Page 128 of Our Last Resort

Maybe he placed the backpack in the lobby or right at our door. Or maybe he was more brazen about it. Maybe he marched the backpack straight to Harris. I can almost hear him say it:Look, Deputy. Look what I found.

If that’s how it happened, when Harris asked William how he’d come into possession of Gabriel’s backpack, how did William explain it?

Easy. One option: play the hurt husband. Admit to one misdeed to cover up another, bigger one.My wife…she was cheating on me with this guy. You’re the one who told me, Deputy. His name is on her phone. I miss her so much. I needed to know if he had any of her things. Anything to remember her by. I asked a member of the staff to let me in. They kindly obliged.

Maybe he did, in fact, ask a housekeeper to let him in, in case Harris felt the need to confirm. Thisis,after all, how the world treats William Brenner. Especially the deferential world of luxury resorts, where money buys favors and opens doors.

And that’sifHarris asked. A cop who is offered key evidence on a silver platter won’t necessarily question its provenance.

So Harris reached inside the backpack and plucked out the bloodstained rock.He just went into the desert,William would have said. He might even have pointed.That way.

Andvoilà.

We’re at the bottom of the trail now. In a few minutes, Gabriel will be thrown into the back of a police car. They’ll puton the siren, even though there’s scarcely any traffic on these roads.

Gabriel walks a step ahead of Harris. Head bowed. Compliant. The deputy’s grip tight around his wrists.

My brother, who did almost everything right. Who left a cult. Who stopped drinking when it turned out he did, in fact, have a problem. Who remembers his meds—the migraine ones and the depression ones. Who takes care of himself. Who tries and tries to iron out his mind, even if that means staring at a journal he can’t seem to fill. He takes the journal on vacation. He keeps it in his nightstand drawer.

That’s who he is. Someone who grieves and struggles against himself and goes back for another round.

But not a murderer.

We’ve reached the police car. Harris places a hand on Gabriel’s head as Gabriel folds himself into the back seat. I try to catch his gaze, but the door slams shut.

Harris walks to the front of the car. His colleagues get into their own vehicles. They drive away. I can almost feel it, the tear in the fabric of our existence as Gabriel gets taken from me.

My brother. Lost to the world.

Mine to save.

I know what I need to do.

No. No.

Please don’t make me go back in there.

My mind is a beehive.

For almost nine years, I’ve done my best to leave this part of my brain alone.

The part that schemes. The one that knows how to get away with dreadful things.

I hate it.

But I need it now.

A beehive like any other: Approach at your own risk. Poke your hand in, feel the heat of—

And here they are. A thousand stings. A thousand memories, each coming back with a burning stab.

What do I know about murder?

Well.

Probably everything there is to know.

Everythinguseful,certainly.

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