Chapter 35 #2
“You sound strange, Breagha. Did you take something?”
“Take something?” She echoes my words, turning them into an eerie little song.
“To help you sleep?”
“I’m not tired… My head just feels funny… Like I’m up in the sky…looking down on Canton…”
“What did you eat today?”
“I wasn’t hungry… Mam said I had to…drink a glass of…orange juice…before I could come upstairs… After I drank…I got so clumsy… I…” As she trails off, I wonder what Mam gave her.
“Breagha?” I finally ask after too long a silence.
“Kate!” she says, a new urgency cutting through her dreamy tone. But shouting my name seems to drain all her energy, because she drops back into her haunting sing-song. “I won’t do it… I won’t marry…Tarasov.” She whispers the Russian name. “I won’t be at my wedding.”
“Breagha! What do you mean?” Her silence feels like an ice-dagger pressed against my jugular. “Breagha. What do you mean you won’t be there?”
“I love Nate.” There—another simple declarative sentence. Maybe Mam’s potion is wearing off.
“I know you do,” I say.
“And I’ll kill myself…” She’s drifting again. “Before I marry any other man...”
The dagger shifts from my throat, slipping between my ribs to pierce my heart. “Don’t say that, Breagha.”
“Sister Mary Clare always said…Never tell a lie… I don’t lie… I’ll kill myself before I marry…Tarasov…”
“Breagha. Listen to me. I’ll take care of this. You won’t marry Tarasov. But you can’t hurt yourself. You can’t do anything mad. Promise you trust me. Promise me you’ll wait.”
“But Tarasov…”
“Promise me!” I shout.
There’s a long pause, where I wonder if she’s slipped away. But finally, she whispers, “I promise.”
“What do you promise, Breagha? Say it all out loud.”
“I promise I won’t…hurt myself… Not before the wedding…”
“That’s right. You keep saying that. I have to go now. But I promise I’ll see you tomorrow. On Thursday.”
“At the wedding…”
“There won’t be a wedding. I promise.”
“Pinky swear?”
I haven’t given my sister a pinky swear since we were locked inside the Dark Place. “Pinky swear,” I say. “Now try to get some sleep.”
It’s not until I end the call that I realize Cole is sitting at his desk on the far side of the bedroom. He’s wearing black silk pajama bottoms, but his chest is bare. The flesh-color adhesive bandage I wrapped tight around his abs is still firmly in place.
“You aren’t supposed to be awake,” I say.
“I got my four hours.”
“Answer honestly,” I say, a plan starting to form in my brain. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was hit by the proverbial Mack truck. Why? Are we getting Breagha from Baltimore?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. But tonight, before midnight…”
I tug the bedclothes across my lap and tell him my idea, knowing he’ll help me perfect it before we run out of time.
I sit on the edge of the merry-go-round, digging my toes into the track of dusty dirt surrounding the playground equipment. I pull myself a few feet to my left. Flex my calves. Pull myself a few feet to my right. The merry-go-round shrieks like it’s being disemboweled.
I haven’t been to this park since I was eight years old. Breagha didn’t like the merry-go-round. She wanted to go on the slide.
Tonight, I sit facing the playground. I expect Tarasov to come from the woods, like the Bad Men did that summer afternoon. I don’t want him to see my face. Not yet.
I glance at my mobile, where it’s cradled in my lap, almost hidden by yards and yards of cheap white tulle. The chain of messages I sent last night read like a filthy poem.
Breagha
Pyotr?
Please text back
I can’t call you
I’m too embarrassed
Pyotr?
Pyotr
Fine. I’m here. What?
I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused
I was scared
But I don’t want to be bad
Not like Kate
And I should care why?
…
…
Tomorrow night
After the wedding
When we go to bed
I don’t want my first time to be in Da’s house
That’s where we’ll be living
I know! But with Da sick… And Mam just down the hall…
What are you asking?
…
…
I want my first time to be special
The playground at Patterson Park
You want to fuck in public
I’m so embarrassed
But it’s practically where we met
I think I loved you even then
You’re a sick little megera
You think you’ll just walk out the front door of your parents’ house?
I’m a ninja
I’ll sneak out the basement door
Kate taught me how
Please please please
I’ll wear my wedding dress
Fine
Tonight
Midnight at Patterson Park
The easy part of the conversation was spoofing Breagha’s phone, making it look like all those texts came from my sister. The hard part was adding the emojis. I had to read back over months of messages to guess which ones Breagha would use to seduce the man she was about to marry.
I settle my mobile back in my lap, rearranging my skirts so I have easy access to the polymer grip I’ll need when Tarasov arrives.
This wedding dress looks like it’s made out of candy floss, with more frills and lace than the gaudiest Disney princess ever imagined.
A heavy veil shields my face, but I tore off the train so I can move more easily.
I’m wearing trainers underneath, in case everything winds up banjaxed and I need to run.
My fingers itch to check my phone again, but I don’t let them. I want to look over my shoulder, to study the trees on the edge of the playground, but I don’t do that either. I can’t risk giving away Cole’s location.
A light breeze teases at the edge of my veil. I grit my teeth to keep from ripping it off my head.
I catch a glimpse of a dark shape, moving to my left. My heart starts to pound faster because I was right. I knew my enemy. I understood exactly how Tarasov would approach.
I wait for him to cross from the edge of the playground, pulling myself a few feet to the right. The merry-go-round squeaks.
From the corner of my eye I see him flex his fingers, like a man tearing apart a roast chicken. I pull myself a few feet to the left. The merry-go-round squeaks.
He closes the distance between us, moving faster than a man his size should manage. A few feet right. The merry-go-round squeaks.
His fist closes on my veil. “My little megera,” he mutters, and I breathe in the stink of onions.
I clutch the polymer grip in my lap and fire the Taser, lodging the leads squarely into his chest. Pyotr Tarasov yelps. I hit the trigger again, and one more time, to be sure.
He jerks as he collapses onto me, and the sharp smell of piss fills the air. Settling him onto the heavy metal merry-go-round, I fold my arms around him in an embrace that—from the treeline—might resemble love.
The squeaking finally stops.