Chapter 43. Isabel, the Assistant
Isabel, the Assistant
PRESENT DAY
“Scout, put down the gun,” I begged, trembling. “We’re fighting for our lives to prove you’re not a murderer. Don’t do this.”
I was trapped in a Malibu mansion waging a battle for Scout’s soul.
Sweat poured down her face. Her finger floated over the trigger, brushing it tenderly, with longing.
Easton and Emmy flinched on the carpet.
“Remember I told you there are some things you can’t come back from?” I took a step toward Scout. I wanted to touch her, but I was too scared. “Do you see them?” I pointed at the Bankses. “Their souls are poisoned. You’ll be no better than them.”
“I’ll do anything,” Easton begged, pressing his palms together. “If you just let me live.”
Emmy was eyeing Scout like she was waiting for a moment to pounce, but I couldn’t worry about that now.
I took a deep breath and prayed to anyone who was listening for help.
“I know it feels like justice. An eye for an eye. But Scout, there has to be something that separates us from them. There has to be a line, or else there’s no such thing as right or wrong. ”
She had to listen to me. For the last ten years, ever since the night we’d hurt Alden, I’d spent my waking moments guarding our morality, trying to keep our attempts at justice in check, keep us from becoming the very people we sought to correct.
If Scout shot Easton and Emmy, it was over.
She would become one of them, and I would lose her.
The tension was so thick I could barely breathe. Tears rolled down my cheeks.
Suddenly, with a great and terrible sob, Scout clicked the safety and threw the gun to the floor.
“Thank god.” I rushed to her, but before I could reach her Emmy leapt for the gun, slid the safety, and pulled the trigger. A gunshot rent the air; wet, iron-scented blood splattered me, soaking the arms I’d thrown over my face, and Emmy screamed, a bloodcurdling howl of shock and regret.
I lowered my arms.
Easton was sprawled out on the floor, his chest a Rorschach inkblot of spreading blood. Emmy’s hands shook around the gun. “I had to,” she muttered, as if talking to herself.
“What?” Scout gasped. Blood covered her face. “Why, Emmy?” Why had she killed Easton when Scout and I were right here?
Emmy’s chest heaved, her mascara tracking down her face, mixing with Easton’s blood.
We were next. That was the only thing that made sense—Emmy was getting rid of every witness, one by one.
But a sound like a battering ram exploded from downstairs, and suddenly Brooks’s voice boomed up the staircase, “FBI! Put down your weapons!”
“Brooks?” I cried, though I didn’t move a muscle.
“We’re upstairs,” Scout yelled. Feet pounded up the staircase and Brooks burst into the room, wearing an FBI-branded Kevlar vest, his thick Glock dwarfing the small handgun in Emmy’s hands. He was alone.
“Drop the gun,” he shouted. “Or I’ll shoot, and I promise I’ll hit you before you hit me.”
Emmy lifted her hands. A relief so potent it was nearly debilitating washed through me.
“Turn on the safety,” he instructed. “Place it on the ground—slowly. Now kick it to me.”
The handgun went skittering over the ruined cream carpet. Brooks swiped it and stuck it smoothly in an empty holster on his belt.
I sank to the ground. Brooks had just appeared like a cowboy in a daydream, and my body was hollow. “How did you know we were here?”
But it wasn’t Brooks who answered. Slowly, Scout pulled her phone out of her pants pocket. The screen was lit, in an ongoing call with Brooks Yardley. I blinked at her.
“I called him the second you pulled up to the house,” she said. “He heard it all.”
“But…” I shook my head. “You didn’t want the cops involved. I lied to him and came here alone, for you.”
My best friend’s smile was gentle. “I didn’t want them. But then you pulled up in your car, Iz, showing up for me like you always do. And I needed you to be safe, no matter what happened in here. So I called someone I knew would protect you.” She cocked a brow at Brooks. “Took you long enough.”
Slowly, it sank in: Scout had let Brooks, the FBI agent, listen even though she planned to kill someone, and the phone call would serve as evidence. She’d traded her freedom for my safety.
“She’s the one who shot Easton.” Emmy stabbed a finger at Scout, her eyes wild. “You heard on the call that he killed her sister. She killed him just like she killed all those other people. She’s insane.”
“I know it was you,” Brooks said plainly. “I heard Scout put down the gun. And forensics will prove it.”
I turned to Emmy. Easton’s blood had dried quickly on my face, and it was hard to even blink without feeling it, tight and sticky, binding my skin. “Why did you kill your own husband?”
The radio on Brooks’s belt emitted a loud crackle.
“Repeat,” barked a woman’s voice. “We need all agents in the vicinity of LA County to report to Special Agent Brian Kerrigan outside the Knox Aeronautics tower immediately. Potential domestic terrorism event; I repeat, potential domestic terrorism event.”
Brooks met my eyes. “Welcome to the apocalypse. You want to know why I was late? Because every law enforcement agent in Southern California was racing Downtown while I was racing here.” His voice turned gruff as he unclipped a pair of handcuffs.
“I need to get you to the field office as quickly as possible. Turn around.” He yanked at Emmy and snapped the cuffs on her, then walked her out of the room, reciting her Miranda rights.
Scout and I looked at each other—then she lunged after them, her voice urgent. “Emmy, you have to tell me why you killed Easton. It doesn’t make any sense.”
We both raced down the stairs after them, nearly tripping in our haste. “Brooks,” Scout begged. “Please, we need more time with her.”
“I’m sorry.” He pushed Emmy out the front door and toward his black SUV. “There’s no time. I have to report downtown.”
Emmy turned to us over her shoulder, a coy smile curving her lips amid her husband’s blood. “She needed Easton dead,” she said—slyly, like she was toying with us. “And I wanted you destroyed. We struck a deal.”
“Who are you talking about?” Scout asked.
“Brooks, please stop. We need to talk to her,” I begged, but he shoved Emmy into the back of his car.
“I’m sorry, Iz. There’s a crisis downtown. You’ll get your opportunity later, but for now, I need you both to follow me.”
Scout only had eyes for Emmy. “What kind of deal?”
Emmy laughed, and despite the cuffs around her wrists, it sounded victorious, the laugh of someone who still held all the cards. “You narcissists. You think you’re the only ones capable of forming secret clubs? You think you’re the only people in the world who are owed some revenge?”
Brooks slammed the door in Emmy’s face.