Epilogue
SEVERAL MONTHS LATER
Rue
The first annual Bellamy-Mohr backyard barbecue is going off without a hitch—lively conversation, unseasonably gorgeous weather, food and drink aplenty—save for our resident thundercloud.
“Bet you wish you could trade places with Felicity,” I say when I find Quinn on the back porch steps, wearing a black batik skirt and a glare.
“Stuck at home working on a massive dataset with a terrifying expedited deadline?” She accepts the fresh beer I hold out to her. “And here I thought I’d been so subtle.”
I snort. “If you call crouching behind a rosebush every time Hugo tries to introduce you to someone new subtle, then… nailed it!”
I hold out my own bottle, and after the tiniest hesitation, she clinks hers against it. Once Hugo convinced me to stop sheltering my twin from the hypothetical blowback of my crimes, Fi became the center of our social circle. Even Quinn occasionally smiles in her presence.
“At least our boy seems to be having a good time.” She tilts her bottle toward Hugo.
Sure enough, that’s my man at the grill joking with the other members of the Petal Pushers, our neighborhood’s gardening club.
As it’s primarily composed of snowy-haired retirees, he stands out like a tall, handsome flamingo among the laughing, chattering flock.
He still wears his slutty little Dr. Mohr glasses and adjusts them constantly, but he’s officially traded frumpy business casual for T-shirts and jeans, and he keeps his hair silky, gel-free, and touchable.
The cardigan remains available for telehealth sessions and sex.
“Apparently all we had to do was give him an apron and tell him to sear meat for other plant aficionados,” I say.
She snorts as I continue my sweep of the yard, which doubled in size when we tore down the fence separating our halves this spring.
Cosmo runs back and forth like he never had to wriggle through a crack to visit me, and by next year, the depressions where we removed the posts will be covered in the roses and rue we’ve planted.
“I’m surprised Pell didn’t show up,” I say.
“Maybe he’s dead.” Quinn primly adjusts her skirt over the top of her turquoise Docs.
As if he heard us—because let’s be honest, he probably did—the backyard gate swings open ten minutes later, and the man himself ambles in, a four-pack of Cheerwine under one arm and an unlabeled jar of what appears to be pickled eggs under the other.
He looks like somebody’s eternally between-jobs cousin in a faded gray T-shirt, work pants, and a sun-bleached ball cap.
“Ladies,” he says as he breezes past.
“Honestly!” Quinn shoots to her feet with a huff. “Who brings a jar of eggs to a barbecue?” After she swishes into the house, I finish my beer and join Hugo at the grill.
“Yep, we made it a big home office,” he tells one of the Petal Pushers, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and gesturing at my former half of the duplex with his tongs. “The extra space is a real lifesaver.”
We share a private smile at that. Hugo’s bespoke bone meal needs replenishing, and the cop who stuck a parking receipt in an embezzlement file as a favor to a friend is waiting for us in the basement freezer.
Angie Timms, meanwhile, walked out of the Cook County Department of Corrections in February and is living with her sister in Scottsdale, according to a WGN feature I’ve watched a ridiculous number of times.
She’ll never know about us or our rosebushes, but I bet she’d appreciate how nice they’re going to look.
The nonmurderer guests start to make their goodbyes as the sun sets. Bart’s the last to leave.
“Thanks for coming.” I give him a quick hug, then wince. “I know we’re not huggers, but that’s what you get for hanging out in my yard.”
His lined face pulls into a smile, and as we walk toward his car, he stops to admire Hugo’s landscaping.
“Your boyfriend’s got a real green thumb.” He nods at the roses, but it’s the blue-green bushes with the delicate yellow flowers that have him stopping for a closer look. “I’d ask you to dig me up a start, but rue doesn’t like being moved once its roots are established.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
“Ruta graveolens.” He pats his pockets before finding his pack and shaking a cigarette out. “Also known as the herb of repentance.” He goes fishing for his lighter next. “I figure there’s lots of people out there who have some repenting to do. And sometimes they need a little help doing it.”
“You…” My brain’s as empty as my lungs. “Bart, I…”
“I told you, kid. You need to study up on your botany. And tell your fella we’re on for bowling next Saturday.” He holds my gaze for a long moment before he nods and tucks the cigarette between his lips. “See you Monday, kid.”
“S-see ya,” I call faintly. Then I collapse into a chair at the firepit.
Bart knows what a rue plant looks like. He just told me in Latin that Hugo grows it in our yard.
Bart thought Aaron McEwan was a monster, and he encouraged me not to bag up the cutting I found on that scene.
Bart explained away the points-up knives in Augustine Horne’s dishwasher and supported the finding of a self-inflicted death for Lester Timms.
Bart said he’d see me on Monday.
Bart and Hugo have a bowling date.
Bart knows.
It’s going to take more than a few minutes of staring into the fire to adjust to the idea that I haven’t been alone at those crime scenes or on this mission for a few years now.
But by the time Hugo joins me at the fire—followed by Quinn, Pell, and Cosmo—I’ve decided it’s going to be okay.
Bart’s always had my back, and from what I can tell, that’s not going to change. My family is safe.
When I hold out my hand, Hugo takes it. I’ll tell him later, when we’re alone, but I know he’ll agree. So will Felicity.
I wish she were here tonight.
