fifty-seven

Lennon stumbles into the room as if shoved, and falls face-first to the floor. He’s been beaten. A horrible, sustained beating, old bruises mingling with new; fresh cuts intersecting scabbed ones.

He collapses there, and Mrs. Bishop is making these noises, these whimpering noises as she tries to get to him, and I hear that sound and I realize whatever she’s done, however distant she’s tried to be, she loves them. She cannot help but love them. They are her sons.

Lennon is panting like a dog, and each of those breaths is painful to hear, as if he doesn’t have an undamaged rib in his chest. When he gathers enough strength, he lifts his head to look around, and the first thing he sees is me.

“No,” he whispers, and he squeezes his eyes shut and tears glisten at the corners, one falling when he opens them and he mouths, I’m sorry.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Kendrick says as he walks in. “Oh, yes, that one—” He points to Edie. “She was a pretty little trifle that caught your eye. But nothing more. Such a fickle boy.”

Kendrick walks to his sister, who’s still scrabbling to get to Lennon, making those wounded noises. He kicks her square in the side of the head, and she goes down, losing consciousness. He turns to me and continues, as if he wasn’t interrupted.

“Lennon changes his mind so quickly. Tells me about this girl he met at a concert and how she emailed to say she was coming home for the long weekend. He didn’t take the hint and offer to meet up with her. So I helped. Got in touch with her and played Cyrano to his Christian. She agreed to come in a few days early. I met her at the bus stop in Lexington, posing as Lennon’s driver, to whisk her off for a romantic getaway. Then I presented her to him and what happened? He rejected my gift.”

“You…you sick…” Lennon’s face contorts with fury, but even that takes too much effort and he starts heaving breath again.

Kendrick walks over. “You tried to set her free. You betrayed me. And then I had to kill her, and I couldn’t even take the time to do it properly because I needed to teach you a lesson. Only it wasn’t harsh enough, and you escaped. Then what did you do, you stupid boy? You came back. Tried to pretend you’d changed your mind. Came back to be a proper son. Your only condition?”

He waves at me. “I had to leave darling Winter alone. Sweet, sweet Winter. Who promptly threw you over for your brother.”

Lennon pants for breath and then says, “I’ll do it,” his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

He lifts his head, looking at his father. “I said I’ll do it. You’re right. I tried to protect her. All this?” He plucks at his bloodied shirt. “For her. And she wants him? Him?” He glares my way. “Nobody wants Jude if they can have me.”

“Well, well,” Kendrick says. “I knew you had it in you.” He walks over, crouches, and hands Lennon a switchblade. My switchblade. “You don’t have the strength to do a proper job, but let’s see you make a good start.”

Lennon takes a moment, just holding the knife. He hits the switch. The blade pops out. He backs up onto his haunches. Another moment, breathing deeply, gathering his strength. Then he lunges at Kendrick, who slams him in the chest hard enough that there’s a crack, and I wince as Lennon crumples, making a muffled noise, as if trying to contain a scream.

Kendrick retrieves the fallen knife. “Yes, I saw that one coming a mile away. I had to give you a chance, just in case. But I knew better.”

He crouches in front of Lennon, who’s curled up on the floor, trying to stifle his whimpers. Every time Kendrick turns away, I pick madly at the frayed rope. I’m taking it one strand at a time, and I don’t seem to be making any progress. My heart is thumping. I know Lennon is in trouble—serious trouble—and I have no idea where Jude is, how badly hurt he might be.

“You’re weak,” Kendrick says to Lennon. “Soft. You had me fooled for a while. I thought I saw something in you. But when I actually gave you a gift, you couldn’t even consider it.”

Kendrick raises his voice to a mocking falsetto. “Y-you want me to do wh-what?” He lowers it again. “So shocked. So horrified. As if you haven’t fantasized about it. Of course you have. You just don’t have the guts to go through with it. You’re all surface. Your brother is the one with depth. He won’t disappoint me.”

Lennon laughs. It’s a ragged laugh, painful to even hear, but he can’t seem to help it. Anyone who knows Jude can see he doesn’t have a scrap of real darkness in him. But their father is desperate. Lennon has failed him; Jude cannot.

“Ellie? You joining us?” He walks to Mrs. Bishop and grabs her by the hair, shaking her until she regains consciousness. “I was just saying that I made a mistake. You made the same one, Ellie. You’re not exactly maternal, but there’s a little spark of it in you, and you aimed it at the wrong boy. You’re very fond of Lennon here. He reminds you of your Peter, and so you are charmed, in spite of yourself. Jude, though?” Kendrick scrunches his nose. “Jude is too complicated. Too cold. Too much like you. But he’s the one with talent and brains and depth. The one who reminds you of me, too.”

