Authors: Gretchen McNeil
Tom laughed. “Not hard. But brilliant. Do you have any idea the months of planning that went into this? Preparing the house, luring you all here, dealing with the Taylors … All for justice.”
“Not for the Taylors,” Meg said. “Unless they stole a choir solo from Claire too?”
“Collateral damage,” Tom said.
“I’m sure their family won’t see it that way.”
“Had to be done. It was the only way the plan worked. Every detail, every contingency had to be prepared for. By me. Who pretended to be Mr. Lawrence on the phone? I did. No one even knew I’d left the house. Climbed out my bedroom window and was across the isthmus and back in fifteen minutes. And who made sure that Jessica and her friends were all invited to a different party this weekend? Yeah, I thought of that, too, so if any of you brought it up to her, she’d think that’s what you were talking about. Hacking into Jessica’s Facebook account, dummying Tara’s cell phone to invite Kumiko, drugging the beers so you’d all sleep through Lori’s murder.”
“What?”
“Exactly,” Tom laughed. “Brilliant, right?” It was. “I couldn’t have one of you waking up while I was hauling her carcass up to the rafters, could I? I thought of everything.”
Meg saw an opening. A chink in Tom’s thick bullshit coat of armor. “Not everything.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t think of everything. You missed one really, really big thing.”
“Impossible.”
“Nope.” Meg laughed. “I wasn’t there Homecoming night.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“Claire said you were.” For the first time, Tom sounded less than confident. “She told me she was going to confront you and T.J.”
“Maybe she meant to, but I canceled on T.J. that morning. I stayed home.
I wasn’t there.
”
Silence. Clearly this was the one outcome Tom hadn’t accounted for. Still, it wasn’t like it mattered. He couldn’t exactly let her go, and he’d already shown with the Taylors that he was willing to kill innocent people in order to avenge his sister. Meg concentrated on the motion of the boat. It was now or never.
“Whatever,” Tom said. “You’re guilty by association.”
Great logic, crazy. Meg threw a leg over the rail. She wasn’t sure this was going to work but it was better to smash her head on the side of the boat than go up in flames. She took a breath, trying to brace herself for the cold water.
Tom cleared his throat. “Enough. Meg Pritchard, it’s time to say good—”
A roar interrupted him. “Get away from her!”
MEG SPRINTED TO THE PORT SIDE OF THE BOAT
in time to see T.J. launch himself at Tom, hitting him square in the stomach with his shoulder, like a defensive end taking out the quarterback.
“T.J.!” Meg cried, her heart thundering in her chest. She couldn’t believe it. He was alive.
Tom was just as surprised, clearly not expecting there to be anyone else on the island. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of him. He dropped the torch as he flew through the air, and Meg heard them both grunt as they careened into the pile of gas cans.
T.J. rolled off the side of the pile into a puddle of pooling gasoline on the floor. He pushed himself up to his knees, using just one arm. The other was tucked up by his chest. Meg could see a large dark spot on his sweater near the collarbone and thanked God she had absolutely no aim. She’d managed to shoot him in the shoulder, wounding him but not killing him.
Tom leaped to his feet and ran at T.J. Meg barely had time to react.
“Look out!”
But T.J. must have been weakened by his injury. He barely raised his head at Meg’s warning, and Tom kicked him in the stomach with such force that T.J.’s whole body lifted off the ground.
“I knew I should have checked for a pulse,” Tom snarled.
T.J. staggered to his feet. “I was playing possum,” he panted. He turned his head and spat. “Wanted to see who was still alive in the house. Wanted to know whose ass I was going to kick.”
T.J. swung his fist, but Tom easily avoided it. Whatever strength T.J. had mustered for the initial attack had drained out of him. He struggled to maintain his balance as his blow missed Tom’s face. Then Tom retaliated with a vicious punch to T.J.’s jaw.
T.J. reeled and fell back against the wall of the boathouse, then crumpled to his knees. Tom was on him in a flash. He pounded on the side of T.J.’s head with his fist. Over and over.
“Not so tough now, huh? Not the big man anymore?”
T.J. tried to fight back but his strength had abandoned him. Tom straightened up and in the flickering light of the dying torch Meg could see him smile. “I wish my sister could see you now. Pathetic.”
