The Winter Sister(36)

“That’s what you told her the first time you gave her a white rose. Persephone said you chose that color because it was as pure as the way you loved each other. I know this, because she told me things.”

I wanted that last sentence to make him nervous, make him wonder how much else I knew about their relationship, but he surprised me by chuckling, lifting a hand to cover his face. “Oh God,” he said. “Did I really say that? Okay, that’s embarrassing, but, uh, no. That’s not why I keep getting white roses. I just remember she liked them.”

“Well, you need to stop,” I snapped. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Do you think that when we visit her grave, we want to see any evidence that you’ve been there? You got what you wanted—you’re free, the police have nothing against you—so just leave us alone, okay? And for God’s sake—leave Persephone alone, too.”

I started to spin around, but Ben’s fingers latched onto my wrist, tugging me back toward him. “You think I killed her?” he whispered. His dark eyes were shining like the ocean at night.

I looked down at my wrist, how his fingers dug into my skin, and as I did, he looked, too, then immediately let go. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. But, seriously, you think I’m the one who killed her?”

I couldn’t read his expression. It seemed to flicker between bewilderment and anger, caution and aggression. His nostrils flared as he breathed, but whether it was out of nervousness or fury, I couldn’t tell.

“Of course I know you killed her,” I whispered back, rubbing at my wrist. It was red where he’d grabbed it, but it didn’t look like it would bruise. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

For some reason, I wasn’t afraid of him right then. Even though he’d grabbed my arm, I felt something like empowerment. For the first time, I was able to speak the truth to his face, to tell him how disgusting and cowardly I knew him to be, and it felt good—exhilarating, even. It felt like I was finally protecting Persephone the way I should have done all along.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “In fact . . .” He tucked his folder under his chin and patted at the pockets of his scrubs. “Shit, I think I left it in my locker. Um, do you think we could go somewhere for a few minutes?”

He looked toward the reception desk, where a couple nurses stood together, one staring at us with interest, the other stern, resting her fist on her cocked hip.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I said.

“No, it’s just—that’s my supervisor over there.” He gestured toward the women. “I can take my break a little early, and we could go down to the cafeteria—it’s public, so we wouldn’t be alone or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I have something I want to show you. I found it a few weeks ago, and I brought it today, on the off chance I got to talk to you again. I was wondering if you could help me understand it.”

“Ben,” I said sharply. “I don’t want to help you do anything.”

“No, I know, I get it,” he said. “But what I’m trying to say is that I realized something—or, at least, I think I did—and I think it will help you understand what happened that night.” His eyes flicked toward the nurses again. “Please?”

I didn’t want to admit it, but part of me was curious to know what he was talking about. He had a fumbling desperation that made me think it might be useful to let him keep rambling. He wanted to show me something—after my meeting with Parker, the word evidence flashed in large letters in my mind—and maybe, while trying to convince me of his innocence, he would slip up, mention a detail that only Persephone’s killer would know.

“Fine,” I said after a moment.

“Really?” His face instantly relaxed. “Oh man, thank you. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria in a few minutes. It’s on the third floor.”

He was walking backward as he said this, his eyes fixed on mine, but just before he turned around, I could have sworn I saw him smile.





12




I chose a table by the window. The cafeteria wasn’t very full—only a few families and a couple doctors—but I still felt more comfortable knowing that, if anything happened, there would be witnesses.

Ben waved as he walked in and slid into the seat across from me.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

I stared at him, suddenly unwilling to speak unless I absolutely had to.

“Well, okay, so . . .” He pulled a photograph out of his pocket and pushed it toward me across the table. “Do you know anything about this?”

I recognized Will Emory right away, even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old in the picture. He was tall like Ben, with the same dark eyes, and he was standing in front of a red sports car. Clinging to his arm, staring up at him with a smiling, lovestruck expression on her face was—I shot forward, bending over the picture.

“What the hell is this?” I asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“That’s my mother,” I said, pointing to the woman. I was almost breathless looking at her—the long blonde hair she used to braid into place, the smile that used to greet me when I came home from school.