The Only One Left by Riley Sager

FORTY-TWO

Tears fill my eyes, making it hard to see as I drive back to Hope’s End. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, as if that will make up for my blurry vision. I briefly consider not trying to see at all. That way maybe I’ll veer off the road and go sailing over the cliff into the ocean, thereby having to avoid confronting my father. A tempting prospect, considering everything I now know.

But that would make me just like Virginia.

Attempting to kill myself over something my father has done.

She survived.

I intend to do the same.

I have no plan for what to do when I reach Hope’s End. I’m not even certain that’s where my father went, although in all likelihood it is. On the phone, I gave away that Virginia was alive, accidentally leading him right to her.

I wipe my eyes, grip the steering wheel tighter, and press down harder on the gas pedal, taking my rattling Escort ever higher into the Cliffs. As I drive, I continue to keep an eye out for Carter, just in case he decided to make the long trek back to Hope’s End on foot. Once the initial shock of realizing my father had killed Mary passed, I ran to the front door, hoping to still find him there. But Carter was gone. The fact that I was wrong about him, going so far as to force him out of the car, is one of my more regrettable actions tonight.

Another thing I regret is speed-reading the typed pages I found in Mary’s suitcase. So much more than what Virginia and I had managed to type. This was indeed the full story. One that I couldn’t stop reading even as it made me dizzy with grief.

Now I understand why Virginia had been so reluctant to reveal all of it. She didn’t want to be the one to tell me who my father was.

And what he’d done.

Getting Virginia pregnant. Accepting a payment to go away forever from Winston Hope. Stabbing Evangeline Hope out of a combination of anger and pity. Killing Mary because she knew all of this.

That’s the hardest part to contend with—the fact that he’s still capable of murder. I can’t stop picturing him in the shadow of the mansion, waiting, striking the moment he saw Mary creeping across the terrace. I know she’d been on her way to see Carter, because of the vial of Virginia’s blood I also found in the suitcase.

My father grabbed it, gave Mary a shove, and watched as she flipped over the railing and fell into the abyss beyond it.

I fear Virginia will be his next victim.

Especially after I reach Hope’s End and see my father’s pickup truck parked next to the still-open gate. Why he would choose to make the remainder of the journey on foot isn’t lost on me. All the better to sneak up to the house undetected, which is likely what he did the night he killed Mary.

I, having no reason to arrive quietly, keep driving.

Past the gate.

Down the drive.

To the front door of Hope’s End, where Archie stands caught in the car’s headlights like an actor on a stage. Relief floods his features when he sees me climb out of the car.

“Someone’s here,” he says in an urgent whisper. “I saw him walking up the driveway.”

“Do you know where he is now?”

Archie shakes his head.

“Well, I know where he’s going,” I say.

“Who is it?”

“Ricky.” I pause, wary of giving him the same information overload I’ve experienced multiple times tonight. “Who’s also my father.”

Before Archie can react, I press my car keys into his hand.

“Drive into town. Go to the police and ask for Detective Vick. He’ll know what to do.”

“But what about you?”

I start walking up the steps to the front door. “I’ll be fine.”

I’m not afraid my father will do me harm. I don’t think he’d go to such an extreme. Besides, other than killing me, he can’t hurt me more than he already has. It’s Virginia I’m worried about. She’s utterly helpless—and the only loose end he needs to tie up.

My plan, formed on the spot, is to make sure Virginia’s safe and then distract my father from hurting her long enough for Detective Vick to show up. As Archie drives away in my car, I push inside Hope’s End, where Virginia’s past and my present are about to collide.

Standing in the foyer, I search for signs of my father. He could be anywhere, including still outside. Nevertheless, I can feel his presence. A shadow version of himself, repeating his actions from fifty-four years ago.

Standing right where I’m standing.

Simmering with humiliation and shame and rage.

Plunging the knife into Evangeline Hope.

It’s so vivid I can almost hear it, as if the horrible sound has been echoing through the foyer since 1929.

What I don’t hear are any noises from the present day. No footsteps or floor creaks. That might be a good thing.

It could also mean I’m too late.

That thought propels me down the hall to the kitchen and the service stairs. I can’t bear the thought of taking the Grand Stairs, with their bloodstains that my father caused. Not that the service stairs are any better. They groan under my feet as I ascend, sounding like they could collapse at any moment. A distinct possibility. At the top of the stairs, I instantly feel the extreme pitch of the house. In the short time I’ve been away, it’s only gotten worse.

I creep down the hallway, leaning into the tilt. As I go, I reach into my pocket and pull out the corkscrew. An act that boggles my mind. This is my father. The man who raised me. I can’t imagine needing to protect myself from him. Yet, under the circumstances, it feels necessary.

Rather than head into Virginia’s room, I duck into mine, startled by how different it feels. The floor is noticeably more slanted, forcing me to think twice before each step. On my way to the adjoining door, I notice the mattress bunched at the foot of the bed. A couple of books have fallen from the shelf and the mirror hanging on the wall appears tilted when in reality it’s the rest of the room that’s askew.