Get up
, Meg wished with all her heart.
Get up, T.J. Please
.
But he didn’t. Tom shoved his hand into his pocket, and Meg heard the clicking of his lighter. He held the flame in front of his face. “Good-bye, Mr. Football.”
They say there are moments when time seems to slow down. Suddenly you can see things clearly, a moment of unobstructed understanding. Meg saw Tom standing there over T.J., the lighter poised in his hand. Tom, who had killed her best friend before her very eyes, who had destroyed so many lives, who had manipulated her into trying to kill the boy she loved. He’d taken enough. She was not going to stand there and let him win.
Something in her snapped.
Meg heard a roar, a scream that was at once primal and terrifying. It must have come from her own throat, though she was never quite sure about that. In the same moment, she hiked her foot up on the bulwark and pushed off with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, launching herself at Tom. All the fury and rage that had been bubbling beneath the surface erupted. She landed square on his back, knocking them both to the floor.
Meg’s hand locked onto Tom’s wrist. The lighter was still aflame, and all Meg could focus on was keeping it away from T.J. They rolled across the wooden deck of the boathouse, and as they spun she managed to knock the lighter from his hand. It flew through the air and landed on the deck of the boat.
It took half a second for the gasoline-drenched aft deck to burst into flames. The fire raced up the port side walkway, up the short ladder to the pilothouse, and down the curved lines of the bow.
Meg started to get up, but Tom was faster. He was on top of her before she could get to her feet, his hands wrapped around her neck. “I told you I’d make you suffer.” His long fingers dug into her throat, cutting off her air.
Meg tried to pry his fingers away, but he was too strong. She reached out with her arms, searching for anything she could use as a weapon. Her lungs burned and she felt as if Tom was going to squeeze her head off as she stretched her fingers, praying for a miracle.
Then she felt it. Something cool and metallic. A gas can.
With all the strength she had left, Meg lunged to her right, wrapped her hand around the handle of the can, and swung it at Tom’s head.
He grunted, and his grip on her throat lessened enough for her to catch her breath. She swung again, harder this time, and he ducked, pulling his body away from her. That was what she needed. Meg wedged a knee up between their bodies and kicked Tom square in the stomach.
He flew off her, staggering backward toward the boat. It was engulfed in flames. The heat was intense, and the roof of the boathouse was already ablaze. Burning roof tiles fell to the wooden dock on which they stood, igniting the spilled gasoline that sprang to life with dancing flames. They raced across the dock, following the trail of fuel from Tom’s mad frenzy to douse the boat. Before Meg knew it, Tom was surrounded by the flames, trapping him between her and the burning shell of the boat.
Meg backed away. Tom tried to dart through the wall of fire, but he must have gotten a significant amount of gasoline on his clothes. The sleeve of his shirt caught fire first, then the leg of his jeans. He tried to pat the fire out with his gloved hand but that only spread it faster.
In a moment of horror, Tom’s eyes locked onto Meg’s. She could see in his face the realization, a man coming to terms with his own death. But there was no fear. In fact, Tom smiled at her, then calmly walked through the wall of flames, his arms outstretched toward her.
He was going to take her with him.
Meg backed up, desperate for an escape, and kicked something with her foot. The oar Tom had rigged up as a torch. She snatched it off the ground and ran at Tom. She jabbed the oar into his chest so fiercely she heard him gasp as the air was sucked out of his lungs, then, with a final effort, heaved him back into the middle of the flames.
Tom stumbled, flailing his arms as fire consumed his body. Then he tripped and fell back into the conflagration that was the boat. Meg heard a high-pitched scream—more of rage than of pain—and then Tom Hicks disappeared into a wall of flame.
She’d done it. She’d saved T.J. and herself. She’d won.
As the fire swallowed the whole of the boathouse, Meg heaved T.J. off the floor and half dragged, half carried him out into the night.
MEG SHIVERED AND PULLED THE THIN BLANKET
up around her ears.
“Cold?” T.J. asked.
