In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(87)

What had he done?

Heather’s eyes tracked him as he took a step back, and suddenly Mint saw the scene for what it was, in all its terrible truth. He saw the blood everywhere, across the bed and climbing the walls and marring the skin of his hands, the white of his dress shirt under his black suit jacket. He saw the girl who had been his friend, shuddering with pain. He saw Heather, not Jessica. Heather, rasping and blinking, Heather, who he’d stabbed.

He was going to burn for this. He was going to be sent to prison. Everything—whatever was left of his family’s fortune, his spot at Columbia Law, his friends, his family, his future. This time there was no question he would lose it all. His mother would know what he’d done. His father, if he ever woke up. Everyone in the world.

His life was over.

No. Defiance cut through the panic. He’d made a mistake, that’s all. He didn’t deserve to have his life ruined because of one mistake, provoked by Jessica anyway, and by Trevor Daly, and Charles Smith, and Jack, and his father. It was their fault, not his. But he would fix it. He would save himself.

Mint scrambled to his feet and dashed to the bathroom. Now that the frenzied feeling had worn off, he was viscerally aware of the slickness of his hands, the heavy, coppery smell that clung to him. He scrubbed his hands furiously at the bathroom sink, digging under his nails. Then he saw his face and cursed. Peeling off his clothes, he showered, scrubbing hard, then put the dark suit back on. It was even starting to dry.

Looking one last time in the mirror, he caught it—there, on his neck. A bright-red mark, prelude to a bruise, peaked out from his collar. Heather must have hit him at some point. He pulled his bow-tie higher, hiding it, then closed his jacket over the white shirt so no one could see the blood splatters. He was fine now, covered.

He rushed back to the bedroom. There was no telling how long he had. He grabbed a T-shirt someone had left slung over the door and used it to wipe the handles of the scissors. Then he placed them securely inside his jacket.

A plan was taking shape, guided by survivor’s instincts. He wasn’t going down for this; there was no way. It came down to a simple choice: him, or someone else. And he knew who he’d choose every time. He just had to be smart.

Mint gave Heather one last glance. And stopped. He couldn’t see her chest moving.

She’d died.

While he was in the bathroom scrubbing off her blood, Heather had died alone.

Tears flooded Mint’s eyes; he felt like his chest was going to cleave in half. His knees wobbled.

No. No weakness. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be as good as dead, too.

He shoved himself out the door and wiped the handle, then strode across the living room, opened the front door with the T-shirt, closed it behind him, wiped again, handle and PIN pad, then stuffed the T-shirt into his suit jacket, buttoned it to the top one final time. He’d burn these clothes as soon as he could, everything he was wearing, and no one would notice because he had a closetful of the same suits, dark and well cut and expensive.

He’d shower, put on another black suit, slip back into the party, act like nothing happened. Complain about drinking too much, having to throw up, if anyone even bothered to ask. Everyone would remember him there, as much as they could remember anything through the black tunnel of whiskey, a bottle for every couple.

From now on, he’d do whatever it took: feign tears and shock. Be a doting boyfriend to Jessica so no one would ever suspect. Fall in line behind his mother and the man she’d cheated with. He’d smooth everything over, wear the veneer of perfection until it was true, until the mask melted and fused to his face. This would be the ultimate proof he wasn’t his father. He wouldn’t give up his life for a single mistake.

He had just one stop to make, one smoking gun to plant. It was poetic, really. One betrayal in exchange for another. Jack Carroll thought he could send Mint to the cops, and now Mint would send the cops to him.





Chapter 41


Now

The whole world ended with Mint’s words. Everything I thought I knew gone in the blink of an eye, our past scratched out and written over with the truth, the words dark and terrible. And I was going straight to hell, because the first thought that crossed my mind when Mint unraveled was, I won.

Ten years ago, on Valentine’s Day, Mint had stormed out of Sweetheart, snuck into my room, and stabbed Heather seventeen times because he thought she was me. Heather was always taking what was mine, and the secret of her murder—the great, intractable mystery of her death—was that she’d simply done it one too many times.

It had been about me this whole time.

Then the shock cleared, and my next thought was, My body is turning inside out. I leaned over and threw up everything inside my stomach, acid bitter in my mouth.

The room exploded into noise.

“You killed her,” Eric screamed, lunging for Mint, but Mint was too fast, twisting away from him to the corner of the room where the shattered window met the wall. He bent and scooped something from the floor, gripping it like a dagger in his right hand. It was a massive, jagged piece of glass. A line of blood snaked down his wrist from where he held it, the same crimson as the Duquette polo he wore.

“Nobody come close,” Mint warned.

“Mint, it can’t be true,” Caro said. “Take it back. You wouldn’t do that.” She clutched her chest. “You’re our friend.”