Her gaze snapped to me. “John is a good man. He would never.”
He’d simply unlocked something in Iris.
“You killed Ty,” Steven choked.
Iris glared at Steven. “He deserved so much worse than what he got. I heard him on your show. Lying about how the blood evidence meant John was guilty. He had to pay.”
A smile stretched across her face. “No one thinks a little thing like me could ever hurt anyone. I told him I needed to talk to him alone. That I had information on the case, but he couldn’t tell anyone I was giving it to him.”
She laughed. “So gullible. Met me right at the trailhead. It was nice not to have to drag his ass anywhere. Kept ruining my tarps having to do that. But I bet he regretted our little rendezvous.”
“You fucking bitch.”
Iris struck out with her knife, slashing Steven across the chest.
He cried out, thrashing in pain. The cut didn’t look lethal, but it wasn’t shallow either.
“Do not call me a bitch.” Iris’s eyes flashed, rage swirling in their depths. “My ex tried that once and lived to regret it.”
My heart hammered against my ribs as Steven struggled for breath. It wouldn’t surprise me if he passed out. That kind of pain could easily be too much for a person.
Iris wiped the knife on her jeans, the blood smearing across the denim. “There’s really no need for name-calling. Especially when I’m about to get you a goddamned Pulitzer.”
I could see it then. She legitimately believed in this alternate dimension she’d created for herself.
“How did you meet John?” I asked. I needed to know. Had to understand how this had all come to be. And maybe, just maybe, I could buy enough time for Roan to find me.
Just thinking his name had me fighting tears. His face filled my mind: his gruff snarl, the twitch of his lips, one of those rare and precious smiles. I loved them all. Loved that each one made me appreciate the other. But most of all, I loved how deeply he cared. How he gave that care to the people and creatures around him without wanting to claim a second of glory for himself.
I wanted to tell him that. Wanted to see those blue eyes when I said those three little words.
He’d given me so much—a true family. A sob lodged in my throat as Cady’s face swirled in my memory: her beaming smile and shining green eyes. What would happen to her if I died? Who would take care of her?
“I saw him on the news,” Iris said dreamily, jerking me out of my spiraling thoughts. “His interview with Oren Randal. How could you not see his pain? His grief?”
I’d give it to her. John had been convincing in that farce. He’d somehow managed to dredge up actual tears as he stared into the camera and said, “I did not kill my wife. I have no idea who did, but they stole everything good from my life because it means I’ve lost my daughter, too.”
That had been the turning point. The time when people wondered if I was too traumatized or spiteful to remember things correctly. They’d explained away the blood evidence. The timelines. So many had simply believed him.
“I wrote to him first,” Iris said. “Told him I’d do whatever I could to help. We became…friends.”
Except John didn’t have friends. He had people he used.
“I sent him money for the commissary. Books. Magazines. Finally, he asked me to visit.”
I tugged on my restraints, praying they’d magically loosened. “And you fell in love?”
She sent me a quelling look. “Not right away. We understood each other. We’d both been hurt. We supported each other. Listened.”
“And he sent you here?” I pressed.
Iris’s jaw tightened, her teeth gnashing together. “I came on my own. He just wanted me to get the truth out of you so he could be free. Scare you a little bit. But I knew you needed worse.”
“Boiling baby bunnies and killing a bunch of people isn’t exactly getting the truth,” Steven mumbled.
“Don’t make me slit your throat before it’s time,” Iris growled.
I expected Steven to panic or pale, but he just stared at her. Maybe he’d realized what I had. She had no plans of letting us walk out of here. Or maybe his temper would always get the best of him.
“Thought you needed me for an interview,” he taunted.
Iris moved to the duffel and crouched. “I can always run the interview myself,” she said, pulling out a gun.
My mouth went dry. The knife was bad enough. A gun felt more final somehow—a quicker end.