James Patterson - Murder House

Justin doesn’t say anything. I keep my eyes on Noah, who returns an intense stare.

“If I’m guessing,” I continue, “Aiden came here that day out of revenge, after Holden the Sixth killed his mother. He got his revenge. He killed Holden with that knife. And somehow you got hold of the knife, the murder weapon, and you held it over his head all these years. You threatened him, blackmailed him, whatever. Aiden would be easy to intimidate. He’s practically a kid even now.”

“Jenna—”

“And then you grew up. The boy who tried to kill me that day became the man who’s killed eight people. Then, when I started getting close, when it became convenient to pin all these murders on Aiden, you tipped off Officer Ricketts about the whereabouts of the knife. How’m I doing so far?”

“You’re doing quite well, Detective. Quite well.” Justin moves a few steps closer. “Now lower the gun and drop it, Jenna. Slowly, or I’ll get nervous.”

Noah remains motionless, save for the drop of his jaw, as I do what Justin says. I lower the Glock to my side and let it fall from my hand.

“You must have just figured this out,” he says. “Or you wouldn’t have tossed me the gun.”

“You mentioned Aiden,” I say. “He wouldn’t hurt me. I know that now. And you just confirmed it.”

“I guess I did. Quite true about Aiden. He’s your hero, after all, the young lad who rescued the damsel in distress all those many years ago. Too bad you realized it after you tossed me this gun. Life’s a game of inches, isn’t it? If it had come to you just a few seconds earlier, I wouldn’t be holding this gun. That’s gotta sting.”

Justin moves behind me, keeping both Noah and me in his sight and positioning himself beyond our reach. The right move, strategically. He didn’t get this far, for this long, without being smart.

“For what it’s worth,” Justin says, “I’d hoped that tonight would end differently.”

“You wanted me to kill Aiden when I came here looking for him. You knew this was where I’d come to look for him. You wanted me to kill him, to keep you clean. But you followed behind me, with your other gun, just in case it didn’t work out that way.”

“But I sure didn’t expect Noah,” he says. “The best-laid plans and all.”

Noah’s jaw clenches. I look at his left front pocket — was Justin right? Does Noah have Justin’s other gun, the .38 special?

“By the way, Noah,” Justin says. “In the future, if you think you’ve knocked someone unconscious, be sure they’re not faking. Stick ’em with a pin or something. And if you’re going to tie someone up with a rope, don’t just bind their hands behind their back. Bind their feet, too, and then bind the feet and hands together. It makes it a lot harder to get out.”

Footsteps behind me as Justin presses the revolver into the base of my skull.

“Not that it matters now,” he says, “but for the record, Jenna, I didn’t want anything to happen to you. You may find this hard to believe, but I really did want us to be together.”

I let out a bitter laugh.

“I did. Think of how good we’d have been together. Think of our children! Holden’s grandchildren.”

I stifle the urge to vomit, the bile at my throat. “You’re sick,” I say.

“Everyone’s sick, ” he spits, pushing the muzzle of his gun into the base of my skull, forcing my head forward. “Everyone has it inside them. Some of us are a little more liberal about releasing it, that’s all.”

Noah is trembling, his eyes smoldering with pure hatred. “You killed Melanie,” he growls. “Right here in this room.”

“But that’s not even the best part,” says Justin. “The best part is you took the fall for it! Just like old times, with the school yard shooting. You’ve always been a reliable fall guy, Noah. I’ve never properly thanked you for that. How have those hands healed up, by the way, from your fun at Sing Sing?”

A furious, tortured smile plays on Noah’s face. “You’re gonna find out,” he says, “when I put them on your throat.”

“No, I think your hands are going on top of your head. And you’re going to move back toward the balcony. I know you have my thirty-eight special on you. If you make me nervous, this gun goes off. You’ll be wearing Jenna’s face on your shirt.”

Noah blinks, snaps out of his fury, looks at me, the gun shoved against my skull.

He backpedals from us, puts his hands on his head.

“You’ll never get away with this,” I say.

“Sure I will. Sure I will. The happy-go-lucky millionaire philanthropist who serves low-cost food to the middle class? Everyone loves me. Oh, and Jenna?” he says.

“Yes, Justin,” I say evenly.

He says it in a whisper. “After I kill you and Noah, I’m going to find your aunt Chloe and kill her, too. She’s going to love our little fun room downstairs. I’m thinking shish kebab .”

And then I feel the vibration against the back of my skull as Justin pulls the trigger.

Click .

Justin pulls the trigger again.

Another hollow click .

I dive for the Glock I just dropped, sliding to the floor, then spinning back, faster than Justin can say Damn, this revolver must not be loaded.

Thank you, Aiden, for emptying the bullets.

Justin looks at the gun, then me. A bitter smile on his face, then he shakes his head and throws the gun to the floor.

“No one will believe it,” he says. “Like Noah said, Chief Marks already has arrest warrants out with your name on it. So the only way you’ll get that justice you so richly seek is to shoot me.”

I get to my feet, the gun steady now, aimed at Justin’s chest.

He raises his arms in surrender. “How about it, Detective? Are you gonna shoot an unarmed man? Please, please,” he says in a mocking plea, dropping to his knees, “don’t shoot me, Ms. Murphy! Don’t shoot me!”

Sirens, in the distance, but not that distant. A 911 call, no doubt, after the gunshots I fired. Once Isaac heard that the shots came from the house on 7 Ocean Drive, he’d send the whole force.

I lower the gun slightly — not so low as to give Justin any ideas, but not pointing it directly at him.

“You’re not gonna do it,” says Justin, as if disappointed. “You’re really not.” His chest rises and falls, his face locked in a grimace.

It hits me then — he wants to die. He doesn’t want to spend his life in prison. Not one member of the Dahlquist clan ever spent a day in prison. He doesn’t want to break the streak.

“My favorite was your uncle,” he says. “Heating up that poker in the fireplace and driving it through his kidney.”

I shake my head. I’m not going to let him bait me.

“Do you wanna know what he said before I did it?”

The sirens getting closer. Multiple squad cars approaching.

“He said, ‘Help me, Jenna.’ He was begging.”

I close the distance between us, the gun aimed at his head.

“He was in so much pain,” Justin says.

I rear back, then drive my foot into his ribs, kicking him as hard as I can.

He doubles over on the floor.

“Pain like that?” I say.

He lets out a noise — pain, yes, but also amusement. “That’s the spirit,” he manages. “I knew you had it in you.”

“You’re gonna rot in prison, Justin,” I say. “You don’t get to go out in a blaze of glory, some dramatic suicide, like all your ancestors.”

Justin focuses on me with a hint of amusement. He gets himself to his hands and knees. “ My ancestors?” he says.

“Shut up, Justin,” Noah says, suddenly stepping forward.