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FORTY-TWO
Tears fill my eyes, making it hard to see as I drive back to Hope’s End. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, as if that will make up for my blurry vision. I briefly consider not trying to see at all. That way maybe I’ll veer off the road and go sailing over the cliff into the ocean, thereby having to avoid confronting my father. A tempting prospect, considering everything I now know.
But that would make me just like Virginia.
Attempting to kill myself over something my father has done.
She survived.
I intend to do the same.
I have no plan for what to do when I reach Hope’s End. I’m not even certain that’s where my father went, although in all likelihood it is. On the phone, I gave away that Virginia was alive, accidentally leading him right to her.
I wipe my eyes, grip the steering wheel tighter, and press down harder on the gas pedal, taking my rattling Escort ever higher into the Cliffs. As I drive, I continue to keep an eye out for Carter, just in case he decided to make the long trek back to Hope’s End on foot. Once the initial shock of realizing my father had killed Mary passed, I ran to the front door, hoping to still find him there. But Carter was gone. Thefact that I was wrong about him, going so far as to force him out of the car, is one of my more regrettable actions tonight.
Another thing I regret is speed-reading the typed pages I found in Mary’s suitcase. So much more than what Virginia and I had managed to type. This was indeed the full story. One that I couldn’t stop reading even as it made me dizzy with grief.
Now I understand why Virginia had been so reluctant to reveal all of it. She didn’t want to be the one to tell me who my father was.
And what he’d done.
Getting Virginia pregnant. Accepting a payment to go away forever from Winston Hope. Stabbing Evangeline Hope out of a combination of anger and pity. Killing Mary because she knew all of this.
That’s the hardest part to contend with—the fact that he’s still capable of murder. I can’t stop picturing him in the shadow of the mansion, waiting, striking the moment he saw Mary creeping across the terrace. I know she’d been on her way to see Carter, because of the vial of Virginia’s blood I also found in the suitcase.
My father grabbed it, gave Mary a shove, and watched as she flipped over the railing and fell into the abyss beyond it.
I fear Virginia will be his next victim.
Especially after I reach Hope’s End and see my father’s pickup truck parked next to the still-open gate. Why he would choose to make the remainder of the journey on foot isn’t lost on me. All the better to sneak up to the house undetected, which is likely what he did the night he killed Mary.
I, having no reason to arrive quietly, keep driving.
Past the gate.
Down the drive.
To the front door of Hope’s End, where Archie stands caught in the car’s headlights like an actor on a stage. Relief floods his features when he sees me climb out of the car.
“Someone’s here,” he says in an urgent whisper. “I saw him walking up the driveway.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
Archie shakes his head.
“Well, I know where he’s going,” I say.
“Who is it?”
“Ricky.” I pause, wary of giving him the same information overload I’ve experienced multiple times tonight. “Who’s also my father.”
Before Archie can react, I press my car keys into his hand.
“Drive into town. Go to the police and ask for Detective Vick. He’ll know what to do.”
“But what about you?”
I start walking up the steps to the front door. “I’ll be fine.”