Trial by Gaslight
“Enough,” Melissa says. “Enough talking. We need to move.”
“Move where?” Spencer says. “My head is spinning!”
“This is actionable intel,” Alison agrees. “If Elliott isn’t who he says he is, that’s solid proof that he’s up to no good.”
“It’s enough to confront him, at least,” Emily agrees.
“I have an idea about that, actually,” Alison says, a hand on her hip.
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Rollins is sprawled on the couch, reading the newspaper, swilling whiskey straight from an almost empty bottle, which he sets down haphazardly on top of a hastily packed box of belongings from his office. The rest of the room is a messy scene of overturned end tables and broken picture frames. Alison’s heirloom vase is in pieces, resting underneath the splintered remains of an antique chair.
The words of the newsprint are blurry, and he tosses it aside. He picks up his cell phone and punches one of his contacts.
“They sacked me,” he announces. “It’s only a matter of time before the police get involved. My bags are packed. I’m ready.”
“Excellent news,” the voice on the other end purrs. “You won’t have to wait much longer. Have a drink. The final act is about to begin.”
He takes a long pull from the bottle, draining it. “I’m not in the mood for bloody riddles,” he says, peevishly. “If you’re not here in twenty minutes, I’m leaving. Plan or no plan.”
The wind is rattling the shutters, but he doesn’t bother getting up. There’s a single lamp on in the living room, though its shade is askew, casting long shadows across the debris strewn floor.
There’s a loud crack, the sound of glass shattering. He staggers to his feet to investigate. There’s a hole in one of the panes on the bay window. New shards of glass cover the ripped out stuffing of a throw pillow on the floor, and a heavy rock with a jagged edge seems to be the culprit. He crouches down to investigate, a bit unsteady, and picks it up. The rock is slippery. He looks down at his hand and drops it as if he’s been burned. He studies his hand, the sticky red smear of blood against his palm.
He goes to the window and stares out at the darkness. He flips on the porch light, peers out the door just in time to see a figure in a yellow tank top run around the corner of the house, her long blonde hair trailing behind her.
“Very good, my darling,” he snarls. He grabs the rock and heads after her.
The back yard is overgrown, Alison hasn’t been keeping up with the garden this year. Another few days and the Hastings will surely complain. He knows where she’ll be heading, of course, makes his way carefully through the tangle of weeds and a patch of roses that have morphed into some kind of thicket.
“Alissson,” he calls, his voice slurrier than he expected. He crashes through the shrubbery and trips over a twisted root. He gets back up, swiping furiously at a bloody scratch on his cheek. “Let’s not play games!”
He’s almost there, and he can see her in that damned yellow tank top tossing her hair as she runs towards the old shallow grave, although her outline is blurrier than it should be. He blinks hard, then trips again, over a shovel.
When he picks himself up a second time, she’s nowhere in sight. He weaves toward the grave where his poor sister wound up buried and forgotten. Someone has been here, he realizes. The grave is dug up - a mound of fresh dirt beside the six foot drop. Ghouls.
He grabs the shovel, in case her little friends are nearby, in on whatever little scheme she’s trying to run. Child’s play. A spooky trick.
He stands over the grave and jumps backwards in shock, stumbling again. A hazy figure rises before him, backlit by an eerie glow.
“Charlotte?” he says, sounding terrified.
“Hello, Lover,” Charlotte says, in a seductive tone, climbing out of the grave.
“You’re not real,” Rollins cries. “It’s a mask!”
She moves closer to him. “Is it?” she asks, leaning forward. “You know you wanna kiss me.”
He scuttles away from her frantically. “I didn’t do it!” he exclaims. “It wasn’t me!”
Charlotte shakes her head at him. “I know everything now - Thomas.”
The sound of his real name seems to panic him further, but he’s having trouble getting his limbs to work properly. He wonders if he hit his head when he fell, or if he’s actually paralyzed by fright.
“You’re just as twisted as your sister, aren’t you?” she taunts.
“Don’t you talk about my sister! She’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you! If it wasn’t for you and Alison and Jessica DiLaurentis! And whichever one of Alison’s little girl gang buried her! You all killed her! And you couldn’t care less!”
“She had murder in her heart that night,” Charlotte tells him. “Just like you, when you pushed my sister down a flight of stairs.”
“But she’s fine,” he protests, weakly. “A few nights in the hospital, and she’s right as rain.”
Charlotte frowns. “I’m beginning to see what’s wrong with that argument,” she mutters to herself. “You were after revenge,” she continues.
“I wanted Alison to suffer, I won’t deny it! I wanted to make you love me so that I could turn you and Alison against each other! I married her so that I could get control of Carissimi, liquidate their assets and get away with the money. Reparations - to take from your family, like you took from mine!”
“You pathetic little roach,” Charlotte says. “All that effort for a poorly conceived love triangle and a little bit of money?”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he protests rubbing at his eyes to try and force the three glaring Charlottes in front of him back to a more manageable number. “She recruited me! She’s insane! She swore a blood vengeance against Alison and her friends.”
“Typical man,” Charlotte says, sounding almost bored. “Blaming it on a woman.”
Rollins musters his strength to crawl toward her. “It’s the truth,” he gasps, sounding out of breath. He claws at Charlotte’s legs in order to pull himself to his knees, then reaches for her shoulders to heave himself upright. “It’s her you want! Mommy Dearest! Mary Drake!”
His head feels too heavy for his neck, his thoughts are all a muddle. A wave of dizziness hits him. “What -” he whispers. “What have you done to me?”
His body slumps backwards, falls with a heavy thump into the open grave.
“What the hell?” Spencer and Melissa say in unison, coming out from their hiding place in the shrubbery.
Alison and Emily and Wren rush out from behind a nearby tree as Mona and Hanna and Aria burst out the back door of the house.
“What did you do to him?” Alison asks, leaning over far enough to nudge him with the point of her heel. He doesn’t stir.
“Nothing!” Charlotte insists.
“Oh my god,” Aria exclaims. “You scared him to death!”
“He’s not dead,” Charlotte says, uncertainly. “He probably passed out. He smelled like he spent the night in a bourbon barrel.”
“Was it just me,” Emily asks. “Or did he sound British all of a sudden?”
Wren nods, as he lowers himself carefully into the grave. “His parents split up when he and Bethany were quite - pardon the pun - young. He went with his father, grew up in Yorkshire.” He grasps Rollins’ wrist firmly, checking for a pulse.
“Do you know who -” Spencer starts to ask.
“Leave it, Spence,” Melissa says with a warning tone in her voice. “We’ve got bigger problems right now.”
“I’ll say,’ Wren agrees, his ear against Rollins’ chest. “The good doctor is quite dead.”