Chapter Twenty-One #3
The words trailed away as her mind flashed all the images of that night. So much blood. All that twisted metal. Car horns blaring.
But it was the smells she recalled most clearly.
The smell of the deployed airbag.
The smell of spilled gasoline.
The smell of the whiskey Todd had thrown on her.
The smell of Todd’s blood as it gushed from his broken body, coating her hands, soaking her dress as she tried to stem the flow.
“I lived on Pineapple Avenue,” she said quietly. “With my late husband.”
“Who died in a car accident.”
She nodded dully. “I told you that already. One of those nights we stood on the bluff.”
“I already knew.” His tone was gentle.
“I killed three people. Nearly killed a fourth.”
“You didn’t kill them. You tried to avoid hitting several other cars. Your husband was drunk and abusive.”
“And he died. I was the only one who walked away from the scene. People said I was drunk. That only drunk people walk away.”
“You were sober. The blood alcohol test proved it. Your husband was at three times the legal limit. The other driver was impaired as well.”
“I know.” She remembered. She remembered it all.
“This man…this killer is mocking me. Saying he’s from Sarasota.
That he lived at my old address. Using the names of the couple in the other car who died.
” She covered her face with her free hand.
“This is a nightmare.” Then she laughed, a thin, hysterical sound.
“I’ve said that so many times since I came here. ”
“Elle, the fourth person, the one who almost died. What do you know about him?”
“He was seventeen, the couple’s son. They died on impact. He was hurt. Badly hurt. Was in the hospital for weeks.”
“Did you see him?”
“Not at first. I was a suspect for a while. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for me to visit.
But once I was cleared, yes. I went to the hospital to visit him once.
He’d been in a coma, but he was awake and alert by that point.
His aunt was there, sitting with him. She was nice.
She told me that she knew the accident wasn’t my fault, but Ashton was upset.
Screamed at me to leave, so I did. He eventually apologized for that. ”
“In the letter he wrote you.”
“Yes. He said he’d been in pain and out of it because of the meds, but once he’d recovered, he knew I wasn’t to blame.
That his father was impaired that night.
He said he forgave me. But that was at least a year later.
At the time that he was still in the hospital, I felt incredibly guilty.
After he told me to leave his hospital room, I contacted his aunt through our attorneys and offered to pay for Ashton’s medical expenses.
I had the attorneys give her my cell number in case she wanted to get in touch with me later.
She did text me, saying his parents had good insurance and he was well provided for. ”
“That was kind of you to want to help him.”
Elle tried to stay calm. To not break down in tears. “It was the least I could do. I’d ruined his life, taken his parents. He’d had a football scholarship to college and he lost that because of his injuries. I’d like to believe I was doing it out of kindness, but it was mostly penance.”
“Still kind. It can be both.” He squeezed her hand. “Elle, honey, look at me.” He didn’t say anything until she’d dragged her gaze to his. “What did he look like? This boy who was hurt? Before the accident?”
Elle blinked at him. Then understood what he was implying. “The guy who’s killed eleven people isn’t the Dempseys’ son. I remember what he looked like. I remember, Ronan.” How could she ever forget? “This killer isn’t him. I’m positive.”
“Elle, I need you to look at this.” He put his phone in front of her.
There was a photo on the screen. A split photo with two different faces.
One was the killer, the young man who’d confronted her at the café near her house in San Francisco.
The other was a photo of the young man whose parents had died that night.
More words from the memorized obituary flitted through her mind. Albert and Fiona are survived by their son, Ashton Dempsey.
Bradley Albertson. Son of Albert.
Ashton Dempsey, son of Albert Michael and Fiona Bradley Dempsey.
“No.” She shook her head hard. “Those aren’t the same person.”
“Keep watching.” He swiped left and another set of photos were revealed. They were close-ups of the previous two, the photos framed so that only their eyes showed. “The eyes don’t change, Elle.”
She swallowed hard. They were the same.
“No,” she whispered. “No.” It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be. “He looks too different. It’s not the same man.”
“Facial recognition says he is. One hundred percent match on his eyes.”
No.
“He said he forgave me. I still have the letter. He said he was fine.”
“I don’t know, Elle. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he lied.”
No. Her mind would not process this. It could not be him.
Because if it was…
If Ashton Dempsey was the killer…
It really is my fault. I really am responsible.
“I did this,” she said numbly. “I killed them. All eleven of them. I killed them all.”