Chapter 46
Forty-Six
The doorbell rings just after four. And not a moment too soon. We haven’t seen Easton, and the longer we waited, the more
anxious Miles and I both got that he’d come back from wherever he’s been all day only for Grant to show up right after.
When I open the door, Agent Grant gives me a blank look, his hands tucked into his jeans pockets. The sport coat he’s wearing
is pulled back to expose the gun clipped to his belt. He gives me a nod in greeting, then his eyes flit over to Miles. I step
aside to let him in.
“Nate. Neighbor kid.”
“Miles. And again, would love to have you on the podcast when . . .” He stops talking and glances nervously over to me. “Sorry.
You know what? I think I’ll wait, um . . .” He points to the living room behind him. “Over here.”
He leaves us and Grant turns to me. “What’s this about, Nate?”
I don’t tell him right away that he doesn’t need to call me that. Instead, I shut the door behind him.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask. “Water, seltzer? The Beaumonts have wine, and I’m sure they won’t mind if you want
something stronger.” And maybe I will join him because who cares with all the laws I’ve already broken?
“Nate.”
I sigh. “Come into the kitchen.”
I motion for him to follow me. I didn’t realize until we were already back on dry land that we should have taken a picture
of Nate’s body, but honestly, all they have to do is go over and look, so I’m not that worried.
Grant takes a seat at the table and I sit across from him.
“So, first off, I have to tell you the truth,” I say.
His brow furrows, but he remains stoic. It’s like he either doesn’t want to show emotion or he isn’t curious enough yet.
“I’m not Nate Beaumont.”
It’s not that I was expecting immediate relief, but I don’t feel any different at all. After lying for several weeks, I would
have thought there’d be a little weight off my chest, but instead I feel like I’m panicking. Probably because Easton is still
out there. It makes me nervous, not knowing where he is.
“Okay.” Agent Grant nods slowly. He doesn’t seem shocked.
“Nate’s dead.”
Again, he’s not surprised.
“Easton Beaumont is the one who killed him.”
Finally a reaction. Agent Grant flinches and his eyebrows twitch upward, but only a little. He’s probably an excellent poker player.
“Easton.” It’s almost a question. As if he was expecting me to say a different name.
“Yes.”
“And you know this how?”
“He told me. After he killed his friend John Thomas in front of me. He bashed JT’s head in with a rock, then threw the body over the edge of a cliff. They found him the next day and thought it was an accident.”
Grant leans forward, putting up a hand to stop me. He takes a small notebook out of his back pocket and starts writing something.
“So Easton killed his friend in front of you. Why didn’t you call the police?”
“Because he said if I told anyone, he’d kill me. He knew I wasn’t Nate, obviously, and he’s the one who put glass in the food
Gramma Sharon ate. He also turned on the gas, knowing the alarm would go off, and he burned Valencia’s hydrangeas and threw
paint on Marcus’s car and made it seem like I did it.”
“What time was this? When he killed his friend.”
I try to remember. “I think around seven? Maybe seven thirty.”
He writes it down. “Okay. And Easton told you he killed his brother?”
“Yes. He strangled him to death in the fort they built together out on the island in the bay.” I thumb over my shoulder in
the direction of the back door. “Miles and I went out and found the body today.”
“Instead of calling the police, you and your friend went out there alone to find a crime scene?”
“Look, if all you’re going to do is crime-shame me, we can skip to the end where I say, ‘I know, I never should have lied
to begin with, and I regret every decision I made along the way.’ But you need to get the police to find Easton right now,
before he can cover it up any more than he already has.”
He stares at me with what I imagine is equal parts skepticism and curiosity. “Why did you call me? You should have called
the police.”
“Because I don’t trust them to take me seriously.
They fucked up Nate’s investigation from the beginning, right?
” He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face tells me he agrees.
“And I think you believe me. Don’t you? That’s why you’ve been following me around and trying to get me alone without the family. You knew I wasn’t Nate.”
He purses his lips and closes his notebook. “I suspected. Honestly, I thought the parents hired you. You’re sure Easton acted
alone?”
So Grant does think Valencia and Marcus were involved in some way.
“I mean, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that they knew, but I really don’t think so.” At least that’s my hope.
That Valencia had no clue. That even Marcus was in the dark.
Agent Grant leans back in the chair. He stretches his neck with a pop, then sighs. “So why have you been pretending to be
Nate?”
“Seriously? That’s not important right now! Easton is a psychopath and a murderer.”
“It is important because I knew you weren’t Nate when I met you. Your story didn’t make sense—post-traumatic amnesia doesn’t
present the way you say yours does. Even your Dr. Zapata said she thought you were hiding something. She thought you weren’t
comfortable talking about whatever happened to you. But I’ve been doing this awhile and I could tell it was because you were
making stuff up. So why steal this kid’s identity?”
I tell him the quick version. That I ran away from my ultraconservative religious parents, was living on the street, and I
didn’t want to go to jail.
“I never thought it would get so out of hand. I figured I could sneak out of the hospital before you all called the Beaumonts. I thought you’d at least have to do a DNA test.”
“Your ‘parents’ wouldn’t allow it. And we can’t take DNA and test it without a court order. So if you and your parents both
say you recognize each other, we’re likely to take your word for it—and the Department of Human Services has been woefully
underfunded for years, so one less kid in foster care is good for them.”
