Page 143 of Our Last Resort

They’re furious. They know me for what I am: a liar and a thief.

I’m done fighting.

I do exactly what Deputy Calhoun is screaming at me to do.

I raise my hands in the air. One, the left, is empty.

The other—the right—is holding William Brenner’s shirt, covered in his dead wife’s blood.

43Escalante, Utah

The Seventh Day

Catalina is very sorry.

She gives me the first of many apologies as we watch Calhoun lead William into a police car. From the looks of it, he’s going voluntarily: He’s not wearing handcuffs; she’s not placing her hand on his head and lowering him into the back seat. It’s not a formal arrest. But I can picture Calhoun standing at the entrance to his suite, holding up the blood-stained shirt. I can picture William’s face falling, a carefully constructed structure collapsing inside his head.

He must know that this is the end of the road. That charges will follow. That this is the part when he starts talking and angles for a deal with the prosecution.

There is always a deal, for men like William Brenner.

Catalina apologizes again.

“It’s fine,” I tell her.

Really. I assure her she couldn’t have known. That William worked very hard to make Gabriel, and me by association, look guilty.

I don’t tell her, of course, that she didn’t mistake me for anything I’m not.

Everyone froze for a moment after I handed William’s shirtto Deputy Calhoun. So damning: his monogram on the cuff, dark stains mottling the front and sleeves. She frowned, then started a couple of sentences that she never finished.

“We’ll have to take this to get analyzed,” she said. “But in the meantime…”

The end of that sentence was implied:In the meantime, we’ll reopen our case into William Brenner.

In the meantime, it’s pretty clear what the analysis will say.

I return to our suite.

“Did you want me to help you book a plane back?” Catalina asks.

I shake my head.

“I’ll wait for him,” I tell her. “I’ll wait for my brother.”

She nods and leaves me alone.

I start packing. By the time I’m done, the only trace left of my presence is a butterfly-shaped hair clip, golden, on Gabriel’s nightstand.

Sabrina wanted Gabriel to have it. I’m not giving it to the police.

The butterfly is his to keep.

And then I wait.

After a few hours, the door opens.

It’s him.

---