Their Vicious Games(87)

“NO!”

There’s a beat of silence, louder than all the rest, and then Esme turns, ready to run, to scream where we are. But Saint launches herself at Esme, tackling her to the ground. She tries to secure her there with a knee between her shoulder blades, but Esme flips and headbutts Saint in the nose. Saint falls back, gasping, blood spurting from her nostrils and splashing across the front of Esme’s nightshirt.

Esme rolls over and crawls forward, fighting her way to her feet. “I have fought and fought all this time. I have humiliated myself again and again. I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going to see this through until the end.” The wound on her hand has started to bleed again, pinpricks of red spreading across stark white gauze. “And so are you.”

Saint turns and spits blood on the ground, glaring at Esme’s back. “You’re not doing this for your family, Esme Alderidge. You just don’t know who you are without diamonds around your neck. And you’re too scared to find out.”

“I’ll kill you,” Esme promises. She takes a step back, and I can believe it. I can see it happening, can see her wrapping her long fingers around Saint’s neck and choking the life out of her. Saint would fight it, but in the end, Esme would win because she stinks of desperation.

“Don’t do this, Esme…,” I warn. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And it’s true. This may look like that day with Toni, like a fun-house mirror, the two of us facing each other, both poised for violence, but this time the consequences would be deadly.

Esme looks at me for a brief moment, like she remembers too. And like she remembers before that. The years we were friends. That we used to go to her country house, that we went roller-skating together, that we used to eat lunch together. That we used to just be, a group of friends, a group of girls.

She remembers and… decides that it’s not enough.

Esme launches herself at Saint, her acrylic nails curled over, and I move before I can even think, swinging the beam of wood with all my might at her back, intending to knock her over.

There’s a hard crack, and for a moment Esme almost floats in the air, frozen. A trickle of blood slips from her scalp down the back of her neck, staining the clasp of her necklace rose gold. And then she falls into a heap and doesn’t move. I can’t even scream. The sound freezes in my chest.

Saint barely reacts. She is already grabbing me, tugging me back from Esme. Esme, who is not moving.

“We have to go. Come on, Adina. Come on,” Saint insists, her voice wispy in my ear.

“She’s not moving,” I say, too loud. “Is she breathing?”

The sounds of security get closer, the static of their radios, the barking of orders. I jerk out of Saint’s hold and rush back to Esme, collapsing to my knees in the hay. I press a hand to the back of her head, and it comes away wet, the blood so dark in the moonlight, it looks black, like something out of a fairy tale. Saint is still pulling at my shoulder, trying to get me to my feet.

“I can’t… I didn’t… I couldn’t’ve,” I stutter in starts and finishes. And then I grab Saint by the face with two hands, smearing a bloody handprint on her cheek. “I have to stay. She needs help, I can’t leave her. You need…”

Saint shakes her head. “No, we’ve done this together—”

“Saint,” I interrupt. The men are getting louder. “Run.”

She looks terrified. But finally, finally, she turns and does as I command, running into the night, as fast as she can through the back of the stables, over the fence of the outdoor ring and gone.

“Okay… okay, Esme,” I whisper, voice gone feathery with panic. I reach for her and turn her over onto her back, looking down at her. I cringe. Blood is spilling down her forehead. I put my hand to her lips, to her chest, but there is no movement. “You’re okay, Esme. You’re okay.”

I punctuate my insistence as I press my hands to her chest, doing compressions. I’ve no idea if the rhythm is right or the form, all my knowledge gleaned from TV, but it’s all I have. It has to be enough, because if it isn’t—

“The stable!” a voice shouts.

I press harder, leaning down to press my lips to hers, feeling her lungs inflate. When I pull away, my mouth tastes like pennies. I press down harder, and I shiver, even though I’m not cold. This is Esme.

Esme, who is cruel and ambitious and forceful. Esme, who is here for her family, and yes, also herself.

Esme, who was my friend.

Esme, who was my enemy.

Esme, who might be dead.

Because of me.

The voices grow louder and louder, and security creeps closer.

“In here!” they call from just outside the door.

I slowly raise my hands in surrender, but then I’m jerked backward, a large hand flying over my mouth. I fight against the forearm wrapped around my stomach as I’m yanked back and then I try to slam my head back against the face of my captor.

“Stop,” Graham’s voice comes low and urgent. “Come with me or they’re going to shoot.”

I gasp and immediately fall limp in his arms as he tugs me back into the nearest empty stall. We collapse against the hay, then peer through the crack between the stall door and the wall, right where we can see Esme’s body, her blood glittering. She’d appreciate the aesthetic if she could see it. The heinous thought makes me want to laugh and vomit.