His darting eyes, just for a single moment, make contact with mine before skittering away again. “You look like her,” he says. “A good bit like her.”
“I’m lucky. She was very pretty. And courageous. She did a brave thing for me. So did you, Aiden. If there’s anything I can—”
“You wanna see her grave?” he asks.
I start to speak, but a lump fills my throat. I nod and follow him.
It’s a simple grave, farther to the south of the cemetery, an ordinary headstone kept up pristinely.
Our beloved mother. Even though, for all practical purposes, Aiden was an only child. Even though, as far as he knew, I didn’t survive the birth. Still, he included me, the sibling he never really had, the sibling he never knew.
My — our — biological mother. The woman who gave me up to save me. A prostitute who surely wanted something better for herself, and for her son.
And for her daughter.
July 12, 1994 — the day Gloria was killed in a hit-and-run. The day before the seven hours of hell, when I was plucked off the street and taken to 7 Ocean Drive, so Holden could take my life, too, and end any vestige of the tortured, maniacal Dahlquist bloodline.
I look over at Aiden, whose eyes have filled with tears.
“I still miss her,” he says, his voice quaking. “You’da — you’da liked her.”
“I know I would have.” I take Aiden’s hand in mine. “But you still have family. You still have me. You’re my hero, Aiden. And you’re my brother.”
I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. He recoils slightly. I don’t get the sense that a lot of women have kissed him in his life.
“Okay,” he says awkwardly. His face brightens just a bit. “That’d be okay.”
123
I nestle my feet into the sand and let out a long sigh. The beach is utter chaos in mid-August, kids running everywhere, boats and parasails and sand castles, but to me it feels like complete and total peace.
Four months, almost to the day, since it all happened.
Four months since Justin’s murderous ways were exposed and he was taken into custody, a now-infamous killer who will go down in history with the legions of others. Someone told me they did a Google search on his name and got over ten thousand hits.
Hooray for him.
“Let’s go watch,” says Noah, sitting next to me.
“Not sure I want to.”
“Oh, c’mon. Come on. You don’t wanna watch?”
I relent, pushing myself out of the sand, fitting my toes into my sandals, my fingers intertwined with Noah’s.
“Your hair’s getting long again,” I say. “Are you going back to Surfer Jesus?”
“Hey, be nice to me,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I’ve been through a lot. I’ve been shot at by a cop two times.”
“But she intended to miss each time,” I add.
“So she says. So she says.”
We climb onto the pavement of the parking lot and walk up Ocean Drive.
A thick crowd is gathered at the gate of 7 Ocean Drive. A couple of news crews as well. It’s been like that ever since everything happened. They say there was a spike in tourism this summer due to all the people who wanted to come see this house.
So there will be a few people, some shop owners, who might be sorry to see what’s about to happen. But I think most people will approve.
“Just in time,” Noah says.
The wrecking ball slams into the roof first, crushing the slate inward, the spears and ornamental gargoyles disappearing in a satisfying rush, a collective gasp of awe from the crowd. They told me it will take hours to knock down the entire mansion. I told them I didn’t care how long it took, I just wanted everything gone. The house. The tunnel and dungeon beneath. The carriage house.
It’s my property, after all. That’s what all the lawyers concluded after reviewing the trust documents. The property went into trust because nobody knew that Holden VI had left behind any offspring. So now it’s mine.
It won’t be for long. I wish I could open a museum or a shelter for battered women or something on this property, but this is prime real estate, and there are zoning laws designed to protect its value.
So I’ve put this massive lot up for sale, hopefully to a nice family who will build a nice new house with a very different future. The Realtors quoted me an estimate that’s more money than I’d make in my lifetime, and far more money than I’ll ever need. So I’ll keep a fraction for myself and give the rest of the proceeds to Aiden Willis.
Another whack from the wrecking ball, this time taking out the wraparound balcony, the master bedroom where so many people lost, or took, their lives — centuries of horror gone with one crushing boom.
“I’m gonna miss that house,” says Noah.
I laugh. It feels good to laugh. Odd, unusual, but good.
“But speaking of houses,” he says, “those rooms aren’t going to paint themselves.”
Our new place, he means. Not far down the road from Uncle Lang’s old house. A three-bedroom, two-bathroom in a nice, quiet spot. Quiet sounds good right about now. We cosigned the loan, on the salaries of a newly promoted detective, first grade, and the owner of a new handyman business.
Seeing this house, even in its deliciously beaten and battered form now, brings back everything from that final night.
I lean into Noah. “You were that sure I wouldn’t shoot you?” I ask.
He cradles me with an arm. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “It was clear that you were madly in love with me.”
I smile to myself. I am, in fact, madly in love with this man.
I watch the wrecking ball do its work. I said I didn’t want to watch, but now I’m fixated. Now I have to see it. I have to see every single piece of limestone battered and knocked to the ground. I need to see every inch of earth turned over—
Noah looks at me, sees the intensity in my face.
“Y’know what?” he says. “I changed my mind. This is boring. This house is old news. I wanna go to our new house.”
This man understands me, sometimes better than I understand myself.
“Me too,” I say.
We walk off, hand in hand, leaning against each other, the sun beating down on us.
Behind us, another boom, the sound of crushing rocks, another awed gasp from the crowd, but neither of us looks back.