The Retribution of Mara Dyer (Mara Dyer, #3)(83)

I didn’t want to die, but maybe I should. Maybe the world would be a better place if I did.

“No,” Noah said, in response to the question I hadn’t asked out loud. I wondered for a moment if he could somehow hear my thoughts, but then I realized that he didn’t have to; he could read my face.

“I can’t let Daniel go,” I said, fighting vainly to stay calm. “I can’t let what happened to me happen to Joseph. They’ve done nothing, nothing wrong. I’ve done everything wrong.”

“Not everything.”

“You haven’t been here.” I could tell that my words stung him. “You haven’t seen—” I tipped my head in the direction of the pictures of Dr. Kells and Wayne and Mr. Ernst. “Your father isn’t lying. I did those things. All of them.”

“I’m sure they deserved it,” Noah said, a tiny smile lifting the corner of his mouth. I couldn’t smile back.

David Shaw was sick and awful, but he was right about me too. Nothing good would ever come from me. Nothing ever did. But Daniel, Joseph—they were different. They would do good. They were good. And I could save them.

All I had to give was my life. My life for my brother’s. It would be worth it. It could never not be worth it.

Leaving Miami with Jamie and Stella had felt like good-bye. It felt like good-bye because it was good-bye. Something in me had always known it.

I pulled myself up onto my elbows—my feet still felt numb—and reached for Noah’s hand, the one with the gun in it. It had jammed once, for Noah, but I knew it wouldn’t for me.

A shiver rolled through him when my skin met his. He looked like he might be sick.

“Please,” I whispered. “Please.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“Yes, I do. Come closer.”

He held the gun limply, so I lifted the barrel of it for him and pressed it against my forehead. We were beaten, and I was decided.

“Do it,” I said softly.

He was tortured, and I hated to be the one to torture him. I hated that it had to be him, that he had to watch me die and live with the guilt for the rest of his life. I hated that just as my hope of finding him had been rewarded, I was being forced to throw it into the fire, and myself along with it. I hated leaving my family. I hated leaving him.

“Mara,” he whispered. His finger was on the trigger. He was shaking.

“I’m begging you. I don’t want to be this person.” It wasn’t true, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what Noah needed to hear. “This is my choice. Help me.”

His eyebrows drew together, and for a fraction of a second, I thought he would do it.

“I can’t.” His arm went slack, his face twisted with disgust. Then immediately he raised his arm again, but not at me. He shot a mannequin instead.

No more bullets. I looked at David; there was no surprise in his expression, no shock. He’d been expecting it.

“We’re going to figure this out,” Noah went on, his voice firm, strong, determined. “I’ll call the police. We’ll find Daniel. I’ll heal him. You’ll get better—”

“Stop it!” My words battered the walls of the factory. They seemed to echo forever. “This is not something you can fix.” And I couldn’t risk letting him try.

“You always think the worst of yourself,” he said with bitterness.

“And you always think the best.” It was true, which made me smile. “You can’t see me objectively because you love me. But I’ve done things. How am I any different from him?” I flicked my eyes to Jude, who lowered his to the floor. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said he looked guilty.

Jude was sicker than me and crazier than me and crueler than me, but he’d loved his sister, his only family. Deborah and David had used that love to control him. I didn’t forgive him for the things he’d done—I would never do that. But I understood them.

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It only matters why,” Noah said. “He uses his ability to hurt people. You use yours to protect people.”

Not always, I thought, and said so. “The villain is the hero of her own story. No one thinks they’re a bad person. Everyone has reasons for doing what they do. Jude and I are not as different as you think.”

Those words did something to him, lit a spark in him. He looked alive, really alive, for the first time since he’d been back. His hands cupped my face as he said, “Never say that again. You’ve been lied to. Manipulated. Tortured. It’s not your fault.”

I shuddered, from his words or the contact, I didn’t know.

“It’s not your fault, Mara. Say it.”

“Noah,” David said. There was a note of urgency in his voice and I began to panic.

“There’s no time, Noah.”

“Say it and I’ll—I’ll give you the shot.”

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard what I thought I’d heard.

“I can’t with the—the knife. I’ll see it forever,” Noah said. His voice sounded different. Like something had broken inside of him. I wanted to smooth the crease between his brows, take his face in my hands, kiss him, make it better. But I was the one hurting him.