The door to Virginia’s room is shut. Whether it’s the work of my father or the ever-shifting house remains to be seen. Gripping the corkscrew tight, I crack open the door and peek inside.

The room is dim, lit only by moonlight coming through windows leaning precariously closer to the sea. In that muted light, I see Virginia in her bed, awake and alert.

I rush to her side and whisper, “My father’s on his way.”

She knows I’m talking about Ricky.

She’s known since our first meeting, when she barely registered my presence until I told her my full name. That’s when she finally snapped to attention.

“I’m going to get you out of here.”

I set the corkscrew on Virginia’s nightstand and fetch her wheelchair from the corner. While it would be quicker to lift her out of bed and carry her down the stairs, I know my limitations. Wheeling her down the Grand Stairs the same way I did during our ill-fated trip outside is the only option.

Lifting her by the underarms, I manage to get her out of bed and halfway to the wheelchair before I hear a noise in the hallway. Virginia hears it, too, and flashes a startled, stricken look. We both recognize the sound.

Footsteps.

Coming up the service stairs.

Slowly.

Uncertainly.

The moment I hear them, I know they belong to my father.

For a second, I’m frozen. I don’t know what to do. Even if I get Virginia into the wheelchair before my father enters the room, he’ll surely spot us as I try to wheel her out. But staying where we are is also a bad idea. Holding Virginia upright, I can’t do anything to protect her or me. Her life is literally in my hands.

Virginia nods toward the far corner of the room, in a pitch-black space between the wall and the divan. Although barely enough space for Virginia to fit, it might be enough to hide her if my father merely peeks into the room and moves on. Also, with his footsteps getting louder on the creaking service stairs, it’s our only option.

I drag Virginia to the space by the wall and drop her into it. Then I sprint for my own hiding place—my bedroom. There I huddle in a shadow-filled corner, hoping it, too, is enough to keep me hidden. Through the open doorway, I can see Virginia on the floor next to the divan. Also in shadow, but not very hidden. Not very hidden at all.

I hear a noise from the hall, just beyond my bedroom door.

My father, passing on his way to Virginia’s room.

Of course he knows where it’s located.

He’s been here before.

When he eventually does enter her room, I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from crying out. All this time I’d secretly hoped I was wrong, that it wasn’t him, that despite Mary’s suitcase and those typed pages, it couldn’t possibly be true.

But his presence erases all doubt.

My father finds Virginia immediately. It’s not hard. Her legs, incapable of moving on their own, jut from the dark corner into which she’d been dropped.

“Hey, Ginny,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”

His voice is calm, warm, flirting with amusement. The voice of a man seeing a long-lost love. Under different circumstances, it could almost be considered romantic. Right now, though, it’s chilling.

“Let’s get you off the floor,” he says.

My father bends down, lifts Virginia into his arms, and carries her to the bed. He did the same thing for my mother in her waning days, gently moving her from the living room sofa to their bedroom. Watching him do it now with Virginia cracks my heart wide open. Making it worse is the knowledge that such tenderness comes from a man also capable of horrible deeds.

“You still know how to surprise a fella, Ginny,” he says as he places her on the bed. “I’ll give you that.”

My father eases himself onto the edge of the bed and, to my surprise, takes Virginia’s hand in his.

Her right.

I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me he knows I’m here and that I should emerge from the dark. Instead, he talks only to Virginia.

“All those years I thought you were dead. Hung with a rope. Isn’t that how it goes? Now, unlike everyone else, I knew Lenora didn’t do it. I knew you’d done it to yourself. Either way, you were dead all the same. That’s why I never left town. I never felt the need to hide. I certainly didn’t think I had to worry about you telling anyone what really happened. So I stayed. Started my own business. Met a wonderful woman. Had a daughter.”

My blood runs cold as he says it.

He knows I’m here.

Now he’s reminding me whose side I’m supposed to be on.

“I felt bad about what happened,” he tells Virginia. “For what it’s worth, I did love you. At least, I thought I did. And I intended to do right by you. But we were so young, and I was so scared. When your father told me the baby was gone and offered me that money, all I felt was relief. At last, there was a way out of the situation, even though I knew it would hurt you. And I do think about him sometimes. Our son. I think about him and hope he’s happy. I don’t think that would have happened if we’d stayed together. It wouldn’t have lasted, Ginny. We were too different.”

My father gives Virginia’s hand a gentle squeeze, as if to drive the point home.

“As for your mother, I didn’t mean to hurt her, Ginny. I swear. But something in me just snapped and I couldn’t control it. I’ve thought about that night a lot. Not a day goes by when I don’t regret what I did. But I learned to live with it. And I knew that, as big of a mistake as it was, I wouldn’t be punished for it. Then that nurse of yours came to the house asking if I’d agree to a blood test.”

Somehow I manage to keep from gasping. It sits, bubble-like, at the back of my throat. I swallow it down as the realization that prompted it settles over me.

Mary had been to our house.

