Kate

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So this is the life he’s got planned for us? One where I do the work of a minimum-wage employee, and he mopes around like a Victorian invalid, all pale and bloodless? I stir the bland, pinkish soup. It’s been simmering a while, and it doesn’t smell completely unappetizing.

“Is there salt?”

Wes lifts his head. “Mm? No. Forgot. I don’t cook much.”

You don’t say.

“Guess it’s ready, then. Are there bowls, at least?”

“Up there.” He points at the cabinet over the dishwasher. Really?—He expects me to serve him, too? Maybe wash the dishes? What’s next? Will His Majesty require his shoes shined? His hair brushed? His boxers fluffed and folded? Fucking Skidmarks.

I dish up his dinner and set it in front of him. “There. Soup. You happy?”

Wes stares into the bowl. If he complains, I swear to God—

“I don’t think I can eat this.”

“Seriously?”

He hugs himself, shivering. “I’ll try. If you want me to.”

What I want is to rub his hateful face in it. Scald him to a fetching shade of boiled lobster. Instead, I force a smile. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.” Wes sniffs. “Nothing at all.” The spoon scrapes against the bowl as he toys with his dinner. I hover awkwardly, feeling like his mother.

“Well?”

Wes licks his lips, frowns, and sets his spoon aside. He pushes the bowl away, throat working as he swallows. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

So that’s it. He wants me to worry, same as always. Inquire after his health—You feel all right? Need anything? Anything at all? Well, that’s a game he can play alone. I whisk his soup away and pour it down the sink. I wrinkle my nose as the hot tomato steam hits me in the face.

“I really am sorry. You went to all that trouble.”

I reach for the pot and start to rinse it out. There’s no detergent, naturally; no scrub brush. Nothing to break up the ring of slightly-burnt vegetable goo. I scratch at it with my nail.

“I just—I feel awful.” His voice is thick and froggy, choked with tears. I turn up the water to drown him out. Sooner or later, he’ll have to sleep or use the bathroom. Sooner or later....

He coughs and blows his nose. “Ever since we came to New York, it’s like I swallowed a lead weight. My stomach—my throat—”

“Ever think you might feel better if you quit torturing your friends?”

That gets a ragged gasp out of him. I freeze, horrified. What was I thinking?—Is this the part where he shoots me in the back? Can’t let him piss me off. Can’t engage.

Wes makes a strangled sound. I set the pot on the drying rack and reach for the bowl. I’m being good—I’ll be good. Till he goes to sleep. Till he—

“I do think that.” Wes’s chair creaks as he turns to face me. “And it’s over now, I promise. I’d have called it off weeks ago, but Rachel had to—Kyle had to die, and if I stopped there—if I gave up, he’d have died for nothing.”

The bowl slips through my fingers, forgotten. “And now you’ve got me here, his death means what, exactly?”

“Everything. To me.”

“You’re sick.”

Wes smiles and holds out his hand. “I won’t do anything to Carson. Max either.”

I press my back to the counter. Wes drops his hand, and his smile fades too. “I’ll tell them they’re off the hook as soon as we’re out of reach. Doesn’t that help?”

“Help?” I choke back an incredulous laugh. “And where am I, in this fantasy of yours?”

“Oh, it’s pretty, where we’re going. Blue skies for miles. Fields full of wildflowers. It’s lonely, but you’ll be free. You can go out by yourself, walk around—whatever you want. There’s sun most of the year. Beaches, just like home. And the house... It’s big enough you wouldn’t have to see me, if you didn’t want.” He looks up, eyes bright. “You’ll like it. It used to be a stable. The ceilings are so high there’s swallows nesting in the rafters.”

Right. Because who wouldn’t want birds in their house?

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s nice.”

An awful certainty settles over me. “It’s your island, isn’t it? The one we all thought you made up?”

Wes nods. “It’s not really mine. It belongs to—never mind. No one goes there. We can make it our own. Fix up the house. Whatever you want.”

I glance at the pot. It’s not heavy, but if I hit him hard enough....

“Give it a chance. Please.”

“You know I’m a city girl.”

A door slams, far below. Wes starts and scrambles to his feet. “No! No one’s supposed to be—” He grabs for my hand. “Come with me.”

I back away, but it’s too late. He’s brandishing a pistol. I cower, but there’s nowhere to hide, no escape—

“I said come on!” Wes loops his arm through mine and hauls me out of the kitchen. We fly down the hall, across a vast, abandoned ballroom, and the night air hits me in the face as we stumble onto the fire escape. Wes nudges me with his gun. “Move. And keep quiet.”

He’s not going to kill me. No way he’d give up his sad island dream, just like that. I hitch in a lungful of air and scream fit to shatter glass.

“Stop it!” Wes gropes for my mouth. I turn my head to the side and shriek again.

“Kate?” Carson!—They’ve found me! I lean out over the railing, straining to see in the dark.

“Carson! He’s got a gun!”

“Yeah? So do I!”

Wes curses under his breath. “I won’t shoot you, but he’s fair game.” He nudges me again. “The roof. Hurry.”

“What’s the point? There’s nowhere to hide.”

“Leave that to me.” Wes shoves me hard and I start to climb. Once we’re up there—once we’re on the roof— Shit. If Carson’s here, Max must be, too. Wes and his bitter rival, at least two guns, and a five-story drop: in no world does that end well. I need to put an end to this before Wes does it for me.

I look up: no railing. No wall.

The second we hit that roof, he’s going over the side.