The Dead and the Dark(90)

He arched a brow.

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be in a cell.”

“We were neighbors at the Bates,” Alejo croaked. In the harsh basement light, his face was almost gray. “We hung out every day. You’re the first person I told about … I know you didn’t do this. I know you didn’t hurt those kids.”

Sheriff Paris said nothing.

Ashley was going to be sick.

“We’ve talked since … I would’ve known.”

Tristan’s screams stopped. The ThermoGeist went blank. For the moment, Tristan was gone, leaving Ashley and Alejo alone to face the devil. Maybe this was all he’d wanted them to find—the truth. But now that they’d found it, Ashley wasn’t sure what to do. There was no one to tell. It wasn’t like Paris would let them leave this basement knowing what they knew.

Paris’s stance relaxed. “You didn’t know? I thought for sure you did. How long did you live with it—thirteen years? Maybe you didn’t know it as well as you thought.”

Alejo cupped a hand over his mouth. “They were kids, Frank. They were your son’s friends.”

“Speaking of John,” Paris said, “which one of you knocked him out?”

Ashley met Alejo’s eyes. So Fran had left the house. They really were alone down here. Ashley could only hope Fran was getting help.

“It doesn’t really matter.” Paris eyed the tool bench. “You know I can’t let either of you out of here.”

“It’s not too late,” Alejo said. “The Dark is strong, but you can shut it out. Brandon did.”

“Not too late for what? I killed people, Alejo.” Paris cleared his throat. “Besides, the thing’s gone. It’s just me now. This is who I was always supposed to be.”

Alejo shook his head, eyes wide. “If it’s not with you, where is it?”

“It should be with your daughter now, actually. Said something about coming full circle. I didn’t understand what that meant. It had a real grudge against your family for some reason. I tried to stay out of it.”

Alejo’s exhale was sharp. His fists clenched, but his expres sion wasn’t angry. It was a sad thing, teetering just on the edge of grief. He’d lost his daughter once, and now he might lose her again and there was nothing he could do about it. It weighed on Ashley, too. If she and Logan had just left Snakebite, none of this would’ve happened. Logan would’ve been safe.

“You helped us look for Tristan,” Ashley said. “Why?”

Paris frowned, and it felt like a knife in Ashley’s stomach. “It’s my job.”

Alejo slowly reached for the phone in his back pocket. “You’re gonna kill us? No one will be left in Snakebite by the time you’re done. You think people won’t find that suspicious?”

“I figure after you two, I’ll hit the road.” Paris rested his hand on the gun holstered at his belt. “John doesn’t know yet, but he’ll understand.”

John Paris was a certain kind of monster, but Ashley doubted he was the type of monster that would understand this. Tristan and Bug had been John’s friends. Until recently, John had been Ashley’s friend, too. When he learned that his father was the one who had killed all of them—when he learned that his father was the reason he was left friendless—it would destroy him. This man was miles beyond the Paris she knew, living in a different world.

He pulled the gun from his belt.

Alejo gasped.

The ThermoGeist clattered against the basement floor, echoing from the walls with a stale clap. The red light along the top of the device clicked to a startling blue, then back to red as coils of black smoke curled through the plastic shell. Alejo gingerly gripped his palm, pressing his thumb against a strip of burned skin beneath his fingers.

“What…?” Ashley started.

Suddenly, the air was heavy as though a layer of sound had dropped away, opening an endless chasm of silence beneath it. Her ears rang with the quiet. Alejo felt it, too—he stumbled back, clutching the railing along the basement stairs for balance. The ThermoGeist on the floor continued to smoke, rattling and popping with sparks. She smelled Tristan, like she always did at first. Gasoline and fresh cut grass and the quiet, indistinct scent of sunlight. There was one more thing he had to do before he was gone. He’d been waiting.

Sheriff Paris massaged the place where his jaw met his throat. His brow furrowed in quiet fury. “What is that?”

Ashley tasted electricity on her tongue. The room was charged with screaming grief. Tristan’s rage filled her up until she couldn’t breathe, until she couldn’t see through her own eyes, until she couldn’t remember her own name. She felt hands around her throat, wide-palmed and callused like leather. She saw Paris’s slate-blue eyes staring into hers, felt snow under the ridge of her spine, felt dizzy with the realization that she was going to die.

On the night he had died, Tristan was so alone.

This was the last thing he felt.

Fingers gently closed around Ashley’s wrist. Alejo leaned forward until his eyes were at her level, and his smile was bitter and warm at once. “Come back. These memories are his,” he said. “Don’t follow him.”

Ashley swallowed.

Even if Paris didn’t see what she saw, he felt what she felt. His eyes wildly searched the corners of the basement as though he might spot Tristan in the shadows; as if seeing him would stop him. Ashley wondered if he even understood it was Tristan. He backed against the basement wall, palms pressed to the concrete, but it was too late.