“I’m not being dramatic,” Becket says. “I deserve to die.”
“You deserve to die?” Saint echoes in disbelief.
Becket turns to me. In the twilight, his eyes are a shade of indigo that belongs on the other side of the door. “I was the one who killed your mother, Proserpina,” he says. The words come out cleanly, simply, as if he’s rehearsed them many, many times. “Twelve years ago. It was me.”
The words slice through my mind like the lightning above us. Bright, hot. Branched into jagged sprigs that seek the earth.
I’m already shaking my head, already saying, “No, Becket, no, you didn’t. Remember? You saw Ralph burying her. You told me he killed her—you said that he killed her.”
“I lied,” Becket says. His eyes are burning into mine. “I lied because I had to stay close to the ch