“You don’t have to talk to me about underfunded social services. I already figured that out when I was homeless and couldn’t
find a place to live. So what are you going to do about Easton?”
“We need to call the police first. They’ll send someone out to find the body. We’ll have to tell Marcus and Valencia the truth,
because we might need them to help bring in Easton. That’s the only way—”
I don’t hear what else he says, because Easton doesn’t need to be brought in.
He’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
I didn’t even hear him come home. I didn’t hear a door open or close.
Has he been here this whole time? I try to think of where he could have been hiding.
Agent Grant stops speaking and follows my gaze. But Easton is quicker.
I don’t even get a scream out before I see the small utility knife in his hand.
“No!”
It’s too late. Easton drives it into Agent Grant’s neck in two quick, violent stabs.
Blood shoots out in a thick stream and lands on the kitchen island with a splatter. Another jet shoots out before Agent Grant’s shaky hand goes up, trying to stop the bleeding. He reaches for his gun, but Easton moves again, this time grabbing his arm and shoving it away.
Miles is in the living room.
“Miles! Run!” I scream.
Agent Grant falls to the ground and more blood spills out in a quickly expanding pool. His face goes pale. Easton steps over
him.
And finally I realize I have to run, too.
I leap up, but my shoe lands in the blood spreading out around Agent Grant and I lose my balance. I catch myself on the chair,
managing to stay upright, then run for the back door.
This is it. He’s going to kill me!
“Nate!” Easton’s voice is so loud in the quietness of the kitchen. I unlock the door and turn to see where he is. But he hasn’t
moved.
Because he has Agent Grant’s gun in his hand.
“Remember how good a shot I am?” he asks with a grin.
I do remember. His target at the shooting range was way better than mine. He flicks the gun in the direction of the chair
I was just sitting in.
“Sit back down. We need to have a discussion before Mom gets home.”
I glance back down at Agent Grant. He’s dead. His hand has fallen away from his neck, and whatever blood is still spilling
out of him is doing so slowly. His brown eyes stare into the distance.
Oh God. There’s so much blood on the floor.
And I haven’t heard Miles in the house. No door opening, no running.
“Miles!” I call out.
“HEY!” Easton snaps me out of my daze. “Sit.”
I do as he says. My body tense and hands shaking. My heart beats like it’s trying to tell me to run! Easton pulls out the chair Agent Grant was using and sits, being careful not to get his shoes in the blood on the floor.
He places the butt of the gun on the table so the business end is leveled at me. His finger on the trigger.
“That’s the second person I’ve had to kill because you couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut.”
Second person. JT was the first, which means Miles is still alive.
“Where’s Miles?”
“He’ll live. If you’re good.”
“What did you do to him?” I’ll never forgive myself if Miles dies because of me. And his death would be my fault. I’m the one who got him involved in this. And Agent Grant, too. Why didn’t I call the police?
“He’s taking a nap, stop worrying about him. So you found my brother, huh?”
“Yeah.” I try my best to sound tough. Like I’m not about to piss myself in terror. “Guess you weren’t so smart after all.”
Though I’m bluffing, hoping he doesn’t realize I haven’t called the police. Because, yeah, I was worried they’d screw up or
wouldn’t investigate before Easton could clean up the body. But maybe I should have called Grant and then them.
Easton scoffs. “Oh, don’t act smug. It wasn’t hard. The fucking police were supposed to find him, but they didn’t even bother searching over there. Can you believe it? I even left the kayak out!”
Wait, he wanted to get caught? Why?
“Anyway, we’re almost through here, but I have to be honest with you, Nate.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“You wanted to be him. Now I have to kill you like I killed him. But what really pisses me off is . . . I was kind of hoping
you’d be better than him. When you showed up here, telling everyone you were Nate, I looked at you—the way you lied, the way
you manipulated everyone—you were so fucking good at it. I mean, I thought I was good.”
That makes me sick. “I’m nothing like you.” But is that true?
Easton laughs. “You absolutely are. You—”
He stops and his eyes go wide as the garage door opener starts running on the other side of the wall.
“Oh shit,” he says, sounding bored. He puts the gun down on the table. “Mommy’s home. What are we going to do about this mess?”
He still has the knife in his other hand, but if I run now—out to the garage and into the car—if I can make it, I might be
able to keep him from killing me.
I push the chair away and bolt for the door. But I can sense he’s behind me because of the way the air shifts.
Something sharp hits my neck and my entire body jolts with the shock.
He’s stabbed me, too.
I’ll bleed out like Agent Grant. My legs go wobbly and I fall to the floor. I have to stop the bleeding. Oh God, I don’t want
to die.
I put my hand up to my throat, but it’s dry. My hand shakes as I pull it away. There’s no blood.
But the world around me is swimming. If I’m not bleeding, then what’s happening?
I fall to the ground and even though my head hits the tile of the kitchen hard, I don’t feel it. The edges of my vision start
to darken, and I see Easton standing over me with the hypodermic needle in his hands. He says something, but it sounds so
far away.
The last thing I see is him putting the needle into a vial and pulling out the plunger, refilling the syringe.
Then nothing.