“Nope,” Meg lied. She looked down at him even though she could barely see his face. “Just tired.”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
It was true, and Meg made no attempt to refute it. She was freezing cold and fighting desperately to hide any sign of it. Meg lifted her head and stared out into the darkness of the night. Right now they needed to keep a positive attitude. Plus number one, they were still alive, though T.J. had a bullet lodged in his shoulder and had lost a lot of blood.
No, stay positive
, Meg said to herself. Right. Still alive.
Plus number two, it had stopped raining. They sat on a soggy wooden dock with nothing but flimsy blankets to protect them from the cold of night, but it was true—no more rain. Yay.
She tried to hold on to those two positives in a vain attempt to keep her mind off the horror of what had happened. Her best friend, dead. Violently. Pointlessly. Meg couldn’t save her. In the end, she’d only been able to save T.J., and even then, just barely.
They’d sat on the rocks near the pyre that had been the boathouse until the last embers died. At least it was warm, and besides, neither of them wanted to go back up to the house. Eventually, though, Meg had to. T.J. needed to stay warm if he was going to survive the night. She didn’t stay in the house a second longer than she had to, grabbing a few blankets from the living room and a bottle of Advil from the kitchen.
Oh, and the longest, sharpest knife she could find. She’d seen Tom go up in flames as the boathouse collapsed around her. But it didn’t mean she totally and completely believed he was dead.
Then she and T.J. slowly made their way to the dock. He was getting weaker by the moment, leaning the bulk of his weight on Meg for support, and by the time they reached the landing dock, she was practically carrying him.
T.J. shifted his head in her lap. She heard him suck in a breath at the pain that must have ripped through his shoulder every time he moved.
“How’s the pain?” she asked. It wasn’t as if he’d answer truthfully, and it wasn’t as if she really wanted to hear that every breath, every moment was agony.
“Not bad,” he said through gritted teeth. She wondered if the Advil helped at all.
“Now who’s the liar?”
She stroked his forehead with her hand. He flinched under her touch and she quickly pulled her hand away. But he was clammy, and his body felt unnaturally hot, like he was running a fever. That couldn’t be good.
“Now we just have to hope the ferry comes back,” T.J. said.
“Screw the ferry,” Meg said as she caressed his cheek. “I’m guessing our little bonfire was like a Coast Guard beacon. All of Roche Harbor must have seen it. I bet the helicopters will be up as soon as the sun rises.” Actually, she prayed that was the case. If the Coast Guard showed up, T.J. could get medical attention right away.
He shivered. “Good.”
Meg checked the horizon for the twentieth time that hour. Was the sky lightening at all? She wasn’t sure. She’d been staring into the darkness for so long, she couldn’t tell anymore if she’d willed her eyes to see a faint blush of dawn. But the blackness of the sky seemed to have a purplish hue. Was the night finally over?
“Sun’s rising,” T.J. said. He didn’t open his eyes.
“We made it.” Meg tucked a blanket around his good shoulder, careful not to touch the side where she’d shot him. It was no trick of the eye now. The purple sky gave way to a deep blue before streaks of pale yellow crept across the horizon.
“We’ll be home soon,” Meg said. She’d spent most of the dark night jabbering away about nonsense. What they’d do when they got back to the mainland. College in the fall. Los Angeles. And beaches. And celebrities. Anything to keep their minds off reality.
“Yeah,” he said. His eyes squinted open just a sliver. “But part of us will always be here.”
Meg couldn’t help but smile. “Are you sure you’re not the writer?”
That warranted a pair of dimples as a slight grin appeared on T.J.’s face. She bent down and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’m glad you can still smile,” she said as she pulled away.
“Oh, you know. What’s not to smile about? A bunch of my friends are dead and you shot me.”
The reminder that Minnie was dead made her stomach drop. Her best friend was gone, murdered right before her eyes. Their last hours together had been a nightmare and so much had been left unsaid between them. Meg had tried so hard to save them both, and now she felt guilty that she had survived while Minnie had not.
T.J. must have felt the same way about Gunner. How would they ever get past the survivor’s guilt? Not to mention the fact that Meg had shot him. Would he ever be able to forgive her? Would she ever be able to forgive herself?
Meg could have tried to explain away her actions, but she wanted to make sure she got it all on the table. “I was shooting to kill. I thought you were the murderer.”