A brine-filled onshore breeze wrapped around her. She pivoted and stared at the path behind her—the path that led to the lawn that led to the stairs that led to the beach. The wind came again. It beckoned her forward.

  The beach meant freedom. There were public access stairs a little more than a half-mile north on that beach and, above those stairs, a neighborhood filled with sleeping people. Jonathan wouldn’t expect her to go to the beach. He knew how afraid she was of the stairs.

  She jogged along the flagstones, pausing at the end of the path only long enough to glance right, then left before darting across the exposed grassy area. Her heart thudded in her chest by the time she reached the top of the stairs. She hesitated.

  The sensation of empty space nearly buckled her knees. The world spun. She closed her eyes and clung to the gate. She had to do this. The beach was her only escape, but her head swam, and nausea roiled up from her stomach and into her mouth.

  She’d go slow. She’d be careful. She’d made it down and up the stairs once before. She could do it again. She swung the gate open and placed a foot on the top step.

  Gripping the railing with claw-like hands, she took another step. When she was sure the tread would support her weight, she descended again. It would take her the rest of the night to reach the sand below at this rate, but she couldn’t make herself hurry. Step, test, step, test.

  What seemed hours later, she came to the first landing. The journey had been excruciatingly slow, but she’d made it. She wiped her sweaty palms on her bathrobe, then untied the belt, allowing the robe to flap open. She was hot now, the hair on her neck wet with sweat.

  The next leg of the descent was where she’d fallen. She could see the broken stair from the landing. She gazed away, over the railing to the beach below her. The sand was so far down, dizziness came over her again.

  Willow dropped onto her butt and rested her head on her knees. She couldn’t stay here. Jonathan would think of the beach eventually. When he couldn’t find her anywhere else, he’d think of it. He wouldn’t rest until he had her, and the baby.

  Her head snapped up. She wasn’t a possession, and neither was The Peach. She’d crawl down the damn stairs if she had to. Willow placed both feet firmly on the second step down from the landing and gingerly scooted herself onto the first. It held her. She dropped her feet two steps further and scooted again, holding onto the railing with both hands like a primate. It was slow going, but safe going.

  She bypassed the broken tread with her feet, and instead of sitting, she stood. She walked down the last five steps and uttered a shuddering exhale as she reached the second landing.

  The waves were loud now. The ground close. She all but ran down the remaining flight of stairs. Relief flowed in the form of cold sweat as soon as her feet touched the earth.

  She gazed at the beach ahead of her. The sand glowed in the light of a gibbous moon. It was a lit runway that would advertise her presence from yards and yards away. If Jonathan or Chloe glanced down, they couldn’t miss her.

  The muzzle of Chloe’s gun blossomed in her mind. Willow’s gaze shot to the cliffs above her. Chloe would have to be an excellent marksman to hit her from that vantage point. If Chloe had escaped from Jonathan, that was.

  Jonathan was taller and stronger than his twin, but it occurred to Willow now that Chloe was cunning. She’d taken Willow in completely.

  As her gaze returned to the beach, she noticed a band of black hugging the cliffs. It was narrow and ended at an outcropping of rocks about a quarter of a mile away, but it was something. Willow slid into the shadow and headed north.

  She jogged for a minute or two, but the sand here was soft and unstable. Her ankle turned when her foot dropped into a hole, not badly, but enough to scare her. She slowed her pace.

  Willow glanced over her shoulder less and less often the farther she got from Sunset House. She was sure she’d see a person following her, even if they hugged the cliffs as she was doing. Her eyes had adjusted well to the dim light. The band of black now appeared gray. There was no one in it.

  By the time she reached the outcropping, her nerves were steady. She clambered over the rocks into the moonlight. She’d be around the point in seconds. When she reached the other side, it would be impossible to see her from Sunset House even with binoculars.

  She dropped down from the rocks and walked on the hard, wet sand now. It was more important to get where she was going quickly than it was to hide in the shadows on this leg of her escape. If Chloe caught her, Willow had no doubt she’d kill her, even though another death would look incredibly suspicious.

  The Lauders were delusional. They seemed to think they were untouchable. How many people had Jonathan killed? Two? Three, if his father’s death wasn’t from sickness.

  Had Chloe been in on those murders, or had she known about them? She and Jonathan seemed to share access to a common brain. Willow didn’t think they could keep secrets from each other. Not for long, anyway.

  Perhaps they’d worked together until Chloe found out about Willow’s pregnancy. Then Chloe struck out on her own and tried to run Willow down. What would she have done tonight if Jonathan hadn’t arrived?

