Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(102)

“Help me,” he said. “We need to keep this shut. We need to hide while we talk.”

After a moment of consideration, Rosie took a rake and secured it just so, enough that the door could not be opened.

“What’s this about Yash?” she said. “Are you going to try to tell me that Yash hurt that girl?”

His suspicions were unfortunately correct, and this was already going too fast.

“The girl . . . ,” he mumbled, stalling for time. Words failed him. He would always remember how she looked at that moment—the most Rosie she had ever been. So short, yet she seemed about eight feet tall. Her face rigid. Her eyes fixed, arms folded across her chest.

“We saw you,” she finally said.

This caught him so unready that he didn’t say, “Saw what?” He said, “We?”

Rosie almost smiled. Peter felt the foundations under his feet slipping away.

“That night the girl disappeared, fell into the river, we heard yelling. Two voices. One was North American, sounded like a girl. We came out of the tent to see what was going on. It had all gone quiet. You came down the path not long after. You were wet and agitated. I had no idea what I’d seen until I saw the paper this morning. Her picture was in it—the girl. The Canadian. She wasn’t Canadian, she was American. Her name with Samantha. She was the one you told me was snogging Julian the other night, and then she got together with Yash. Yash gave her our address. And now here you are, trying to convince me that Yash did something. Yash would never.”

The panic was taking over his body. He had to control it. Had to push back the black-and-white spots that were taking over his vision.

“I’ve been watching you,” Rosie said. “Ever since that night. I’ve been trying to understand what I saw. Something happened out there, Peter. What happened to her?”

“You must be joking,” he said. But his voice was dry.

“I’m not joking. I even asked you the next morning about your night. You lied, Peter. You lied about when you came back. What happened, Peter?”

He had to try harder. Get more conviction in his voice.

“You honestly think I’m capable of hurting someone? And why?”

“I think you’re competitive,” she said. “I think we all are. I think something happened. I wasn’t sure before. I am now.”

In that moment, it was decided. Because what else could he do? What choice did he have? What happened next was much like what had happened with the American. He needed to survive. He felt the panic slip away. It was replaced by a warm clarity. A focus unlike any he’d ever felt. Now the lie was easier. It was soft as butter.

The axe was leaning by the door. He’d seen Sebastian use it before to get to the loft space.

“Rosie,” he said calmly. He rubbed his hand over his forehead like he was troubled, just trying to make sense of the matter. He was in a sketch, that was all. A sketch about a misunderstanding. He was playing an exasperated man in a shop trying to explain what he wanted. “I think that you . . .”

He moved in the middle of the sentence. Peter had always been an athlete; he was an excellent cricketer and tennis player whenever he could be bothered to play. The axe had a long handle, so as he swung he made a long arc. When the first blow made contact, Rosie made a weird, low noise. Each successive swing got easier. It didn’t take many. Axes are effective tools.

When he was sure it was over, and he was heaving and sweating and looking down, the figure on the floor didn’t look like Rosie anymore. It was like a sack.

There was a buzzing in his head. A strange euphoria that made no sense because he couldn’t be happy about this. The body compensates in times of extreme stress. There were work gloves on the shelf. He put them on and pulled Rosie over to the pile of wood on the far side and covered her gently. He found that he was talking to her even as he did it.

“Sorry, Rose. So sorry, Rose. I had no choice here, Rose. It’ll be all right, Rose . . .”

He meant it too. So sorry, Rosie. Didn’t mean for this to happen.

The door began to rattle. A sharp stroke of panic whipped through his body.

“Hello?” called a voice. One of the girls. It was a little hard to hear over the pouring rain and the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He went to the door and listened.

“Hello? Who’s in there? I saw your light under the door. Come on, it’s awful out here . . . I have champagne!”

Angela. Just playing the game. He forced himself to breathe calmly and waited until he was sure she was gone. As he waited, he had to look at the pile of logs that Rosie was under. That wasn’t tolerable. He swung the axe up and smashed the lightbulb, leaving the woodshed in the pitch-dark.

That was better. No light at all. Just the sound of the rain. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes and listened to the sound.

We saw you, Rosie said. We came out of the tent. The shag factory. Rosie and Noel in each other’s arms and talking by the garden wall when they arrived. It didn’t appear that Noel knew the whole story—his demeanor had been far too casual for that—but once Rosie was found, it would all come out. Noel would put it all together. Noel would come after him.

Peter wiped the axe with a rag and set it down by the door, just in case he didn’t make it back in time. What time was it? What was time? He checked his watch. Just coming up on midnight. Was that all? Just an hour since they ran out of the house? It could have been seconds. It could have been years.