That’s where she went that Sunday night. Not to the lab, but to see my father.

While I was there.

She was the woman I’d heard talking to my father. Not a girlfriend he didn’t want to tell me about. But Mary, bearing an even bigger secret. When I heard him sneak out the next night, he was actually on his way here.

“She told me she knew that I’d worked at Hope’s End when I was sixteen,” my father continues. “She knew I’d had a relationship with Virginia Hope and that I was the father of her child, who was taken away but might have had a kid of his own who now wanted to know who his real grandparents were. That’s when I realized you were still alive. The only person she could have learned all that from is you. God, you should have seen her. So smug. Acted like she was so smart. Yet she didn’t know half of it.”

“But I know all of it.”

Unlike the gasp, I can’t keep myself from saying it. I know too much to stay hidden and have heard too much to remain silent. Stepping from my room into Virginia’s, I see my father’s hands move to her neck and give a little squeeze.

“Stop right there, Kit-Kat,” he says. “I’m not going to hurt you. And I think you know that. But I will hurt her if you come any closer.”

The sight of his hands—so large and so strong—around Virginia’s throat stops me cold. But I don’t show fear. You can sense fear. He taught me that.

“No one else needs to get hurt, Dad,” I say. “You can end this.”

My father turns to me, revealing the same look I saw the morning that article about me appeared in the newspaper. Hurt and betrayal and shame. “I’m not sure I can, Kit-Kat. I’m in too deep now.”

“Why did you kill Mary? If she didn’t know everything, why kill her?”

“Because she knew enough. Not the part about the murders. If she did, she didn’t mention it.” My father turns back to Virginia. “You finished the rest of the story when she came back after asking me to take a blood test. I know because I read about it later. All those pages you typed? I read them all. You really are a good writer, Ginny. You had promise. But you shouldn’t have told her everything. You shouldn’t have told her my goddamn name. But even before that, I knew she was a liability. So I said I’d do her stupid little blood test. But not at the house. Not with my daughter around. I told her I’d come here, to Hope’s End, late the next night and that she should leave the gate open. Then I waited in the same spot I first met you, Ginny. When I saw Mary hurrying across the terrace with that suitcase, I did what I had to do.”

“And now?” I say. “What do you plan to do now?”

“I don’t know,” my father says, even as his hands tighten around Virginia’s neck. “I honestly don’t.”

“Then stop, Dad. Please.”

“I can’t.” My father begins to squeeze her throat. “I can’t risk her telling anyone else.”

“She won’t,” I say. “She can’t.”

My father ignores me.

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” he whispers as Virginia’s eyes bulge and wet, choking sounds push out of her throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“Dad, stop!”

I throw myself at him, trying to get him to stop. Even at age seventy, he’s strong enough to shove me away with one arm. I stagger backward into Virginia’s wheelchair, both of us toppling. Sprawled on the floor, I see my father return both hands to Virginia’s neck.

Tightening.

Squeezing.

Then I notice Virginia’s hands.

The right one sits on the bed, immobile.

The left one holds the corkscrew, which she grabbed from the nightstand.

With as much strength as she can muster, Virginia swings it toward my father, the corkscrew slicing the air before jabbing directly into the side of his stomach.

My father yelps in pain as his hands drop from Virginia’s throat. He looks down at his side, where the corkscrew juts from his torso. A dark spot surrounds it as blood seeps into his shirt.

Before he can grab it, I’m on my feet, reaching out, snagging the handle. I pull and the corkscrew slides out of his flesh with a squelch of blood. Brandishing it like a switchblade, I say, “Don’t touch her again.”

My father presses a hand to the wound. He’s hurt, but not badly. He even lets out a rueful chuckle. “I guess I deserve this.”

“Yeah,” I say, shocked by how a single syllable can contain six months of bitterness and disappointment.

“If I’d been a better father, you wouldn’t have come here. You wouldn’t have met Ginny. You wouldn’t know about any of this.”

“You pushed me away.” I try to keep my sorrow hidden, but it shows itself anyway, cracking my voice with emotion. “I needed you, Dad. When Mom died, I fucking needed you! Because what happened with Mom was awful. But—”

I stop myself, unsure if I can speak the words that need to be said.

Even now.

Even here.

“But you were right to doubt me. I left those pills out. Even though Mom swore she’d only take one, I knew there was a possibility she’d take them all.”

“Don’t,” my father says. “Don’t say that, Kit-Kat.”

“But it’s true.”

“No. You shouldn’t blame yourself. It’s my fault that you do. I shouldn’t have put that burden on you. I shouldn’t have let it get that far. I should have come forward and stopped the whole thing as soon as that article about you hit the newspaper.”

Suddenly, I’m no longer at Hope’s End. The whole cursed place disappears from my vision as I flash back to home, my father at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. He looks up at me with watery eyes and says, “What they’re saying’s not true, Kit-Kat.”

He didn’t say that because he wanted it to be the truth.

My father said it because it was true.

He knew I hadn’t given my mother those pills.

Because he’s the one who did it.