A flush crept up my neck, swallowed my ears, and turned my cheeks into bright-pink flares of fire. It crawled farther, up my nose, past my forehead. I felt each individual hair on my head reacting to the words, smeared but legible. My chest tightened. My breathing went shallow.
Here's my confession, should you ever find it: We must assume if you're reading this that I am dead and gone, and Oscar is to swing for my murder. That's the plan, at least. I can't live with a man who'd choose his lying bastard of a friend above his wife, even in the throes of our shared grief. I can't let him disbelieve me, ignore my concerns, and stay so cozy with someone who has done so much harm to our family.
Here's the challenge, then. If you find this letter before the courts see fit to condemn him, so be it. The world is right, and you're the remarkable genius everyone claims you to be. If not, then here's the truth: I will make sure that people are watching when we go to the overlook. I will see to it that we are witnessed when I cry and fling myself onto the rocks. I will leave him to his fate, as he left me to my sorrow. And here's a secret to accompany this confession: I never liked that gin. We only kept it in the house for you. No one else ever drinks it.
Goodbye, Bartholomew Sloan. I'll see you in hell.
The paper slipped from my hand. I didn't mean to release it. It was between my fingers, and my fingers opened and it fell into my lap. My eyes weren't focusing very well. Everything appeared in doubles. Triples.
I had to close them.
Somehow, I could still see it, the letter atop my legs. The handwriting I knew so well, I had seen on a movie screen, read in a confession, in a threat, in a letter stashed behind a mirror that I was too frightened to touch, in a house where everyone died eventually, and it was no one's fault but my own. The last thought that rattled through my head before the poison took its final hold was short, and simple, and the purest truth I've ever recognized.
I did this.
RONNIE
NOW
When me and Kate got out of the car, the trustee agent was already waiting for us on the front porch. He was jumpy and impatient, then visibly relieved to see us. I didn't know why. We weren't late.
"Veronica Mitchell?"
I gave him a little wave. "That's me."
"You brought a friend," he observed. "Good."
Kate said, "Uh...?" but he didn't elaborate. He only stood there, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. I had a feeling if I clapped my hands real loud, he'd panic and bolt, so I didn't do that. I just smiled like this was all perfectly normal. Buying a place like this, sight unseen, was surely a sane and reasonable thing for anyone to do.
I climbed the stairs to the house on the side of the ridge, and Kate tagged along a couple of steps behind me. The agent greeted us quickly and with brevity. A hasty handshake for me, a head-nod for my companion. "I'm Jeff Gaines, it's a pleasure, let's get this started." He unlocked the door, shoving it ajar.
"You got a hot date or something?" Kate asked him.
"What?"
I said, "You seem to be in a bit of a rush."
He shuddered in our general direction and declared, "It's nothing personal, but I've always hated this place." Then he took a deep breath and strolled stiffly inside without us, obviously expecting us to follow him. We held back.
Kate looked at me. I looked at Kate.
She said, "Rude."
I shrugged. "I told you, the house has a history."
From inside the house, Jeff called anxiously, "Are you coming?"
"Right behind you," I called back.
"Chickenshit," Kate muttered. "Him, not you. You're the maniac who bought the place, much as it blows my mind, considering." She slipped past me and disappeared into the foyer.
"What happened to the woman who couldn't live with a crack in the driveway? A blown-out light bulb? A crooked cabinet door?"
I almost said, "She died in the fire," but that wasn't true. It would've only upset her.
I hesitated on the porch.
