The grass shuffles, and Archyr grunts.
“Leave me alone.” My voice is hoarse from the river of tears that cascaded the moment everyone left. And they won’t stop. I don’t know if I’m crying because this is my final goodbye to Olivia or because this is all my fault.
“No,” he answers. “Not when there’s a killer looming over you for your cuff.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I—” He pauses. “Because you’re my only hope to find out what happened to Beau.”
“Of course.” Why else would he be here? I’m an idiot. He needs me because I’m a whisperer. I cannot forget that he stabbed me behind the Doors of Desire, and I know he wouldn’t have thrown the dagger unlesshe was suspicious I had something to do with Beau’s death. I have come to realize the doors showed him exactly what he wished to see: me, responsible for his brother’s death.
“What did she say to you?” he tries, after a long pause.
How does he know? No one knows when the dead speak. It’s often in the blink of an eye, in the window between breaths, in the silent moment when no one is watching. I turn around and stop breathing.
Archyr kneels behind me, his black hair flat and wet on his forehead, his eyes a mirror of the angry clouds above. It takes me a moment to register that he’s kneeling in a suit that looks like it could pay for a whole year of botany university. The whole thing is ruined now, soaked and painted with mud and grass. I glance up, and he’s looking at me with furrowed brows, as if he’s fighting against himself.
“How do you know Olivia spoke to me?” I ask, looking to the side.
“You froze,” he replies. “Then, your hands were shaking, and there was a slight stumble in your steps.” How did he notice that?
Why did he notice?
“I could’ve been cold from the rain.” I drag my gaze back to him.
He lowers his head, his eyes running all over my face. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you cold from the rain?”
Cold, no. I’m freezing, but I ignore the question. It’s easier to pretend his eyes don’t brim with concern than to deal with the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe Iamgetting sick.
“The wrong sister died at her hands. Victor Carver has the answers you seek.” I answer his question instead. Every time I speak the last words of the dead out loud, I think of Nan. She would be so disappointed in me, yet she would still hide it with a weary smile as she always did. I hope she forgives me.
Archyr considers my words with a frown.
“Olivia must hate me.” I let out a dry laugh. But I know my sister doesn’t hate me. I hate myself for being so selfish. I could’ve lived with the magic; I’m living with it now. If I could turn back time, I would’ve… wouldn’t have been such a coward.
As they lowered her body into the ground earlier, I doubled down on my promise to her. I will find her killer, and when I do, I will make sure they suffer a fate worse than Olivia’s.
Archyr sighs. “Olivia was giving you a clue. Whose hands?”
“I think she means Mara, the funeral director.” I meet his gaze. “Mara is a puppet. I don’t know if she always was, at least I don’t think so, but she nearly killed me. I suspect she may have killed Beau and Victor, too, because she brought their bodies to Dearly Departed.” I pause. “It was a horrible night, and I buried it deep until Olivia triggered the memory.” Even dead, Olivia still solves my riddles.
“I know,” he whispers. He knows because he saved my life. Again, that treacherous feeling warms my belly, and I shove it away. It wasn’thischoice to save me, I remind myself.
He clears his throat. “When did Olivia die?”
“Wednesday morning. The sheriff was at our door before sunrise.”
“Beau was killed around four in the morning, so around the same time.” He mulls over the timeline. “We were in Gorhail Woods, northwest of the Twin Lakes. Where… where did Olivia die?”
I inhale. The details of Olivia’s death choke me up. There’s still something so unnatural about it. Why would she have been on Little Lake Albion’s boardwalk? Gorhail is at least an hour walk from there. The answer is stuck in my throat, and when I try to speak, my tears threaten to spill.
“Don’t… I remember Paltro mentioned it was on the boardwalk.” Archyr shakes his head, and I press my lips together, nodding. “It takes an hour to walk from where we were to Little Lake Albion, cut in half if they were running,” he continues. “Still, I don’t think Mara could have killed both of them.”
“Maybe there’s a second puppet,” I offer. “Puppeteers can control multiples, can’t they?”