The Last Thing She Ever Did(94)

“You should have been the one to die, you stupid, worthless girl.”

“It can’t be Charlie,” she said, her eyes now riveted on the knife.

“I found him where you and Owen dumped him,” he said. “You two left him to die. I saved him.”

“He was dead,” she said, fighting to breathe in enough air to stay alive. She felt as though she were going to fall. “It was an accident.”

The scalpel glinted.

“Not dead,” he said. “A concussion. A severe one.”

The sands shifted again. She was going to fall. She was going to let that man plunge that knife into her heart.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I thought he was dead. It was an accident. Why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”

He moved closer. Just a step.

“I found him,” he said. “He’s mine. You threw him away. His parents—if you want to call them that—care more about their cars than their own child. They never should have moved here. I wish to God that their ugly house would burn down.”

Liz needed to buy time. She could feel a surge of strength coming to her.

“I hate that house too,” she said, thinking that agreeing with him would calm him, stalling him for a minute or two.

But Dan Miller just laughed. “You covet that house,” he said. “I’ve seen the way you have cozied up to those people. You and your husband are nothing but goddamn climbers with no regard for anyone. Only things. That’s all you want: a pile of things.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt Charlie,” she said, her tone suddenly pleading. “It was an accident.”

“You were careless,” the old man said. “You weren’t watching where you were going. I didn’t see everything you did, but I can add two and two. At first I thought that you packed him up and took him to the hospital. You should have done that. A decent human being would have.”

“I was scared,” she said.

Dr. Miller gave her a very hard stare. “You were concerned about something other than that little boy.”

“I thought he was dead,” she said. “I thought I’d killed him. I was sure he was dead.”

“Soon you’ll be dead, Lizzie.” He thrust the scalpel at her, and she twisted her body just enough to avoid a slice to her heart. Instead, the blade cut into her shoulder. Red poured from the wound, and Liz let out a scream.

“You shouldn’t have moved,” he said. “I’m a doctor. I can make this painless and quick. You’re going to die, Lizzie. And Charlie and I are going to leave here.”

Liz felt a little woozy, but not so much that she couldn’t fight for her life. She threw herself at the old man, and the two of them crashed to the polished cement floor. The scalpel flew from Dr. Miller’s hand and skittered over by the door from which the crying had come.

The door opened a crack, and Charlie emerged. The sight of the boy took Liz’s breath away. He was wearing pajamas. His head was a mess of blond, a little longer than the most recent photos taken by his mom. Otherwise he looked just as he had the day he went missing. He was healthy. Clean.

And alive.

At the boy’s feet was the scalpel.

“You’re going to die,” Dr. Miller said, as he wrestled away from her and started to crawl after the scalpel.

Liz somehow found the strength to go after him. She jumped onto his back and grabbed his neck, but she was too weak to choke him. She could feel her strength ebb. Dr. Miller rolled her roughly off him and scanned for the scalpel.

She looked over at Charlie.





CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

MISSING: TWENTY-NINE DAYS

“Don’t let him get it, Charlie!”

The little boy, wide-eyed with fear, bent down and picked up the blade just before Dr. Miller’s fingertips brushed the stainless steel handle. Charlie took a step back and slumped against the front of the TV, his small body silhouetted against its bluish radiance. He held the blade before him in both hands and stared at them.

For Liz, it was do or die. She launched herself once again upon the old man’s back and drove him to the floor. She took the doctor’s head in her hands and slammed it forward against the concrete as hard as she could. She imagined that his skull was a hard-boiled egg and that she’d crack it against a hard countertop, shattering the shell. Dan Miller let out a scream and blood poured from his head, forming a dark, viscous pool and mixing with his thick white hair.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, pushing herself up and away from him.

He tried to raise himself, but succeeded only in rolling over. His eyes looked upward at her with a kind of fuzziness that suggested he couldn’t see.

“Remember what you did,” he said, and then his jaw fell open. His glassy eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.

What was happening? Was everything around her a dream? Or had the drugs Owen had been giving her caused her to hallucinate? She leaned over Dr. Miller, her shirt stained with his blood, and felt for a pulse. He was dead. She’d fought him to save her life, not kill him.

Charlie, who was suddenly next to her, said, “I want my mommy.”

Was this a dream?

“I want to go home,” he said.

Liz sat up straight and held him tightly. He was wearing pajamas. He looked fine. He smelled good. He was all right. She could feel a small lump on the back of his head, hidden under his halo of gold hair. Charlie was alive! This was real! And somehow God had given her a chance to make things right. The police would try to figure out how Charlie had ended up with Dr. Miller. Charlie probably couldn’t answer that, but he would tell them what he knew.