Tana French - The Likeness

“Stop it!” Justin shouted. His eyes were squeezed tight and his hands were pressed over his ears; his face looked like he was in agony. “God, stop it, stop-”

Daniel said, “That’s enough.” His voice was starting to rise.

“It’s not! ” I yelled, loud enough to cut straight across everyone. I’d been so quiet the last while, letting them run with it and waiting for my moment, that all of them shut up and whipped round to look at me, blinking, as if they’d almost forgotten I was there. “It’s not enough. I don’t want to leave it.”

“Why not?” Daniel inquired. He had his voice back under control; that perfect, immovable calm had slammed down across his face the instant I opened my mouth. “I would have thought you of all people, Lexie, would want to get back to normal as quickly as possible. It’s not like you to obsess over the past.”

“I want to know who stabbed me. I need to know.”

Those cool, curious gray eyes, examining me with detached interest. “Why?” he repeated. “It’s over, after all. We’re all still here. There’s been no permanent harm done. Has there?”

Your arsenal, Frank had said. The lethal last-resort grenade Lexie had left me, passed from her hand to Cooper’s to mine; the jewel-colored flash in the dark, bright and then gone; the tiny switch that had set all this in motion. My throat closed up tight till it ached even to breathe, and I shouted through it, “I was pregnant!”

They all stared at me. It was so quiet all of a sudden, and their faces were so absolutely still and blank, I thought they hadn’t understood. “I was going to have a baby,” I said. I felt light-headed; maybe I was swaying on my feet, I don’t know. I didn’t remember standing up. The sun streaming across the room turned the air a strange, holy, impossible gold. “It died.”

Silence, still.

“That’s not true,” Daniel said, but he wasn’t even looking to see how the others had taken it. His eyes were fixed on me.

“It is,” I said. “Daniel, it is.”

“No,” said Justin. His breath was coming as if he had been running. “Oh, Lexie, no. Please.”

“It’s true,” Abby said. She sounded terribly tired. “I knew, before any of this even happened.”

Daniel’s head tipped back, just a fraction. His lips parted and he let out a long breath, soft and immensely sad.

Rafe said softly, almost gently, “You bastard fuck.” He was standing up, in slow motion, with his hands curled in front of him as if they were frozen there.

For a second, taking in what that meant-my money had been on Daniel, no matter what he claimed to Abby-used up all my mind. It was only when Rafe said again, louder, “You fuck,” that I realized he wasn’t talking to Daniel. Daniel, still framed in the doorway, was behind Justin’s chair. Rafe was talking to Justin.

“Rafe,” Daniel said, very sharply. “Shut up. Now. Sit down and pull yourself together.”

It was the worst possible thing he could have done. Rafe’s fists snapped closed; he was bone white and his top lip was pulled back in a snarl, and his eyes were gold and mindless as a lynx’s. “Don’t you ever,” he said, low. “Don’t you ever tell me what to do again. Look at us. Look at what you’ve done. Are you pleased with yourself? Are you happy now? If it hadn’t been for you-”

“Rafe,” Abby said. “Listen to me. I know you’re upset-”

“My-Oh, God. That was my child. Dead. Because of him.”

“I told you to be quiet,” Daniel said, and there was something dangerous growing in his voice.

Abby’s eyes flicked to me, intent and urgent. I was the only one Rafe would listen to. If I had gone to him then, put my arms around him, made this into his and Lexie’s private grief instead of a public war, I could have ended it there. He would have had no choice. For a second I could feel it, strong as reality: his shoulders slackening against me, his hands coming up to circle me tight, his shirt warm and clean-smelling against my face.

I didn’t move. “You,” Rafe said, to Daniel or to Justin, I couldn’t tell which. “You.”

In my memory it happened so neatly, clean distinct steps, as if it had been choreographed to perfection. Maybe that’s just because I had to tell the story so many times, to Frank, Sam, O’Kelly, over and over to the Internal Affairs investigators; maybe it wasn’t like that at all. But the way I remember it, this is what happened.

Rafe went for Justin or Daniel or both, a straight headlong charge like a fighting stag’s. His leg hit the table and it toppled, high arcs of liquid glittering through the air, bottles and glasses rolling everywhere. Rafe caught himself with a hand on the floor and kept going. I got in front of him and grabbed his wrist, but he threw me off with one huge fling of his arm. My feet slid on spilled vodka and I went down hard. Justin was up and out of his chair, hands outstretched to keep Rafe off, but Rafe slammed into him full force and they both crashed back onto the chair, skidding backwards, Justin letting out a terrified moan, Rafe on top and scrabbling for traction. Abby got one hand twisted in his hair and the other in his shirt collar and tried to haul him off; Rafe shouted and heaved her away. He had his fist pulled back to punch Justin in the face, I was coming up off the floor and somehow Abby had a bottle in her hand.

Then I was on my feet and Rafe had leapt backwards off Justin and Abby was pressed against the wall, as if we had been blown apart by a bomb blast. The house was frozen, stunned into silence; the only sound was all of us breathing, hard fast gasps.

“There,” Daniel said. “That’s better.”

He had moved forwards, into the sitting room. There was a dark gash in the ceiling above him; a trickle of plaster fell onto the floorboards, with a light pattering sound. He was holding the World War I Webley in both hands, easily, like someone who knew how to use it. He had it trained on me.

“Drop that now,” I said. My voice came out loud enough that Justin let out a wild little whimper.

Daniel’s eyes met mine and he shrugged, one eyebrow going up ruefully. He looked lighter and looser than I had ever seen him; he almost looked relieved. We both knew: that bang had flown down the mike straight to Frank and Sam, inside five minutes the house would be surrounded by cops with guns that made Uncle Simon’s banjaxed revolver look like a kid’s toy. There was nothing left to hold onto. Daniel’s hair was falling in his eyes and I swear he was smiling.

“Lexie?” said Justin, a high incredulous breath. I followed his eyes, down to my side. My sweater was rucked up, showing the bandage and the girdle, and I had my gun in my hands. I didn’t remember pulling it out.

“What the hell?” said Rafe, panting and wild-eyed. “Lexie, what the hell?”

Abby said, “Daniel.”

“Shh,” he said gently. “It’s all right, Abby.”

“Where the hell did you get that? Lexie!”

“Daniel, listen.”

Sirens, somewhere far off in the lanes; more than one.

“The cops,” Abby said. “Daniel, the cops followed you.”

Daniel pushed his hair out of his face with the back of a wrist. “I doubt it’s that simple,” he said. “But yes, they’re on their way. We don’t have long.”

“You need to put that away,” Abby said. “Right now. You too, Lexie. If they see those-”

“Again,” Daniel said, “it’s not that simple.”

He was right behind Justin’s chair, the high-backed armchair. It and Justin-petrified, staring, hands clamped on the armrests-shielded him to chest height. Above them was the barrel of the gun, small and dark and wicked, pointed straight at me. The only clear shot I had was a head shot.

“She’s right, Daniel,” I said. I couldn’t even try to take cover behind a chair, not with all these civilians in the room. As long as he had the gun on me, it wasn’t on them. “Put it away. How do you think this is going to end best? If the police find us all sitting here peacefully waiting for them, or if they have to bring in a full SWAT team?”