  She’d been rescued by her captor, her choices death or imprisonment. A stab of sheer terror ran through Willow. She shut it down. She could fall apart later, when she and her baby were safe.

  The moon was lower on the horizon. The sky had lightened from black to midnight blue. There were hours to go before sunrise, but the new day was on its way. That’s what she would focus on. A new day. Her first day of freedom.

  She plodded on for another quarter of a mile before she saw the stairs. The cliffs were lower on this section of beach, so it was a shorter flight than the one at Sunset House. At its top she could see streetlights and houses lit by outdoor security lights.

  She began to jog. She stumbled when her foot hit soft sand, but righted herself and continued on over dried seaweed and up a small incline.

  Adrenaline raced through her when she reached the stairs. She bounded up them with renewed strength. When she got to the top, she scanned her surroundings. The stairs opened onto the end of a cul de sac. A viewing bench and a pair of palm trees were on her left, but Willow only gave them a glance.

  Instead, she examined the houses along the street. She wanted one with a car in the driveway, a nice, suburban-looking SUV with a bike rack or a car seat in the back. She planned to beat on the front door of that house until someone came.

  She’d call the police first. Then she’d call her parents. The thought of sinking into her father’s strong embrace, of hearing her mother’s voice, made her eyes sting with tears.

  Enough of that.

  She couldn’t break down, not yet.

  She chose a two-story, Mediterranean-style house with not one, but two cars in the driveway and stepped off the curb.

  “Willow.”

  Her name dropped like a cleaver. She opened her mouth to scream, too late. A hand clamped over it, another pulled her against a strong chest.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Jonathan said.

  Willow began to struggle.

  “Listen to him, Willow.” Chloe stepped out from behind the pair of palms, the gun in her hand. “Let’s get in the car. Quietly.”

  MOLLY: Sorry to stop at such a tense, tense moment, but the next episode is just as suspenseful. There are no longer any good places to pause.

  Jonathan isn’t who Willow thought he was. It isn’t uncommon for psychopaths to be very convincing, and based on his behavior it’s a pretty good bet he has the gene. They’re often really good at reading people. They become who they need to become in order to get what they want. It seems Chloe is cut from the same cloth.

  We know there is a genetic component to psychopathy. But most people with the genetic makeup never actually kill anyone. They may be aggressive in business, able to con people or cheat people or cheat on people without remorse, but they’re not murderers.

  Here’s the question, then. We know what Jonathan has done to Willow, but we don’t know if he’s actually killed anyone. His explanation of Dun’s death could’ve been accurate. What do you think? Is he a murderer? Or just gaslighting Willow until he gets his golden ticket as Chloe called the unborn baby? How much danger is Willow in?

  Let me know what you think on Facebook.

  Join me next time for more Murders Under the Sun.

  (cue music)

  VO: This episode is brought to you by Randall & Richter, specializing in Family Law. Murders Under the Sun is edited by Jim Wilbourne, theme music is by Eclectic Blends, and I’m your host, Molly Shure.

  MURDERS UNDER THE SUN

  SEASON SIX; EPISODE SEVEN

  * * *

  MOLLY: Welcome back to Murders Under the Sun. I’m Molly Shure, your host.

  We’ve arrived at the last week of the season. Today all your questions will be answered. At least, all your questions about The Manor. I can’t help you with the meaning of life or how to achieve world peace.

  This episode is a roller coaster, people. But before we hop on the ride, I want to thank everyone who participated in the Facebook Group. It seems every season we have at least one psychologist or psychiatrist weigh in on the discussion revolving around our villain’s behavior.

  Thanks to Dr. H for sharing the latest on psychopathy. It’s a very rare disorder and even more rare among women. However, according to Dr. H, since Chloe and Jonathan are twins it is possible that she and Jonathan may share that genetic similarity.

  However, not everyone who has psychopathic genetic makeup will exhibit the traits we associate with ASPD, or antisocial personality disorder. It’s complicated. We don’t know the extent to which nature alone will impact a person’s behavior. Most likely, nurture will play a role too.

  Thing is, Jonathan and Chloe had virtually the same upbringing. So, if Jonathan is what we’d call a psychopath—and it appears he might be—Chloe could be one as well.

  I guess we’ll have to get into the narrative to find out.

  Willow had lost track of time. It could be two days since her escape, it could be five. Her life had become an endless stream of trays of food she had no appetite for. She’d watched the light peeking through the cracks around the room-darkening curtains grow bright then fade multiple times. How many, she couldn’t say.

