Influenced by Eva Robinson (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

“And anyone is capable of doing terrible things,” Stella went on. “We all are. Luke explained it all to me. He’s so brilliant, you know. He’s really so brilliant. That’s why he needs to raise Nora alone. She’ll be just like him.”

Over my dead body.

Luke had his iPhone out, typing casually on it. “Stella, you need to end this. She’s going to ruin our lives. Our families’ lives.”

“Wait!” Hannah shouted. “Stella, how are you looking after your family by going to jail? What are you going to do with two more dead bodies at your house? I’m sure the police are already looking at you as a suspect. Luke’s arranging all this to keep his hands clean. He’s going to let you take the fall for everything. That should be obvious.”

Luke looked up from his phone, locking eyes with Stella. When he held up the phone, Hannah recognized the midnight-blue case as her own. “It’s fine, Stella. You won’t be taking the fall for anything. I’m writing the suicide note from Hannah. She poisoned Arabella to get close to Rowan, then Peter. But Rowan didn’t love her back, so she pushed her, then turned the gun on herself.” He flashed her a crooked smile. “Facebook, I think, which is a bit embarrassing, really, but it’s the social media of choice for sad moms.”

Hot rage split her mind open, and she rushed for Luke, but the force of the bullet slammed her backward over the railing.

Forty-Two

Ciara gripped the wheel tight and pressed her foot on the gas.

At this point, she didn’t know exactly what was happening. She only knew that Michael had seen a post on Instagram, and then started shouting that they needed to get to Stella’s house now.

“Can you go faster?” Michael asked as she turned the corner sharply onto Mass Avenue.

“Okay, explain now, please.”

“Rowan is with Stella now, at her house. And she’s in trouble.”

Fingers pressed against the wheel, she took a hard left.

“How do you know?”

“Rowan said her laptop was stolen, so maybe they think she’s uncovered the fraud. She posted something that sounded like she’s had a complete psychotic break. She’s risky to them now, and she won’t be keeping secrets. Then when I blew up her photo, I saw Stella there in the background behind her and Hannah—wearing the cat sweater, just like in the video. It was her who stole the laptop. First she went for Arabella, then Peter, now Rowan.”

Ciara pressed her foot on the gas, her pulse picking up speed. She veered onto Kendall Avenue. “They all had punch that night at the party, and Peter ended up with roofies in his system. All Stella had to do was dose the punch with sedatives, then some with peanut powder. They all passed out, long enough that they missed Peter’s anaphylactic attack. Peter didn’t wake up again. And someone convinced them all to lie to cover it up.”

“Exactly.”

She careened around the corner into Stella’s driveway, then slammed on the brakes. The old Georgian house loomed over them, its white widow’s walk jutting out under the dark sky.

She stepped out of the car and started to head for the door. Then the sound of a gunshot echoed from behind the house. Ciara pulled her gun, nodding at the gravel path that led around back, slanting down the hill.

As they moved, Michael was already calling dispatch for backup, telling them shots had been fired.

Ciara’s stomach lurched as they rushed along the path, down the slope of the hill, and behind the house.

A man called out, “She’s still alive! You need to finish it. Now, now! You have to finish this now.”

When Ciara turned the corner to the backyard, her heart leapt into her throat. She skidded to a halt at the base of the stairs.

Two dark-haired women lay on the gravel path in the dark, both bleeding. They both looked like Rowan; she couldn’t tell who was who. One was unmoving, her body limp. The other, about twelve feet away, seemed to be crawling, moaning for help. She looked like she was trying to drag herself toward the long stair that curved upward.

Heart thrumming, Ciara looked up at the deck looming above them—an enormous structure, nearly two stories high. It took her a moment to realize that Stella was there, leaning over a low railing. She was aiming her gun at the injured woman.

“Police!” Michael shouted from the shadows. “Drop your weapon on the floor of the deck, then raise your hands where I can see them.”

Stella darted back, out of view.

“He said put your hands where we can see them,” Ciara shouted. “Everybody up there.”

They could no longer see Stella, but they could hear a man speaking to her quietly. A low railing with vertical wooden posts surrounded the deck, but it was too dark to see movement behind them.

No one responded. Had they gone back into the house?

Ciara hoped their backup would arrive soon, but who the hell knew.

A gunshot rang out again. The woman moving along the gravel screamed, covering her head.

“She’s shooting from between the railings,” said Ciara.

For the briefest of moments, she met Michael’s gaze and nodded at the stairs. She’d cover for him while he ran up the stars. He moved up them swiftly, silently. But the shooter had stepped back from the ledge, and Ciara couldn’t work out her location anymore. Her heart thundered in her chest.

As Michael reached the top of the stairs, a third gunshot rang out, slamming him back down.

Without waiting another heartbeat, Ciara bounded up the stairs, gun raised. Her breath was ragged in her throat by the time she reached the top.

But now Stella was pointing the gun to her own temple. She was barefoot. Once, Jess had worn flowers in her hair, just like that. She looked so much like Jess just now—beautiful blond hair cascading over her sweater, flowers hanging from her braids.

Jess was barefoot when they found her.

For a moment, Ciara seemed to slip back in time. She wasn’t