The Fury(72)

You might suppose her mind would be on me, but you’d be wrong. I had faded almost entirely from her thoughts, as if I had never existed.

With my departure, a new clarity appeared. Everything Lana had felt so scared of—all the loneliness, loss, remorse—meant nothing to her now. All the human relationships she had deemed so necessary for her happiness meant nothing. She saw the truth at last, that she was alone and always had been.

Why had that been so frightening? She didn’t need Kate, nor Jason. She would set them all free, all of them. She would release her hostages. She would buy Agathi some land in Greece, a house, and a life, instead of demanding she sacrifice herself to Lana’s fear. Lana was no longer afraid. She would let Leo live his own life, pursue his own dreams. Who was she to hold on to him, to cling to him?

And Jason? She would throw him onto the street. Let him go to jail, let him go to hell, he meant nothing to her now.

She couldn’t wait to leave. She wanted to get as far away from this island as possible. She never wanted to come back. She would leave London, too. She knew that.

But go where? Wander the world aimlessly, forever lost? No. She was no longer lost. The fog had lifted, the road was revealed. The journey ahead was clear.

She would go home.

Home. As she thought this, she felt a warm glow in her heart.

She would go back to California, back to Los Angeles. All these years, she had been running away—fleeing who she was, fleeing the only thing that gave her meaning. Now, finally, she would confront her destiny, embrace it. She’d go back to Hollywood, where she belonged. And go back to work.

Lana felt so powerful now, rising like a phoenix from the ashes. Strong and fearless. Alone, but not afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of. She felt … what—what was this feeling? Joyful? Yes, joy. She felt full of joy.

Lana didn’t hear me enter the kitchen. I had come into the house through the back door. Silently making my way along the passage, I heard them, in the kitchen, congratulating themselves on their successful production. There was laughter, and the sound of champagne corks popping.

As I walked in, Agathi was pouring champagne into a row of glasses. She didn’t see me at first—but then she noticed a couple of wasps on the counter. She looked up.

She saw me standing by the door. She gave me a strange look. It must have been the wasps on me that made her look at me like that.

“A water taxi will be here in twenty minutes,” Agathi said. “Go get your stuff.”

I didn’t reply. I stood there, staring at Lana.

Lana was standing apart from the others, by the window, looking out. I thought how beautiful she looked, in this early-morning light. The sun outside made the window glow behind her, creating a halo around her head. She looked like an angel.

“Lana?” I said, in a low voice.

I sounded calm. I looked calm on the surface. But in the padlocked cell in my mind, where I kept him prisoner, I could hear the kid, rising up like a golem, wailing, screaming—battering the cell door with his fists, howling with rage.

Once again, abused; once again, humiliated. And worse, much worse—all his darkest fears, all the terrible things that I’d promised him weren’t true, had just been confirmed; by the only person he ever loved. Lana had exposed the kid, finally, for what he was: unwanted, unloved, a fraud. A freak.

I could hear him breaking free, bursting out of his cell—howling like a demon. He wouldn’t stop screaming—it was a horrifying, terrifying scream.

I wished he would stop screaming.

And then I realized it wasn’t the kid screaming.

It was me.

Lana had turned around and was staring at me, alarmed. Her eyes widened as I took the shotgun out from behind my back.

I aimed it at her.

Before anyone could stop me, I pulled the trigger.

I fired three times.



* * *



And that, my friend, concludes the sad story of how I came to murder Lana Farrar.





Epilogue





I had a visitor the other day.

I don’t get many visitors, you know. So it was nice to see a familiar face.

It was my old therapist. Mariana.

She had come to visit a colleague here—but thought she’d kill two birds with one stone; and she popped in to see me, too. Which lessened the compliment somewhat—but there you go. These days, I must take what I can get.

Mariana looked well, considering. Her husband died a few years ago, and she was heartbroken. Apparently, she completely fell apart. I know how that feels.

“How are you?” I said.

“I’m okay.” Mariana smiled cautiously. “Surviving. And you? How are you finding it here?”

I shrugged and answered with the usual banalities about making the best of things, that nothing lasts forever. “Plenty of time to think. Too much, perhaps.”

Mariana nodded. “And how are you doing with it all?”

I smiled but didn’t reply. What could I possibly say? How could I begin to tell her the truth?

As if reading my thoughts, Mariana said, “Have you considered writing it down? Everything that happened on the island?”

“No. I can’t do that.”

“Why not? It might help. To tell the story.”

“I’ll think about it.”