epilogue

“I wanted to be a hero,” Lennon says. He’s propped up in his hospital bed. It’s been over a week, but he still has to strain to speak; so many broken ribs makes even breathing difficult. He’s refusing the morphine drip, a fact he and Jude have been arguing over. Lennon says the pain’s not so bad, but the truth is that he wants to suffer, to do penance. Helping him out of that dark place is going to take more than a week. Part of it is letting him explain, however many times he needs to do that.

“I couldn’t save Edie,” he says. “So I thought if I could gather evidence for the cops, no one would remember that I was the screwed-up kid who started following his psycho father. They’d only remember the hero who caught him.”

I squeeze Lennon’s hand. “You were a hero. You made sure he didn’t come after me.”

Lennon manages a pained snort. “No, that was my stupidest mistake. Telling Kendrick to lay off you let him know you were important to me. That’s when he targeted you.”

Jude shakes his head. “He targeted Winter the minute he saw you two together. By asking him not to hurt her, you piqued his curiosity. That’s what kept her alive. Kendrick knew you wouldn’t hurt her, which meant she didn’t work as a possible victim for you. He had to observe and figure out how she could be used. That’s what saved her.” He glances over. “And then she saved you and saved herself.”

“I’m not the one who called the police,” I say.

Jude makes a face. “Only because you couldn’t. Stop ducking compliments.”

“I will if you do.”

“Not happening, for either of you,” Lennon says with a half smile. “I’ll admit, when I tried to play hero, I hoped it might win me the girl. But you know what? I like this ending better.”

We talk a little more after that, about other things, like Jude going back to finish his senior year, moving into the family house again. Things that help us forget the horror of what happened. No, not forget. Just temporarily distract me from memories of Edie’s body, of the bodies of those two other girls, now identified as ones who’d been on my list, both disappearing a few years ago.

I knew those girls. Not as well as I knew Edie, but I knew them. They are not nameless victims, not to me.

The police found two more bodies, also from Reeve’s End. That’s not coincidence. As Lennon mentioned, Elysse and Kendrick’s family used to have a summer house in the area. After suspicions arose when that housekeeper’s daughter went missing, Kendrick decided to target a place where kids do go missing and picked Reeve’s End. Finding out Lennon knew a girl from there must have seemed like a sign, proof that it was time to take his son to the next stage.

When Lennon is too tired to talk, we head into the hall, and Mr. Bishop rises from where he’s been waiting.

“Is he still awake?” he asks.

“Just ready to doze off,” I say.

Mr. Bishop heads into the room, and I see him gripping Lennon’s hand, leaning over to talk to him, brushing hair back from his forehead. Then one last squeeze and he joins us.

“There are a couple of reporters in front,” Mr. Bishop says. “We’ll duck out the back. I already brought the car around.” As we start for the stairwell, he glances at Jude. “Everything okay?” There’s an edge of anxiety in his voice. There always seems to be these days, along with the constant checks.

“Everything’s fine, Dad.”

Mr. Bishop relaxes most at that last word, confirmation that he is still the boys’ dad, no matter how badly he might feel he’s failed them. He never suspected that Jude and Lennon were his wife’s biological nephews. Mrs. Bishop didn’t want children, so when she had a change of heart upon hearing about two orphaned brothers, he was too pleased to question it.

Jude holds the passenger door for me, and I’m still climbing in when my cell rings. It’s Cadence.

“I’m roasting the chicken,” she says.

I sigh. “Didn’t we already discuss this? Fried chicken is your specialty. Fried chicken is fine.”

“That’s home cooking. This needs to be special.”

“Your fried chicken is special, Cady.”

“How about both? I could do both.”

“We don’t need—”

“It’s seven people. I should do both.”

“Seven? You, me, the Southcotts, Jude, his father…” I squeeze my eyes shut. “You invited Dad, didn’t you?”

“He wants to come,” she says quickly. “He hasn’t had a drink since I came home, and he went to his first AA meeting last night. He’d like to meet the congressman and apologize to Jude. You need to let him do that, Win.”

I fight against the urge to argue. My sister wants to make peace. I will let her try, even if I know it’s not that easy.

I agree we’ll be at the Southcotts’ at six for dinner, and then I talk to Jude and Mr. Bishop for the rest of the ride back. I’ve been staying at the estate to avoid the media, but it’s time for me to go home. Get back to school. Try to live with my father until I can escape to college.

When we arrive at the house, Mr. Bishop drops us off and drives into the garage. Before we even reach the front door, mad scratching erupts from the other side, followed by the shout of an alarmed maid. Jude opens the door and Reject leaps on him as the maid runs to save the door from further scratches.

“I’ve got her,” Jude says, and he bends to rub Reject behind the ears as she bathes his face in kisses. We both try to keep her from jumping. She’s not quite recovered enough for that. She can bark, but it’s soft, and we aren’t sure if that will get better, but she seems happy, and that’s the main thing.

“How about Squeaky?” Jude says as she prances around us, squeaking excited yelps as we walk through the house.

I give him a look. “That’s almost as mean as Reject.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who picked it. You come up with a name or I will, and yours will be better. Remember, I’m still the guy who called you babe.”

“We can call her Hardy,” I say. “If you’re done with it.”

He looks over and nods, his lips curving in a faint smile. “I’m done with it. Let’s go with that, then.”

We head up the stairs and he pats his legs, saying, “Come on, Hardy.”

She bounds along after us as he entwines his hand with mine. When we reach the second floor, though, I pass our bedrooms and continue to the back steps, leading him up to the turret room and then over to the piano. Then I sit, and he takes the spot beside me on the bench. I put my fingers over the keys, take a deep breath, and play the first few chords of “Hey Jude” as best I can remember them, and it’s terrible—hesitation over each key, even my tin ear able to tell that I get about a third of them wrong. But when I look over he’s smiling, and he reaches, hands cupping my face, and he kisses me, the sweetest kiss.

When I pull back, I look at the piano and say, “That’s the only part I know.” He smiles again and says, “I think I know the rest,” and when I say, “Will you show me?” he takes my hands and positions them over the keys, and we play it together.