Page 42 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Thirty-Eight

Tristan

T he thick silence stretches over the interrogation room.

Loretta chews the lipstick off her lower lip.

Graham cracks his knuckles. I listen to the thump of my heart in my chest. I’m about to give voice to my fear that I led Tate to Dr. Wilde.

I’m responsible for Giselle Ward’s death, even if I’m not legally culpable.

And if anything happens to Emily or Alex, their blood will be on my hands, too.

My throat closes at the thought of Emily. My wife, my world, my heart. If Wilde hurts her?—

Dunn’s radio crackles. He’s been patched into the police department’s encrypted channel in North Carolina. “Officers on the property. Single shot fired from within the house.”

Shot fired? By the police? Wilde? One of the women? The clipped, cryptic message causes a frenzy of synapses to fire in my brain.

“I can’t lose her,” I croak. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray—if repeating please, please, please, can be considered a prayer.

Emily

“The window, Emily. It’s time.” His voice is flat. So is his expression.

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“The note’s already written,” he tells me like that’s what’s holding me back. “It sounds just like your voice. I studied your books, you know? On top of all the trauma and guilt over Cassie’s death, when you found out Tristan killed Tate, it was too much. The last straw.”

“Tristan?” I shake my head, bewildered. “You said you killed Tate.”

“Of course. But I can’t be arrested. I have more work to do. Framing Tristan was too good to resist. He’ll go down for Giselle Ward’s murder and his brother’s. There’s a poetic justice in that, don’t you think?”

I don’t answer the question. Instead I ask one of my own. “Work? You mean, therapy?”

The professional mask cracks. “No. Tate helped me understand that watching isn’t enough. Observation without participation is meaningless.” His eyes are fever-bright now. “This will be my contribution to the field. My legacy.”

The words hit me with force. He plans to continue to kill.

Not just me and Alex. He’s going to pick up where Tate left off.

A new monster emerging from the ruins of so many shattered lives.

I stumble backward, tripping over the framed picture near my feet.

It falls heavily to the floor, and the glass cracks. Splinters tinkle out in a small pile.

He tuts at the mess. Then his expression hardens. “It’s time to jump.”

“I can’t,” I tell him. “I can’t move.”

He sighs heavily. “The freeze response. You’re nothing if not predictable. I’ll have to push you then,” he says in a tone tinged with regret, like I’m ruining this special moment for him.

The petulance in his voice fans the flame growing inside me.

He grips my upper arms with steady hands and backs me toward the window. Behind him, the axe lies forgotten. Behind me, through the open window, the storm rages.

“Wait,” I blurt.

He stops but digs his fingers more firmly into my arms. “What?”

I point toward the knife with my chin. “Can’t I cut my wrists instead? I don’t want to jump.”

He narrows his eyes and studies me. In return, I widen mine in a plea.

For an instant, I think he’s going to say yes and hand me the kitchen knife. I envision plunging it into his sternum.

Then he laughs. “Not a chance. While you bleeding out from stab wounds would be the most fitting end, I can’t risk my fingerprints being found on the knife.”

Even when I’m facing near-certain death and have nothing to lose, this man who knows my every fear and shame, doesn’t consider for a moment that I might turn the knife on him. And his willingness to underestimate is the one thing that can save me now.

I just need a chance. Some way to grab the knife. Or the poker. Or the axe. Or to lunge at him and scrape at his eyes with my fingernails. Something, anything, to fight back. To save myself.

I fill my lungs with air, bounce on my heels, and get ready to make my move. And then, an explosive crack rings out, filling the small room. We both startle, and his grip loosens. He whips his head around toward the sound as it echoes off the wall.

A gunshot?

It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s my chance.

I yank myself free and dive to the floor, scrabbling for the broken glass. My hand closes around the biggest shard I can find. I grab it and pop to my feet, raw instinct driving me forward.

As he turns back toward me, I lurch at him and plunge the glass deep into his neck. His eyes go wide with surprise, not pain—not yet, at least.

“Fascinating,” he chokes out, blood bubbling at his lips. “You broke free of freeze.” He sounds almost proud.

His knees buckle. I stumble back, as he crumples to the floor, the glass still protruding from his neck. He reaches for me with trembling hands.

I watch him, unblinkingly, until, at last, his fingers twitch and still for good. The sound of sirens breaks through the steady beat of the rain outside. I peer out the window and see the flash of lights as a police SUV careens into view.

It’s over. I’ve saved myself. I want to fall to my knees and sob with relief. But a thought intrudes. Alex.

I step over Dr. Wilde’s body and run down the stairs.

Alex

When the recoil slammed through my left shoulder it reverberated in my broken collarbone and torn right shoulder. My vision whited out with pain. I have no idea how much time has passed.

Now, I force my eyes open to the sound of footsteps on the attic stairs and my chest clenches. Is it Emily—or him ? I pull myself further into the closet, scrabble for the gun.

Outside, faint sirens grow louder, until they’re screaming in the driveway.

“Em?” I croak, but my voice is only a hoarse whisper.

“Alex?” Emily’s voice calls out, clear and loud. “Where are you? It’s over.”

It’s over. It’s finally over. Salty tears pour down my cheeks.

Still clutching the firearm, I drag myself across the bedroom. She comes into view in the foyer. Blood dots her hands and arms. Her face is a white sheet, her hair a tangled mess around her face. But she’s alive.

I’m alive.

We’re alive.

She jerks her chin at the gun. “You saved us. The gunshot distracted him long enough for me to—. It’s over.”

I see in her face what she’s not saying.

“How? The knife?”

She shakes her head. “Piece of broken glass.”

I crack a weak smile. “You dug your way out of the tower.”

Another shake of her head, her red hair bobbing. “ We dug our way out.”

She steps over the threshold and sinks to the floor beside me. I grip her icy hand with my good one. That’s how the first responders find us. Huddled together on the floor, holding hands.