Page 122 of Her Dark Lies

The bullet, hitting her in the neck.

The ground, hard under my knees as I catch her and fall.

The echoing laughter.

The blood. The blood. The blood.

I try to staunch it, but it’s gushing. I’m covered in my best friend’s essence.

“Oh, God, Katie. Katie!”

“I love you, Claire. Be happy,” Katie whispers, blood bubbling on her lips. And then she is gone, her head tipping back onto the stone floor.

It is that quick. She dies that fast, lying in my lap, her head trailing off my thighs, hair in the dirt.

She has just saved my life. Katie has sacrificed herself for me. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I didn’t have time to say thank you. I didn’t have time to tell her how much I love her. How grateful I am that she was my friend.

Another whistling explosion from down the tunnel. I don’t have time to waste. I don’t know why Morgan hasn’t shot me, too, while I’m prone, but I have to move.

I kiss Katie’s forehead, still warm, and lay her head gently on the packed earth floor and start back the way I’ve come. How dare Morgan try to take everything away from me? How dare she?

She knows I’m following her. She knows the tables have turned. She has nothing to lose—she is protected, she thinks, because the gun still has bullets. I’ve counted four shots, that revolver holds six bullets. She has two left; she doesn’t want to waste them.

It doesn’t take long to realize she’s led me to the crypt.

To the forever silent witnesses to our game of cat and mouse.

I turn a corner and stop with a gasp.

The bodies are stacked up in the corner like cordwood. Henna. Malcolm. A gray head as well—Fatima. Morgan must have killed her because she is no longer of use, or she defied her in the end. Karmen’s gone, too.

How many victims will she leave behind when this is over?

As distasteful as it seems, I run my hands along Malcolm’s body, digging my hand into his front right pocket.

The knife is still there.

I’ve seen him clean his nails with it, I’ve seen him open letters with it.

And now, alone in the darkness surrounded by the dead, I’m going to use it to kill Morgan.

The rational part of my mind saysRun, run the other way, run to the safety of whoever’s left out there.

The irrational, furious, obsessed part saysStop her, here and now, or you will never be free of her.

I will never be free of her anyway. She is my nuclear winter; the fallout will last long after I am dead and gone. It doesn’t matter if that’s now or seventy years from now.

Standing tall, I flick the knife open and seat it carefully in my hand.

“Morgan,” I call. “Morgan. Where are you? I want to talk.”

And I start down the path toward the grotto.

It doesn’t take long to find her. She is waiting by the door to the crypt. She is smiling, a pirate in the darkness. The revolver is at the ready, steady in her hand.

“What is it, Claire? Changed your mind? Now you want to talk to me?”

“Yes. What do you want from me?” I ask, still advancing.