Page 72 of The Family Plot
The air is trapped in my throat. I shine my light closer, needing to be sure of what I’m seeing, and now my hand rushes to my mouth.
One of the objects is a skeleton key, identical to the one that opened the door in the shed. And the other, the one that’s whipped my heart into a gallop, is something I’ve never seen before but immediately recognize.
With trembling fingers, I pick up a dark metallicB.
The Blackburn Killer’s branding iron.
eighteen
I’m out of Charlie’sroom and down the stairs so fast, I feel like I’ve flown to the foyer. Voices rumble from the kitchen, and I run down the hall until I’m panting on the doorless threshold. Mom and Tate gape at me in surprise.
“Where’s Charlie?” I blurt.
“I don’t know,” Tate says. “Last I saw, he was—”
“Charlie!”
They jump at my scream. I wait, hear nothing, and yell his name again.
“Dahlia, what—” Mom starts, but I jolt my hand up to cut her off.
Footsteps trudge from the end of the hall near the victim room. I spin around and back up until my hip hits the counter.
“This better be good,” Charlie says.
“You were at one of the crime scenes,” I blurt—and that slaps the smirk off his face. “And you have this.” I open my palm, show him the key and the iron. Behind me, somebody sucks in a breath.
“Was it you?” I ask him. “Were you the Blackburn Killer?”
“Dahlia!” Mom says.
Charlie’s face hardens. “I wassix!” he spits, features twisting with rage. “When the first woman was killed, I was only six.”
My hand shakes. The iron feels heavier the longer I hold it. The key’s teeth seem to sharpen.
He’s right, of course—he was far too young to be the killer.
“Then why do you have this?” I pluck the iron from my palm, stab it into the air.
At that, Charlie seems to deflate, his chest going concave as his gaze slides behind me, reaching, as always, toward Tate.
“Don’t look at her!” I yell. “I’m the one asking.”
He shoves his eyes to the floor.
“There… there must be a reasonable explanation,” Mom stammers.
I glare at my brother. “Answer me!”
“Dahlia, stop,” Tate says gently. She steps forward until she’s standing between me and Charlie. Then she puts her hand on the sharp knob of his shoulder.
“You should tell them,” she whispers.
Charlie’s face appears so tortured that I almost feel guilty—like I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t.
“Tate,” he whispers back. “I can’t.”
“You can,” she replies. “Listen to what she’s accusing you of. It’s time, Charlie. You have to tell them.”