As he so often does, Hugo picks up on my thoughts. “I was hoping Felicity would finish up early and join us.”
“Me too,” I say, then brighten. “We should pack up some leftovers for her! Maybe our resident insomniacs could drop it off tonig…”
I turn my grin on Pell and Quinn and find them exchanging a look.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Quinn says quickly while Pell pulls the baseball out of his pocket and spins it between his fingers.
“Not nothing.” I narrow my eyes at them. “You two never voluntarily look at each other.”
“I look at her all the time,” Pell says mildly, winding up a pitch he never throws.
“God, can you not,” Quinn snaps, widening her eyes at him as part of some kind of silent argument.
“What do you know?” I demand, leaping to my feet and pointing a finger at her, then him, then her again.
They share another fucking glance, and Hugo sits forward too. “Uh, guys?”
Pell’s the one who breaks first, pocketing the ball and slipping his fingers into the pocket of Quinn’s skirt in one smooth motion. She squeaks and tries to slap his hand away, but he’s too good a pickpocket.
“She said not to give it to her until midnight,” Quinn snaps as Pell hands me a sealed envelope.
“It’s midnight on the East Coast,” he says, and I’m distantly aware of a bite to his voice that isn’t usually there. Something worth noting under ordinary circumstances, but I can’t do that until I figure out what’s up with my sister.
I tear open the envelope and skim the note inside. Then I sink into my chair and read it again more slowly.
Hugo leans forward. “Is everythin—”
I wordlessly hand it to him, then turn to the two snakes in my yard.
“You knew,” I say in a low voice. “You both knew my sister was traveling alone to New York to go after the rich, connected businessman she thinks is a serial killer. You knew about it and you let her go and you didn’t tell me?
” My voice spirals to a shriek, and I spin to face Hugo, who’s staring pale-faced at his phone.
“Straight to voicemail,” he says.
“Good idea.” I fumble mine out of my pocket and call her six times in a row. On the seventh, I leave her a message. “Felicity, it’s Ruby Lynn. Come home right now so I can murder you.”
Then I hang up the phone and burst into tears. Hugo stands, gathers me to him, and sits back down with me in his lap.
“You’re upset,” he says in his Dr. Mohr voice. “It’s understandable. You’ve spent so much time trying to keep her safe. Of course you’re scared for her.”
“Bullshit,” Pell says. Straight posture. No accent. Zero good-old boy.
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t be scared for her,” he says. “She’s ready.”
A laugh grates out of me. “My sister’s ready to take down Cormac fucking King?” I struggle out of Hugo’s arms and climb to my feet, swiping at my eyes so I can glare at him better.
“He’s right,” Quinn says. “Even though it pains me to say.”
“Thanks, Quinnie.”
“Fuck off, you unfixed bobcat,” she hisses, then speaks to me in the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard her use, which makes me want to cry all over again. “Is your sister stupid, Rue?”
“What? No!” I turn my glare on her now. “She’s the smartest person I know.”
Her next question is just as gentle and just as frustrating. “Is your sister careless?”
“No,” I say, starting to get annoyed. “She’s so careful it’s irritating.”
“And do you think she’s wrong about King?” Quinn asks.
I try to deny it, but I can’t. “No,” I say, my shoulders dropping. “And that’s worse! Because what if she’s right? What if this dangerous man realizes she’s after him?”
I picture Felicity alone in a room with Cormac King. He’s bigger than her, meaner. A killer, if she’s correct. And then there’s my sweet sister, who lives on Nutella and iced coffee and crunches data for a living.
“She can’t protect herself,” I say, my stomach roiling. “She’s not a fighter.”
Pell tilts his head. “Isn’t she?”
“No, she…” My brows pull together. “She never took self-defense classes, no martial arts, nothing.”
“That you know about,” he says, and suddenly I’m thinking about those moments when Fi’s reflexes were faster than they should’ve been. When her body flowed into a defensive stance that only a trained fighter can access.
“I…” My mouth opens and snaps shut. “I don’t…”
“Rue.” Hugo’s voice cuts through the turmoil in my head, and I spin to see him reaching for me. I tumble into his lap, and this time Cosmo scrambles up to join us, licking the tears off my face.
“Are you okay with this?” I press the question into the side of his neck, breathing him in.
“Fuck no,” he says tightly. “I love Felicity like a sister, and I’m terrified for her. But baby”—he pulls back to meet my gaze—“she learned from the best. And what do Jennifer Alsop’s daughters do better than anyone else?”
I exhale hard. “We kill bad men.”
“Yes, you fucking do.” He catches my chin between his fingers and presses a soft kiss on my lips. Then he falls silent, letting me decide.
I stare into the fire at the center of our circle. I may be the twin who carries the scars on my body, but Felicity’s just as much of a survivor as I am.
With a steady hand, I take my phone out of my pocket, and I leave my sister a second voicemail.
“Fi, I forgot to tell you one thing: you’re Mom with better patience, a team at your back, and the best fucking head on your shoulders.
You’ve got this.” I start to hang up, then jerk the phone back to my ear.
“That said, you have ten days. After that, I’ll fly to New York to personally drag you out of Cormac King’s sex dungeon if I have to. ”
Hugo’s warm hand is on my back. Our dog is in my lap. Our friends are at my side. My sister’s off to kill a bad man.
“I love you,” I tell her. “Go nail his ass.”