat.
And there, lying on the bow, was Declan O’Brien.
The pervy professor, sprawled in all the indignity of death.
One hand was still curled around a revolver.
Raisa dropped her own weapon to her thigh.
There would be a note.
Because Isabel always left a note when she staged a suicide.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Delaney
Before Isabel’s death
There existed in Jewish folklore a creature called a golem.
It was made of earthen materials such as mud or clay and shaped into a human form. The descriptions of them varied—usually reflecting the hopes and fears of the community where their stories were created.
Many times, though, they were depicted as obedient, created solely to serve their masters.
Delaney sank her feet deeper into the mud, feeling like she was returning to the substance from which she was made.
Because what else was she to Isabel if not a golem? Made by Isabel’s hands, forced to carry out her orders.
The mountains rose around her. She hadn’t been to Everly since Raisa and Isabel had shot each other in the woods. She shouldn’t be here now. If someone could recognize her, it would be these people.
But she’d been pulled back to where it all began, where Isabel had whispered in her ear that she should shove Jackie P. off the monkey bars because the girl had tattled to the teacher on Delaney. Where Isabel had hidden Delaney in the attic, promising that if they didn’t stay up there all day, Alex, their brother, would do somethinghorrific to them. Where Isabel had calmly plunged a knife into their drugged parents’ bodies and then just as calmly forged a suicide note for their brother.
Where Isabel had assured Delaney that she hadn’t seen Isabel carrying a bloody weapon through the kitchen after it all happened.
Living through her childhood hadn’t felt all that traumatic, if she were being honest.
Looking back now, she couldn’t believe she’d made it out of that fucked-up mess.
Maybe she hadn’t.
When she and her sisters had been placed in separate foster homes, Delaney had thought the state was being dramatic. They hadn’t known anything Isabel had done, hadn’t even suspected it. Yet they must have sensed something was off.
Delaney had long forgiven her younger self. She had been twelve years old and dumb, and Isabel had been the only person who had ever cared about her. She would have run through a wall for her at that age.
If she’d had any concept of what it meant to take a life, she would have killed for Isabel.
She’d never had to.
Until now.