Mrs. Bishop chokes on a laugh, not unlike Lennon’s earlier. “You? No, Kendrick. Jude is difficult. He tries my patience. He can be overly dramatic, and he has a temper. But whatever taint is in your blood, it thankfully passed him by.”

“You’re wrong, Ellie, but the point is that you like Lennon. You might even love him. So that is how I’ll pay you back for keeping my sons from me.”

Kendrick walks to Lennon. I’m frantically trying to get this damned rope off. I’m twisting and turning and blood is streaming down my wrist and I don’t care—I just need to get it off. I know what’s coming, and Mrs. Bishop doesn’t. She’s just lying there, glowering up at her brother, her eyes blazing with hate.

Kendrick smoothes Lennon’s hair, and Mrs. Bishop relaxes. I try to yell a warning against my gag as I madly struggle with the rope.

Kendrick runs his fingers through Lennon’s hair. Then he yanks it, pulling Lennon’s head up, and the blade flashes and I leap to my feet and dive at them, hitting Kendrick with my shoulder as Mrs. Bishop screams, and then I hear a voice shout, “No!” and Jude races through the doorway, blood on his shirt, a cut on his cheek.

Jude grabs the knife from Kendrick and hits him with an uppercut, sending him flying. Then he turns to me and the rope finally snaps. I rip off my gag. Jude hands me the knife and launches himself at Kendrick, who’s struggling to his feet. I kneel beside Mrs. Bishop.

“We’re going to get you help.” I cut her bonds and say, “You need to call 911.”

She blinks at me, as if in a fog. Then she reaches for her pocket as if she’ll find her phone there.

“You need to get a phone,” I say. “Quickly. Please.”

She sees Jude, still battling Kendrick, and she takes a step in that direction.

“Go,” I say. “Please. He’s fine.” I lift the knife, letting her know that if Jude can’t subdue Kendrick, I’ll hardly cower here, whimpering.

She takes a step toward the door. Then another. I move to help Lennon, my gaze still fixed on the combatants. Jude grabs his father by the hair and slams his head into the concrete. Kendrick slumps. Jude hurries to me, and we’re crouching by Lennon’s side when Jude looks toward his mother, heading into the hall, and says, “I’ve already—” and then “Mom!”

He shoots to his feet, and I hear a rasping breath from the hall and then Jude is racing toward that hall. I get to my feet, taking a running step toward the door as I see what Jude sees. It’s Roscoe, bloodied and beaten, limping toward Mrs. Bishop. There’s a gun in his hand.

I hear the gun fire. I hear Jude shout. I see his mother sail backward. I see blood. I’m running toward them, shouting for Jude to get down, just get down. He dives as Roscoe fires again. The bullet whizzes past me. Jude hits Roscoe’s legs and knocks him flying, the gun clattering to the cement floor.

I’m running for the gun when I see a movement behind me. It’s Kendrick. Blood streams from his forehead, but he’s rising, his gaze fixed on Lennon. I run at him and kick as he lunges at Lennon. Kendrick snags my foot and yanks. I manage to hold on to the knife as I go down. I resist the urge to slash at Kendrick—that risks letting him get hold of my knife. Instead, as he comes at me, I punch with my free hand, and that surprises him.

When Kendrick grabs for me, I jab him in the eye. As he falls back, I go for his other eye, jabbing with my thumb. He snarls, but he’s blinded, and with a few adrenaline-fueled and well-aimed blows, he goes down.

I flick open the knife then. It’s poised at his throat. He blinks, clearing the blood enough to see it. And then he chuckles.

“You going to kill me, little Winter? Maybe I picked the wrong pupil. You seem to have that certain something my sons lack. Be sure to look into my eyes as you kill me. Be sure to enjoy it.”

I pull back the blade, my fingers wrapping around it. Then I stab it, as hard as I can, into his shoulder, picking exactly the right spot so it buries itself in the muscle. Kendrick screams and clutches his shoulder as blood streams from it.

I climb off him and grab Lennon by the shirt. He’s passed out. I haul him to the doorway, where I can keep an eye on him. Down the hall, Jude and Roscoe are still fighting. I run to them. I have to step over Mrs. Bishop. She’s lying on her back, her sightless eyes staring up, and I feel a pang of grief at that. Whatever she did, she tried, in the end. She cared, in the end. It was just too late.

I run over and grab the gun. When Jude sees I have it, he throws Roscoe aside and staggers to his feet. I give him the gun and keep my knife ready.

“Lie on your stomach,” Jude says to Roscoe. “Hands on your head.”

Roscoe starts to lie down. Then there’s a crack down the hall. The sound of footsteps, multiple footsteps, moving fast.

“Jude!” I say. “Get—”

“We’re in here!” he shouts. And police storm through the doorway.