1
First, there was water.
It surrounded her. She wanted to laugh as it tickled her skin, buoyed her up. It caressed her and made her feel weightless.
Then there was light. It shone down on her, bringing warmth, making everything a little clearer, a little brighter. She reached for it, her arms stretching toward a beach.
There was a girl with red hair.
Allie smiled. She flowed through the water, toward the girl. “Debbie!” she called exultantly, “I’m coming! I’m almost there!”
The girl smiled back, waving at her, beckoning her forward.
Just as Allie was about to reach the shore, she felt a hand softly clasp her own. “Bea,” she breathed, turning, giddy with happiness.
“Beautiful girl,” Bea replied, pulling her gently toward her, linking their bodies as they floated.
Allie grinned, happiness overwhelming her as she embraced Bea, clasping her tightly against her. “I love you, Bea,” she whispered against Bea’s lips.
But Bea had disappeared.
Allie felt herself suddenly ripped away, the ocean vanishing, the quiet shredded by the high-pitched wailing of alarms.
She opened her eyes.
She was hit by waves of searing pain. She couldn’t breathe.
Her only thought, before she drifted back into unconsciousness, was that she had lost something very, very important. She just needed to grasp it again, to reach a little farther…
She surrendered to oblivion.
***
Joan’s hand was shaking.
She stared at it as if it were a diseased part—something that needed to be torn off and thrown away before it infected her. She jerked her attention back to Smith, lying on the ground. “She won,” she thought, over and over again, staring as the blood continued to stream from Smith’s body. “She won. She won. She won.”
Somewhere, in the background, Vera and Jackson were shouting—something about an ambulance.
Joan’s gaze shifted back to her bloodied hand. “She won,” yes, but “I lost,” too. The two phrases became inseparable, repeating endlessly in Joan’s mind. “She won. I lost. She won. I lost. She won. I lost.”
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
She turned to step toward Smith, but was prevented by the guard at her side. She wanted to remove Vera and Jackson, to stop them buzzing around Smith like nuisance flies. All this talk of ambulances—didn’t they understand that this was Smith’s moment of triumph? And Joan’s own role in it—the way she thrust the screwdriver deep into Smith, turning it, forcing it in—that was her gift to Smith. She gave her the freedom—the ecstasy—of death.
But no one would understand that.
And so Smith had won, and she had lost. Smith had won.
She had lost.
Dripping blood, Joan’s hand continued to shake.
***
“Where’s the fucking ambulance?” Will yelled desperately, still kneeling at Smith’s side. “Bea! Bea, stay with me, Bea! Don’t leave me!”
Vera slowly stood. She could recognize the moment that life left Bea, even if Will refused. The ambulance was on its way, but it would be too late. They were all too late.
Will became silent. He, too, rose, backing away from the body. He stood helplessly, staring down at the river of blood flowing from Bea, unable to make things right.
His eyes shifted to Ferguson. She was immobile, her hand and shirt stained red.
“You,” he muttered, his voice a low growl. Stepping around Bea, he hurtled toward Ferguson, his fingers reaching forward to clasp her neck. “You did this!” he shouted, fingers closing. “You—you murderer! You fucking monster! You killed her!”
“Will!” Vera screamed. “Stop!”
Joan turned slowly to him, but did nothing to protect herself. Her head fell back as Will increased the pressure of his fingers around her long neck. She slid her eyes past him, staring instead into the clear blue sky. She thought she could hear music—a woman singing.
She stumbled, confused, gasping, when the guard pulled Will away from her.
“Will!” Vera yelled again, pulling ineffectually at his arm. “Don’t make things worse!”
“She killed her!” he roared, held by the struggling guard. “She’s killed so many people! She deserves to die.”
Vera put her hand on his sternum. “But you’re not the one who decides that,” she told him sternly. “Think, Will! Don’t make a stupid mistake!”
Will shook his head. “It wouldn’t be a mistake!” he exclaimed. “Look at what she’s done—she killed Harry Smith and tried to pin it on me! She tried to take out Fletch. I’m sure she killed Nils Jesper, somehow, and now… now… Bea?” He breathed unsteadily in and out. “Get off, Lawson!” he grunted, jerking himself away from the guard. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Will,” Vera interjected. “You have to—”
He shook his head, interrupting Vera. “I get it—I get it,” he said, raising his voice over her objections. “But she’ll never stop! It’s all some pathetic vendetta over Jianna, and she’ll never stop!” He pointed at Joan. “She’s a monster!”
Vera put her hand over Will’s extended arm. “I know that, and you know that,” she stated, “but you can’t throw away your life by attacking her! You have to walk away. The cameras caught all of this—let the justice system decide her fate.”
“The same justice system that just acquitted her?” Will wrenched his arm away from Vera, breathing heavily. He walked a few steps away, willing himself to calm. Turning back, he found himself staring down at Bea’s body lying on the ground. It felt obscene that they should be standing while she lay surrounded by her own blood. “Where the fuck is that ambulance?” he yelled in frustration.
***
Jianna.
Something shifted in Joan when she heard Jackson say that name. Jianna.
Still gasping from her near strangulation, she, too, stared at Smith’s body before her eyes darted to her own hand, and finally to the bloodied screwdriver lying abandoned on the ground.
Smith died in victory, knowing she had beaten her. And Joan had let her. Even as she thrust the screwdriver into Smith’s soft belly, she had allowed the emotions to overtake her. But she would not—could not—be incarcerated again. She had sacrificed too much.
“Think, think, think,” she silently admonished herself, willing her mind to clear. Freedom was paramount. A chill ran through her as she thought of Gambaro, but she pushed it ruthlessly aside. She had to get out of this—she had to have a plan. Smith may have impaled herself, but Joan would be found guilty. Will Jackson would see to that. So… what to do?
She glanced at the security cameras mounted high on the wall, then to the door, over to Vera, Will, and Lawson, and finally back to Smith’s body.
Gambaro…
She lifted her chin, straightening her shoulders.
Joan Ferguson had a plan.