Page 41 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

“Your role is crucial to the conclusion,” Dr. Wilde says, his tone shifting to the clinical one he uses to explain therapeutic concepts. “The symmetry is incredible. Here you are with the only other survivor of one of Tate’s attacks.” He glances over my head at the window, then back to me.

His expression chills me. When I speak, my voice quavers. “What?”

“I’m afraid the narrative requires your death to be self-inflicted. Your guilt over surviving when Cassie died, your writer’s block, the discovery of who Tristan really is, it all builds a compelling psychological narrative for suicide.”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” I tell him.

Something flickers in his eyes. “You have to. You of all people understand story structure. The climax only resonates if you kill yourself. It ties it all together.”

“I don’t want to die, Dr. Wilde.”

I see a flash of what Tate must have seen. Loneliness, disconnection, the desperate need to matter. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way. Otherwise, my work will lack value. But, you won’t be alone. I’ll be right here with you.”

“No.” It comes out as a plea, but I mean it as a vow.

His expression hardens. “Enough of this, we need to proceed. The storm provides the perfect backdrop.”

“What about Alex?” I stall, terrified I already know the answer.

“If she’s not dead already, she’s likely badly injured. She’ll be easy enough to finish off. An unexpected bonus, really.”

No. I won’t let him get to her. Not after all she’s already been through.

Alex

I nearly pass out after the crawl up the steps. I collapse on the porch, shaking and panting, and gather my waning strength to hang onto the doorknob and pull myself to my knees. The unlocked door swings open and I fall across the threshold, trembling and sweating.

But I’m inside. I can do this. I have to do this.

I drag myself toward the guest room. The doorway looms impossibly far away. Above, the low rumble of voices comes from the attic. Two voices. Emily’s still alive.

The knowledge gives me a burst of adrenaline. My fingers scrabble for purchase in the cracks between the cold floorboards as I pull myself forward and push the door open.

I no longer feel my pain. I am pain. Bright, white, all-encompassing pain. It doesn’t matter. I’m so close.

I army crawl with my left arm and leg to the closet door and yank it open with clenched teeth. The closet, two floors, is directly beneath the attic, and the voices are louder, clearer, here as they travel through the ductwork.

The man isn’t Tate. And he’s not Tristan. That much I can tell. But whoever this prick is, he was working with Tate, and he’s telling Emily she has to die.

The box is in view now, high on the closet shelf. My vision blurs and a thousand tiny pinpricks of light explode as I lean against the wall and push myself to my feet.

I catch a sidelong glimpse of my profile in the mirror affixed to the closet door and gasp, heart thumping because, for a moment, I think someone’s in the room with me.

I turn and study my reflection. Blood mats my hair, dirt streaks my face, and my right shoulder juts out in a grotesquely distorted hump.

But I’m fixated on my eyes: they stare back at me with the same haunted look I remember from the weeks and months immediately after I was attacked.

In the attic, Emily sobs loudly.

I tear my gaze away from the mirror. I prop my right leg against the wall, trying to keep my weight off my ankle, as I stretch up onto my left toes, grit my teeth, and try to reach for the safe on the shelf with both arms. It’s no use.

My right arm goes no higher than my damaged shoulder.

I fall back to my heels and lean against the wall to steady myself so I can try again.

I push off from the wall and reach for the shelf again. My right arm dangles uselessly as I wrap the fingers around the handle of the heavy gun safe and pull it forward to the edge of the shelf.

I tip it toward me and let gravity do the work while I hang on tight.

My arm wrenches down like the rectangular box weighs a thousand pounds.

I stop it inches before it hits the floor and lower it gently.

Then I kneel, my busted right ankle splayed to the side, and fumble with the lock with my stiff, cold fingers.

Overhead, the thud of quick footsteps and a loud thump sound.

The beginning of a struggle? I curse under my breath, miskey the code, and have to start over.

I race through the sequence again, my ears trained on the ceiling above my head.

Finally, I enter the right digits and the lock opens with a click.

I yank the lid open and lift out the gun. It’s heavy in my shaking hand. It’s loaded, I know. Robert insists I keep it locked away. Our compromise is that I do so with a magazine loaded, the bolt action locked open, and the safety engaged.

I wobble to my feet, rack the bolt to chamber a round, and I flick off the safety. Given my condition, I’ll never make it upstairs in time.

I’ll be lucky to get off one shot before I collapse.

One shot to create a distraction and give Emily a fighting chance.

Shooting blind, through two floors of solid wood, I’m unlikely to hit either of them—but there’s no way to guarantee it.

My finger finds the trigger and I hesitate, weighing the risk.

Another scream pierces the air, making my decision for me. I aim up at the far corner of the closet ceiling and steel myself for the pain of the recoil. I squeeze the trigger.