Deek twists and thrashes, veiny eyes bulging, lurching off his chair and splashing an arc of hot ginger tea against the wall. He utters a strange and strangled noise through his teeth. His mug shatters on the floor beside him.
Emma stands, twirling the stun gun in her hand. “I’m starting to love this thing.”
Thanks, Jules.
Maybe she’d been right, and the testicles really are the worst possible place to receive forty thousand volts. Seen firsthand, it sure doesn’t look fun. Howard may have fought through the paralyzing shock, but this frail old man has already crumpled to the floor. Emma doesn’t care if his nuts have exploded like popcorn, but she hopes she hasn’t caused him cardiac damage. She needs Deacon Cowl alive.
Laika watches wide-eyed. Holy shit, Mom.
Wasn’t expecting that.
Emma circles the table and picks up Deek’s gun. He writhes painfully, grasping at her ankle—
“Nope.” She stomps his hand.
He cries out.
“You thought I was in your trap? Motherfucker, you were in mine.” Her mouth is dry, her words coming almost as fast as her thoughts: “Your career was dead. You helped the cops catch an evil man in Texas, but that was two decades ago and your family dumped you, you’re an alcoholic, and you haven’t sold a book to your publisher since. Your words.”
Deek groans on the floor.
“But what if a killer attacked your neighbor? And what if you heroically intervened to shoot him? That’s your comeback bestseller right there. And not just any killer. There are thousands of murders a year and yours needs to stand out, like the Stockyard Slayer did. Good thing you know Howard Grosvenor Kline, wannabe writer with a history of home invasions, who’s finally snapped after years of ridicule and is confronting his latest keyboard critic. That’s a fresh premise. Hell, I’d read that book. And you’ve known Howard for years, watching him grow up—how volatile he is, his insecurities, his triggers. You’ve got firsthand backstory. Deacon Cowl, you were born to cover this true crime story. The only problem: the true crime hadn’t happened yet.”
He whimpers.
She aims the revolver at his face.
“You encouraged Howard to murder me, right? For research? To improve his shitty horror fiction by trying the real thing, just like how you accidentally sent him after Laura Birch. But this time, you manipulated him on purpose. Because you’d kill him afterward.”
She studies his eyes for a reaction. Fear. Shame. Guilt.
Anything.
“You served me to Howard. A grieving, suicidal woman living alone inside his own childhood home without witnesses, cell signal, or weapons. The perfect victim.”
Instead, I kicked his ass.
“While you’d secretly cast yourself as the heroic neighbor, showing up to betray Howard with a bullet to the face.”
And instead, I stabbed you with a screwdriver.
There’s something viscerally gratifying to being underestimated, to shattering the diabolical plans laid around her. Surviving her scripted death, killing the would-be villain, wounding the would-be hero. Emma can’t be controlled. She’s a goddamn wrecking ball.
All her paranoia. Vindicated.
“And after Howard surrendered, you couldn’t shoot him in front of witnesses, as much as you wanted to. It had to be self-defense. That’s why you insisted Jules and I leave together.”
He says nothing.
It’s like she’s finally won a game of Hangman with the ingenious old bastard. She’s outguessed him. She’s defeated his magnified gaze, his penetrating observations. Still, she must acknowledge and give credit where credit is due.
“You were smart to come after me.” She hefts the revolver in one hand, Jules’s stun gun in the other. “Just not smart enough.”
Wincing, he pulls himself into a sitting position on the floor.
“Maybe this is how you felt ten years ago, when Laura Birch disappeared?” She tries to see it that way. “The police didn’t believe me about Howard’s words, no matter how much I begged them to investigate you closer. They called me paranoid. They said I was letting Howard win. But I think they’ll believe me now.”
She points across the room, at the audio recorder tucked on the bookshelf. Silently listening, logging every damning word.
“Want to say hi?”
He looks sullenly to the floor.
“Trust me, Deek, I wish we could go our separate ways, too. But I’d be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, just like you, and putting Shawn’s life in danger. I couldn’t risk you coming for us both.” She pushes him over with her foot. “Now lie down.”
She tucks the pistol into her waistband and presses the stun gun prongs into his neck. With her free hand she searches his raincoat pockets, finding his leather wallet. His keys.
“Won’t be needing these.”
Then, zip ties. Duct tape.
“For me? You shouldn’t have.”
Blue surgical gloves.
She whistles. “Scary.”
In the old man’s deepest pocket, she finds a small glass bottle. A tincture? The fine print on the label is difficult to read. It takes a moment; her eyes can’t focus. Among many chemical names, she recognizes one.
Propofol.
Deek’s very first Hangman word, months ago. It’s all come full circle.
“That’s how, huh?” Emma shakes the tiny bottle. “You came here to poison me. With the Stockyard Slayer’s formula.”
Finally, Deek speaks. His voice is a dry croak.
“I already did.”