Page 75 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“Not directly. I thought he was telling me about his past crimes. But he was planning his future crimes.” Dr. Wilde’s voice is almost reverent. “There was an art to it, you know. How he selected his victims. The red hair, the timing, the storms, the brutality of the attack. There’s a pattern, a methodology. His work deserves to be understood.”
I want to keep him talking, but I’m suddenly incapable of forming words. I make a noise that could mean anything. It does the trick.
He runs his hand along the axe handle. “But Tate became unstable. Giselle fit the pattern, but she wasn’t the goal. She was a means to an end, a way to frame Tristan so he could get to you. I couldn’t let him do that.”
Maybe there’s hope. “Because you wanted to protect me?”
Please say yes. Please, dear God, let him say yes.
“No.” He laughs derisively, scoffing. “Because he was going to expose himself before I completed my study of his pathology.”
“So you killed him.” My voice is high, strained. I don’t recognize it.
“I didn’t mean to. Why would I? My only goal is to preserve his legacy. To make it mean something.” He searches my face, his tone pleading for approval. “You understand about legacy, don’t you, Emily? That’s what your book is about, after all—making sense of trauma, finding meaning in pain.”
This son of a bitch. How dare he compare my work to murder. A hot flame of anger licks at my belly. I grab hold of it, hang on to the fire. I need it.
“So, what? You argued and somehow you came out on top in a fight with a serial killer?” I lace my words with disbelief, hoping to rattle him even a fraction as much as he’s unmoored me.
He eyes me impassively. “I knew how to use his base impulses against him. He may have been an artist, but I’m a scientist—precise and accurate.”
I suppress a shiver.
“Your role is crucial to the conclusion,” Dr. Wilde says, his tone shifting to the clinical one he uses to explain therapeutic concepts. “The symmetry is incredible. Here you are with the only other survivor of one of Tate’s attacks.” He glances over my head at the window, then back to me.
His expression chills me. When I speak, my voice quavers. “What?”
“I’m afraid the narrative requires your death to be self-inflicted. Your guilt over surviving when Cassie died, your writer’s block, the discovery of who Tristan really is, it all builds a compelling psychological narrative for suicide.”
“I’m not going to kill myself,” I tell him.
Something flickers in his eyes. “You have to. You of all people understand story structure. The climax only resonates if you kill yourself. It ties it all together.”
“I don’t want to die, Dr. Wilde.”
I see a flash of what Tate must have seen. Loneliness, disconnection, the desperate need to matter. “I’m sorry, but it’s the only way. Otherwise, my work will lack value. But, you won’t be alone. I’ll be right here with you.”
“No.” It comes out as a plea, but I mean it as a vow.
His expression hardens. “Enough of this, we need to proceed. The storm provides the perfect backdrop.”
“What about Alex?” I stall, terrified I already know the answer.
“If she’s not dead already, she’s likely badly injured. She’ll be easy enough to finish off. An unexpected bonus, really.”
No. I won’t let him get to her. Not after all she’s already been through.
Alex
* * *
I nearly pass out after the crawl up the steps. I collapse on the porch, shaking and panting, and gather my waning strength to hang onto the doorknob and pull myself to my knees. The unlocked door swings open and I fall across the threshold, trembling and sweating.
But I’m inside. I can do this. I have to do this.
I drag myself toward the guest room. The doorway looms impossibly far away. Above, the low rumble of voices comes from the attic. Two voices. Emily’s still alive.
The knowledge gives me a burst of adrenaline. My fingers scrabble for purchase in the cracks between the cold floorboards as I pull myself forward and push the door open.
