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“No one else needs to get hurt, Dad,” I say. “You can end this.”
My father turns to me, revealing the same look I saw the morning that article about me appeared in the newspaper. Hurt and betrayal and shame. “I’m not sure I can, Kit-Kat. I’m in too deep now.”
“Why did you kill Mary? If she didn’t know everything, why kill her?”
“Because she knew enough. Not the part about the murders. If she did, she didn’t mention it.” My father turns back to Virginia. “You finished the rest of the story when she came back after asking me to take a blood test. I know because I read about it later. All those pages you typed? I read them all. You really are a good writer, Ginny. You had promise. But you shouldn’t have told her everything. You shouldn’t have told her my goddamn name. But even before that, I knew she was a liability. So I said I’d do her stupid little blood test. But not at the house. Not with my daughter around. I told her I’d come here, to Hope’s End, late the next night and that she should leave the gate open. Then I waited in the same spot I first met you, Ginny. When I saw Mary hurrying across the terrace with that suitcase, I did what I had to do.”
“And now?” I say. “What do you plan to do now?”
“I don’t know,” my father says, even as his hands tighten around Virginia’s neck. “I honestly don’t.”
“Then stop, Dad. Please.”
“I can’t.” My father begins to squeeze her throat. “I can’t risk her telling anyone else.”
“She won’t,” I say. “She can’t.”
My father ignores me.
“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he whispers as Virginia’s eyes bulge and wet, choking sounds push out of her throat. “I’m so sorry.”
“Dad, stop!”
I throw myself at him, trying to get him to stop. Even at age seventy, he’s strong enough to shove me away with one arm. I stagger backward into Virginia’s wheelchair, both of us toppling. Sprawled on the floor, I see my father return both hands to Virginia’s neck.
Tightening.
Squeezing.
Then I notice Virginia’s hands.
The right one sits on the bed, immobile.
The left one holds the corkscrew, which she grabbed from the nightstand.
With as much strength as she can muster, Virginia swings it toward my father, the corkscrew slicing the air before jabbing directly into the side of his stomach.
My father yelps in pain as his hands drop from Virginia’s throat. He looks down at his side, where the corkscrew juts from his torso. A dark spot surrounds it as blood seeps into his shirt.
Before he can grab it, I’m on my feet, reaching out, snagging the handle. I pull and the corkscrew slides out of his flesh with a squelch of blood. Brandishing it like a switchblade, I say, “Don’t touch her again.”
My father presses a hand to the wound. He’s hurt, but not badly. He even lets out a rueful chuckle. “I guess I deserve this.”
“Yeah,” I say, shocked by how a single syllable can contain six months of bitterness and disappointment.
“If I’d been a better father, you wouldn’t have come here. You wouldn’t have met Ginny. You wouldn’t know about any of this.”
“You pushed me away.” I try to keep my sorrow hidden, but it shows itself anyway, cracking my voice with emotion. “I needed you, Dad. When Mom died, I fuckingneededyou! Because what happened with Mom was awful. But—”
I stop myself, unsure if I can speak the words that need to be said.
Even now.
Even here.
“But you were right to doubt me. I left those pills out. Even though Mom swore she’d only take one, I knew there was a possibility she’d take them all.”
“Don’t,” my father says. “Don’t say that, Kit-Kat.”