Girl One(92)

“A controversial genius. Plenty of great men have had their flaws,” Junior said, reddening. “It doesn’t mean that my father’s entire legacy has to be stolen.”

“Stolen?” Cate repeated. “Who stole what, exactly?”

“Maybe it’s time for the legacy to decide for itself,” I said.

Junior laughed under his breath. “All right, Josie. All right. Then let’s talk about this: your mother killed my father.” The breath was knocked from my lungs as if he’d hit me. “My life could have been different if he’d lived. It’s not just about me and my mother and my brother, because I know you don’t give a shit about us. But my father could’ve continued his work. He would have been able to handle your powers. You would’ve understood yourselves and what you’re capable of—”

“We don’t need anyone to handle us, we understand ourselves already,” I cut him off. “We don’t need a Bellanger to do that.” As I said it, I experienced a lightness. Not peace, not relief, but a new sense of space inside me. I could sense Cate’s watchfulness from the corner of my eye. I felt too nervous to look at her still, like I was trying to pick up our friendship—our whatever-it-was—from where we’d left it.

Junior made a visible effort to steady himself, shutting his eyes and then opening them. “I know we’re all upset. I get that. Let’s just head to Freshwater. We can keep discussing this, but we shouldn’t let this drama throw us off-track.”

Cate spat out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re not fucking coming with us.”

“I’ve been part of this from the start,” he said.

“Junior.” She was almost maternal. “There’s somebody following us and we don’t know who it is because you’ve misled us. You’ve been recording private conversations and writing about us as if we’re not even real people to you. You’re not coming. No way.”

Isabelle spoke up: “No way,” she echoed, not taking her eyes off the TV screen. “You lost your chance.”

He pressed his hands to his forehead, took several unsteady breaths. “Can I have my book back? I’ve put a lot of work into that.”

“Let you run off with these stories that could completely change our lives?” Cate demanded. “Some of these things could really endanger us.”

Junior inhaled. “All right. All right. I guess this is goodbye.” He rose, moved for the door. He tried to meet my eyes, maybe to telegraph an apology, but I stared into the corner of the room. Let him go, then. Junior had been with me from the start, my whole search for my mother beginning with a lie I hadn’t been able to see right in front of me.

“Wait,” Isabelle said. She was still watching the TV screen, but her voice held a command that stopped Junior in his tracks. “Leave the car with us,” she said.

He scoffed a laugh. “And how the hell am I supposed to get out of here?”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, unperturbed. “We need it. We’re going to Freshwater.”

He made a frustrated sweep with his hands. “You girls want me out of your lives? Fine. Fine, you got that. Congratulations. But now you’re on your own. Figure it out yourselves.”

Part of me wanted to just leave Tom alone, forget about him as quickly as possible, let this wound of betrayal begin to heal over. But another part of me, closer to the surface, sharper and angrier, wanted revenge. “You took our stories, we take your car,” I said.

“You owe it to us.” Isabelle turned her head slightly toward him, still sitting on her heels like a little kid. “We’re going to find Josephine’s mom.”

“That’s not—” Junior started, but Isabelle stood abruptly, in one fluid movement, and crossed the room toward him. She was swift and sure as a blade, her gaze unwavering. Even Cate and I stepped back, instinctively self-protective in the face of an unruly power.

She reached for Junior, rising on tiptoe to close her hands around his throat, her small, thin hands cupped around the cage of his Adam’s apple. Like they’d known each other a long time and Isabelle had complete familiarity with his body. Junior seemed to realize this too, a flush spreading down his neck. Then his face tightened. Blood, red and glossy, seeped out his nose, his ears.

I watched for a second, entranced. There was something beautiful about watching her disassemble a body so efficiently. The opposite of Cate’s palms gluing the world back together. When Junior coughed, his skin growing waxy-gray beneath the blood, I stepped in. “Isabelle,” I said. “Don’t hurt him.” But it was half-hearted. I’d thought that revenge would ease my anger, but it only made it grow, bouncing higher like a flame fed with gasoline.

Junior’s lower face was brightly striped with blood now. His eyes darted to me, helpless.

Cate was businesslike as she moved over to Isabelle and pulled her away from Junior. Isabelle held on as long as she could, but Cate was strong, certain. Finally Isabelle’s hands dropped away, and Junior fell to his knees on the carpet, coughing wetly. “Fine,” he muttered, blood staining his teeth. “Take the car. Just don’t think you’re the heroes in all this.”

Walking over, I knelt next to him, looking him right in the eyes. He was breathing hard. All that history shimmered between us. Junior, taking my hand when I was lost, smiling down at me. Junior as my partner in crime, my compatriot. My friend.