Their Vicious Games(98)

And all I can say is: “You win.”

Penthesilea shatters.

I let her go and continue down the stairs.

I give Penthesilea Bonavich one last look, committing her to memory. She is the final shot of a beautiful film, as she falls to her knees with a heavy thud and crawls toward Graham and Pierce. She tugs the bloody mess of Pierce’s corpse from Graham’s weak arms and holds him to her chest, wailing, the delicious pink of her dress now drenched in blood. He is the worst person in her life. But for a long time he was one of the only people in her life. He was probably the first boy she ever loved. He was her future, even if that future was a prison, and I think that might be what she grieves. Now, both our futures end in a question mark. For her sake, I hope she finds an answer, but I know she won’t in the body of her dead, emotionally abusive boyfriend.

I don’t look at Graham, because if I do, I’ll have to look at Pierce, and I refuse to feel sad when looking at someone like him.

And then I run, flying through the door on my messed-up ankle, stuttering over the front steps, tripping over them, until I practically crawl across the driveway, toward the lawn.

Stumbling onto the grass, I fall to my knees.

Free.

I kneel in the grass for God knows how long, pressing my face into the green, wheezing. I sit up on my haunches, staring up into the sky and gasping for fresh air, unsure of what to do next. The sky seems bluer now. The world seems quieter. I want to sleep for a thousand years. There is only me, and no one else.

A hand lands on my shoulder, making that a lie. I wrench myself away and something painful tears its way from my throat. I look up at Graham Remington and he’s not staring at me—he’s staring at the gun in my hand. And in that moment I don’t see him or the way he doesn’t resemble his father or his brother.

I see every way that he does.

I tremble, my teeth chattering, and I can’t stop making that sound, a scream that swells up deep and guttural and warlike from the darkest part of me—the part of me that’s still trapped in that nightmare of a house and always will be.

“Adina…,” he starts, hands held up in surrender.

“No,” I snarl, scrambling back. “Don’t… don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Adina, please—”

“ADINA!”

That voice. It makes me drop the gun in the grass and turn, my ankle rolling painfully underneath me.

There’s a familiar BMW driving up the long driveway.

The car screeches to a stop and then, and then—

“Toni!” I cry out, and I’m crawling toward her. It takes me a second to realize she’s not alone. I don’t scream her name, but when I see her climbing out of the passenger seat, alive and whole, it feels like a miracle. Saint.

Toni fights her way out of the car too and then she’s running to me. I blink, and then Toni and Saint are kneeling in front of me, throwing their arms around me, reeling me in tight, while Graham backs away. I press my face into their neck—familiar and perfect and safe and real—and I weep.

“I’m here,” Toni promises.

She’s here, I think.

And then it hits me—I am too. I’m still here.





EPILOGUE




I WAKE UP WITH A start to the smell of bacon and coffee. As I’ve had to for the past three weeks, I have to take a moment to remind myself of where I am.

I catalog my room—the old Super 8, my white armoire, waxy photos of Toni and me. All of it is mine. Sitting up in my bed, I turn over my phone—it’s new, I never found where Leighton had tucked away mine—and look down at the lock screen. There’s a message from Mom, promising that they’ll be back soon, which answers who’s downstairs.

There are about ten text messages telling me their ETA back to the house while they run their errands. They’re still anxious about leaving me. My parents talk about pressing charges. But in my mind, there is no one really left to press charges against.

My parents talk about therapy. But I think about Leighton when I hear the word.

When I think about Leighton, I think about the Remingtons. And then when I dream, I find myself back at the Remington Estate.

The bruises have begun to go away over the past couple of weeks. The nightmares don’t. They get worse.

I tear away my blankets and slip out of bed. I trudge downstairs, rubbing at my eyes and tugging on the ends of my braids.

“Can you rebraid my hair today, Toni?” I ask, in lieu of a greeting.

“Good morning, Adina,” Toni says with a wide smile, standing by the stove top. I didn’t know she could cook. “Your parents said good morning too. They tried to wake you before they left, but you were out. They let me in.”

“Where’d they go?” I ask, eyes flitting around to the window, the front door, the back door, checking twice that each one is closed before I finally ease into a seat at the kitchen table. I look down to find a stack of mail.

“Supermarket, but I’m sure they’ll be back soon.” Toni flips the bacon with a flick of her wrist. The edges are burnt—so not much has changed while I was gone. Except me. “I can rebraid your hair after breakfast. Are you sure you don’t want to do anything different? We can pick up one of my wigs from the house. Or I can do twists? You can take them out in a few days.”