Page 75 of The Family Plot
I shake my head. “She said she knew it was him from his limp. The man waslimping.”
“He was carrying a dead body,” Charlie mutters.
I glance at Mom, who’s finally silent. I want her eyes to be pinchedwith disbelief, but she’s staring blankly ahead, tears stalled on her cheeks.
And now I can’t fight it. My mind forces other memories to the surface: times I saw Dad walking out of the woods, hauling his dead deer home. Sometimes he’d tarp them, so all he’d have to do was drag. But for the smaller ones, a hundred pounds or so, he’d carry them in his arms. And Charlie’s right. Bile creeps toward my throat, burning my esophagus, because he’s right. When Dad held those deer, he never moved too steady. He stumbled more than walked. Someone watching in the dark might even say he limped.
“So when Ruby saw Andy following someone,” I say, words sluggish, almost slurred, “he was really following… Dad. Which means, Andy must have figured out what Dad was up to, who he was, and he must have been looking for proof, or—”
I’m cut off by a humorless laugh.
“You don’t get it,” Charlie says, squinting at the floor. “Andy wasn’t following him that night. Not in secret anyway.”
My heart thumps out a warning, begging me not to ask. But my mouth disobeys. “What do you mean?”
Slowly, Charlie lifts his head. As our eyes connect, his are so pained it’s like looking into open wounds. I stop myself from breathing—knowing, somehow, that his response will change me forever.
“The last woman I watched Dad kill was his fourth victim. Claudia Adams. I was fourteen at the time. After that, I was too old to seem helpless. So Dad needed someone else he could use as bait. Someone he could groom to take my place.”
I shake my head, raising my hands like shields. Squeezing my eyes shut, I grit my teeth against his words.
“Three years later, Amy Ragan was murdered. Dad’s fifth victim,” he says. “And Andy’s first.”
nineteen
Time stops as Momgasps. We become statues, frozen in this moment. Even Tate, who flinched at Andy’s name, has gone completely still. My pulse, once thrashing, is silent.
“No,” I mutter.
It’s aNoof astonishment, of anguish. It’s aNoof refusal. ANothat meansYou’re wrong.
“You’re lying.”
“That would be nice,” Charlie scoffs. “But no. I’m not. Dad told me, ‘You’re old enough now that the women are more likely to feel threatened than protective. Andy’ll work better.’?”
Something slinks into my stomach, cold but clawing. Its nails scrape against my insides, tentative for now, but still drawing blood.
“I would have known,” I say, “if my twin were a murderer.”
Tate inhales sharply. “Dahlia, no. They weren’t murderers. Not Charlie and Andy. They were victims of Dad. Same as those women.”
I turn my head to glare at her. “I hardly think those women would see it the same way.”
“We were bait,” Charlie says. “So, is— Is a worm what kills a fish, because it draws it to the hook? Or is it the hook that kills it? Or theman holding the rod?” He looks up at me, eyes desperate and wide. “Which is it? Because I really don’t know.”
“It’s the man!” Tate cries.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Andy didn’t do it. I would have known. I would haveknown.”
Mom places a shaky hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off.
“I regret it,” Charlie says, “not protecting him from it. Not fighting Dad, telling him he couldn’t do to Andy what he did to me. But at the same time, I was so relieved that it wasn’t me anymore. That the secret wasn’t just his and mine anymore; someone else had to hold it, too.”
“Oh, Charlie,” Mom whimpers. “He was just a boy.”
“So was I,” he snaps.
Mom nods, chastised, taking a step back. I tighten my grip on the counter, ignoring the talons in my stomach, even as they dig in deeper.
