Chapter 78
Vaughn saw the man come to the door, peer through the window. Saw another figure in the background, the outline of a woman.
Ivy.
The man turned and ran toward her.
Fuck this.
Vaughn broke from behind the car and went to the front door.
Locked.
Kicked it.
Didn’t open.
Kicked again.
It was solid, more solid even than the door back at the firehouse or the pantry.
There was shouting from inside, and Vaughn knew he was running out of time. He backed up and took aim.
Squeezed off two shots. Both direct hits and the lock shattered.
Now when he kicked, the door buckled inward.
Stashing the laptop nearly cost Ivy—she barely made it to the door in time.
Tristan was right behind her.
She flicked the lock, threw the sliding door open, and sprinted into the night.
“Get back here! Ivy! Ivy!”
Ivy ran as hard and as fast as she could.
The sound of crashing water grew louder. The grass beneath her still-untied shoes a little longer.
Ivy didn’t slow.
The back of the property was expensive, but not endless. Ivy knew she would eventually run out of space.
“Ivy!”
And Tristan was gaining on her.
The cliff emerged from the darkness so abruptly that Ivy nearly pitched right over the side. She skidded to a stop, moving her arms in comedic circles to maintain her balance.
Water roared.
“Ivy!” He was right behind her now. “Iv—”
Two gunshots broke the night.
Ivy swiveled.
Tristan was backlit by the moon, full and bright. The bluish light glinted off the blade.
“Just tell me.” Tristan was out of breath. “Please, Ivy, tell me you have the laptop.”
No longer furious—more sad than anything else.
Ivy felt a pang of guilt.
“Please . . .”
This wasn’t about the laptop. Not for him, not for her. Probably never had been.
It was about a family legacy. It was about having something to definitely link to both of their lost childhoods. To their fathers. To justify them spending all of their time at work and not with them.
Then she remembered the bodies in the barn.
Thought of Abby.
Anger replaced the guilt.
“Please . . . my dad . . . my . . .” Tristan was crying now, too. “My dad . . .”
“He’s not—”
“Drop the fucking knife!” A shadow appeared behind Tristan. “Drop the fucking knife, Tristan.”
Ivy saw a gun, saw Vaughn’s face.
Her eyes darted back to Tristan. He was crestfallen.
Broken.
Still clutched the knife, though.
“Tristan, it’s over.”
The blade finally slipped from Tristan’s hand, landed harmlessly in the grass. He started to move to his left, away from Ivy, but toward the edge of the cliff.
“Your father took everything from me, Ivy.” She could barely hear Tristan over the crashing waves.
“It’s over, Tristan,” Vaughn repeated. He, too, sounded defeated.
“It is over,” Tristan admitted. Then he gave Ivy the saddest smile she’d ever seen. “I’m no longer a prisoner.”
100 Prisoners problem. Prisoner’s dilemma.
You’re not the prisoner, Ivy thought. Your dad is the prisoner.
She realized Tristan’s intentions a moment too late.
“No!”
Ivy reached for him, but missed.
Tristan jumped.
“No!”
He didn’t scream. Didn’t utter another word.
Ivy made it to the edge in time to see Tristan land. Only, his body didn’t fall in the water.
The Shrewsbury River ran along the bluff, but there was a small embankment just below where Tristan had leapt, an outcropping of just a dozen feet of dry ground.
Tristan landed there.
A mist of blood coated the flowers that his mangled corpse hadn’t crushed.
Queen Anne’s lace, because of course it was.
Ivy felt an arm slip around her waist, gently ease her back from the cliff. She turned into Vaughn and cried against his chest as he hugged her.
“Abby?” she sobbed. “Is she—”
“Your friend’s going to be alright. I got to her in time. I got to you in time.”
Ivy cried harder.