“The fuck happened?” My head is fucking throbbing, and my back feels damn near broken. “Why are you here?”
“I came as soon as I figured it out. It was a setup. This last video… they knew we were coming… I don’t know how, man. But they purposely leaked the fucking video. It was a fucking setup.”
I’m so focused on Jay’s mouth, slowly trying to process the words coming out of them that the sound of a gun being cocked and the cold press of metal in the back of my head registers too late.
“Glad you could figure that out, Jason Scott. Now let’s see those hands, otherwise this single bullet will find its way in both of your fucking heads.”
Jay looks up at the person standing behind me, his eyes growing impossibly larger.
“You?”
Chapter 42
The Manipulator
“A
re you surprised?" I ask through the phone, twirling the red rose between my fingers. I woke up to Zade gone, and a rose in his place.
My mother sighs. "No, I’m not. It explains a lot about your Nana and her strange attachment to the house."
I'm curled up on the couch watching the news channel, a sense of pride filling my veins as the words Breaking News and Seventy-Five-Year-Old Cold Case Solved.
Daya and I reported our findings to the police early this morning. They spent hours and hours going over our evidence. Still, after verifying the serial number and DNA test results were authentic, they declared Frank Seinburg the man that murdered Genevieve Parsons in cold blood. His motive—unrequited love.
They confiscated the diaries for now, but I made them pinky swear they would give it back. The police officer looked at me like I was unhinged when I physically made him pinky swear. But it made me feel better about parting with the diaries, even if it is temporary.
The news reporter on the screen speaks of the victim's great-granddaughter stumbling across hidden diaries in the wall and how it led to the discovery of her murder and who did it. I glance over at the window, an array of flashing lights blaring through the glass.
The news reporters are standing outside my house. They wanted to get Parsons Manor in the background. What would a creepy story be without an old Victorian house looming behind a pretty blonde woman with red lipstick on her teeth?
"She must've felt so much guilt all her life," I say quietly, the spike of sadness lingering since the realization that Nana helped cover up the murder.
Surprisingly, Mom doesn't have a snarky reply. "I imagine so, Adeline. That's a heavy weight to carry, especially because she was only sixteen years old when it happened. She was probably very traumatized."
I frown harder. "It amazes me that she was always so happy."
"Sometimes the happiest people are the saddest," she says, reciting a common quote.
"Then what are the miserable people in the world?"
"Tired."
"Sounds miserable."
She huffs out a dry laugh. "I have a showing soon. I have to go. I'll see you in a couple of weeks for Thanksgiving."
“Hey, Mom? I have one last question,” I rush out, the words bursting out of me. Something has been bothering me about this case, and the pressing need to ask is unbearable.
She sighs but stays on the line, silently urging me on.
“Did you happen to send me a black envelope full of pictures and a note?”
She’s silent, and my heart thumps in my chest. “Mom?” I prompt.
She clears her throat. “I guess your Nana and I are more alike than you thought.”
My eyes widen as realization dawns, hitting me directly in the chest. She did send me the envelope. Which means she knew all along about Gigi’s murder and Nana’s role in it.
Un-fucking-believable.
“You kept her secret,” I whisper.
“I have to go now, Addie. I have a house showing in five minutes.”
“Okay,” I murmur, but the line has already gone dead.
There’s no way of knowing when exactly Mom found out about Nana covering up the murder—I doubt she’ll ever tell me—but I imagine it was sometime before I was born, considering I have no memories of those two ever getting along.
Mom’s bitterness and dislike for Nana suddenly make more sense.
Nana covered up her mother’s murder, and in return, her daughter covered up her involvement.
My brain gets clogged with all that information, and the utter shock that my mother also played a hand in covering up Gigi’s murder. It’s too much.
I turn and stare out at the window as my thoughts turn to Zade. Really, they never left. He's been sitting in the back of my brain all day, weighing down on my shoulders.