The Last Housewife (79)

This was it. Nicole would be the first woman I saved, and the others would follow.

Emotions flickered over her face: shock and distrust, yes, but also hope. “You know the Philosopher?”

“A long time ago.”

“What’s he like?”

“I won’t bullshit you. He’s charming. Brilliant, maybe. But he’s also a violent narcissist. Trust me, your dream about the Hilltop, and how wonderful it is? That’s a fantasy.”

The words hit like a slap. But she was practiced; she barely flinched. “You saving me is the fantasy.”

“Nic—” Over her shoulder, I saw him: Chief Dorsey, in a dark suit, walking with purpose across the grass, his eyes trained on the balcony. On us.

I leapt back, heart racing. Had he seen me?

Nicole whipped around to look; fear washed over her face. “He was supposed to be out of town with his wife.”

My knees turned to liquid. “Adam Dorsey is your Pater? The chief did this to you?”

She wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on Dorsey, cutting like a knife toward the house.

“He’s here to punish you, isn’t he? For coming against his orders?”

She tore her eyes from Dorsey, who’d made it to the large stone patio at the back of the house. We had two minutes, maybe less, before he burst onto the balcony. “I can’t tell when he’s playing anymore…” She shook her head. “I can’t let him shut me up in his house. I need to see people. I have to get to the Hilltop.”

“Nicole, you have to leave. We can run together. I have money.” A lie. “I can protect us.” Two lies, but I’d say anything.

She gripped my hands. Her voice was hushed. “Listen, I’m more scared of Rachel than Adam. She’s the one who’ll kill me if I leave.”

The ground opened beneath me. “Rachel?” The words weren’t coming out clearly. “Who… Where is she?”

Nicole’s eyes swept the master bedroom, fixing on the door where Dorsey would appear any moment. I could feel her legs bouncing, aching to move. “The Hilltop.”

“With Don?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know who that is.”

“The Philosopher,” I said, resisting the urge to shake her.

“No…the Philosopher’s name is Greek. I heard Adam say it once.”

Greek? That wasn’t right. The Philosopher had to be Don. If it wasn’t, nothing made sense. I shook my head. “You’re saying Rachel… She hurts the daughters?”

Nicole’s eyes swept behind me. “I have to go, Shay. He’s almost here.”

“Please,” I urged.

“I don’t know if she’s even real.” Nicole pulled her hands away. “I’ve never seen her. But they say she’s a sociopath. Started killing when she was only a kid in college. I can’t take the risk.”

“In college?” I barely recognized my own voice.

“They tell all the daughters the story.” Nicole’s eyes flicked between me and the bedroom. “The Paters say she hung a girl and made it look like suicide. She’ll do the same to us if we try to run.” Nicole caught my eyes. “The thing is, all the daughters who step out of line do go missing. I think she’s real and she hunts everyone who tries to leave.”

The truth surfaced like a corpse from the bottom of a lake: Clem had been murdered, as suspected—but not by Don. By Rachel. I remembered the tension that simmered between them: Clem, Rachel’s most vocal critic, the one who was least afraid to shut her down. In turn, Rachel had loved to see Clem punished most of all. She’d hung Clem in her favorite place, which meant she’d been paying attention to us, even when we thought she wasn’t.

“Just do what they want, okay?” Nicole was pulling away. “And everything will be fine. You can come with me to the Hilltop.”

I could hear Dorsey’s footsteps on the stairs. She would race to greet him; grovel, beg, throw herself on the pyre of his ego. I knew in my gut I shouldn’t let her go. I should grab her, hold her, wrest her away. She was Laurel and Clem and my mother all over again, walking straight into the razors, the fists, the fire.

But instead I stayed frozen with shock and fear, watching as Nicole disappeared into the dark. I listened to the crash of voices from the stairwell and knew what would happen. Today, tonight, tomorrow—I didn’t know when, only that it was coming.

All I’d wanted was to save one woman. But when it came time, I didn’t know how. Nicole was right: the idea had been a fantasy. A guilty mind clutching at redemption.

That’s what would go down in the history books. What the recording device in my bra would show everyone who listened: me, soundless and still as Nicole walked away, an empty void of rolling tape. In the glaring silence, they would know that when it counted, when she’d needed me, I’d once again failed to make a difference.





Part Three


Scheherazade, you upstart king

Imagine this. The night comes, the one you feared. The one you’ve been waiting for, death in exchange for an end to the mad weaving. He sees the woman you are, understands the fiction, and it is too much for his ego to bear. He takes up your father’s sword from the corner of the room, takes that thick, gleaming steel in his hands, and thrusts at your head.