  The door opened and Jonathan appeared with yet another meal. He lowered it onto the vanity table. “Tuna salad a la Cookie,” he said. “I don’t know how he does it, but it’s delicious. I’ve asked him what the secret ingredient is a hundred times, but he won’t tell me.”

  Willow gazed at him through blurred eyes. What was he blathering on about? She didn’t know, didn’t care. She would eat a few bites of whatever they gave her, but not for herself. She didn’t want anything. She’d eat it for The Peach.

  “Sit up,” Jonathan said. “I’ll put this on your lap.”

  She did as he’d asked.

  “After lunch, you need to take a shower.” He wrinkled his nose to emphasize his point.

  Willow hadn’t showered since they’d brought her back. She hadn’t spoken to anyone. She hadn’t left the room. She hadn’t even gotten out of bed other than to use the restroom. What was the point?

  “You can come downstairs for breakfast tomorrow.” Jonathan set the tray on her lap and sat at the foot of the bed. “It’ll just be me and Chloe. Cookie has the morning off.”

  Willow lifted a triangle of sandwich from its plate and took a bite. It tasted like cardboard.

  “We could take a walk around the grounds afterward. It’d be good for you.” Jonathan spoke to her as if she were a child, and not a very intelligent one.

  She didn’t respond.

  “You need to take care of yourself,” he said. “For the baby’s sake.”

  She set the sandwich down and took a sip of the herbal tea that had come with it.

  “Willow.” His voice was sharp. She lifted her gaze and met his eyes. They were as blue as ever, but they no longer appeared beautiful to her. No more did they remind her of a sunny Mediterranean Sea. Now they were cold pools, electric and deadly.

  “Don’t you think this silent treatment has gone on long enough?’

  She barked a single laugh.

  His eyes narrowed. “I know you’re upset about having to stay in, but it’s your own fault.”

  She swallowed. She hadn’t spoken in days and wasn’t sure if her mouth still worked. “My fault?” The words were a croak.

  “I was trying to protect you from Chloe. If you’d trusted me and stayed put, none of this”—he waved a hand around the room— “would’ve happened.”

  “None of this?” Her voice sounded more frog than human.

  “Right. Now I have to compromise with Chloe to protect you and the baby. That’s not what I wanted.” His mouth pursed into a pout.

  Willow furrowed her brow. It hurt to think. No, he wouldn’t want to compromise. He never wanted to compromise. She opened her mouth to ask what the compromise was, but he spoke again.

  “I had to give Chloe the west wing of the house. Permanently. We’re writing up the papers with the lawyers next week.” Jonathan smoothed the covers with his hand. “We wanted our own place. We didn’t want to have to live with the family, remember?” His eyes met hers. “That’s no longer possible.” His tone was accusing.

  Willow was at a loss for words. How could he use words like “our” and “we”? How could he imagine Willow would be willing to live with either him or his murderous sister? As soon as she found a way out of this nightmare, she would tell Inspector Sylla everything, then file for divorce.

  “It’s not wise for you to go out and about on your own yet, however. Not until the paperwork is signed.” He stroked the bedspread as if it was a house pet. “I don’t entirely trust my sister. She hates to lose.”

  Willow sat in silence, digesting his words. Was this a game to him? To Chloe? A competition in which one twin would emerge the winner and the other the loser? She cleared her throat. “Did you kill your mother?”

  She’d wanted to ask him this question for a while but had been afraid to hear the answer. She was no longer afraid. She was numb.

  Jonathan’s hand stopped moving. “No. Dun did.”

  Willow stared at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “You switched the pills in the acetaminophen bottle, didn’t you? You put something else in there, and Dun didn’t know.”

  “It was acetaminophen.”

  “Extra strength?”

  His eyes jittered to the door and back to the bedspread. “I didn’t know Dun would give her the maximum dosage, did I?”

  “Dun was a methodical person. She followed protocol.”

  His head tipped to one side and back again. “I guess.”

  Willow pushed the tray off her lap. Her stomach was hard and knotted. She couldn’t look at the food any longer.

  “Chloe started the whole thing.” He sounded like a defensive adolescent.

  Willow didn’t speak.

  “She killed Dad.”

  Something resembling an emotion skittered up Willow’s spine. “I thought he had a stroke?”

  “He did have a stroke. It was well played. It’s not difficult to induce a stroke in someone prone to them. She switched his blood pressure medicine for her antidepressants. Since she’d filled the prescriptions, nobody knew what the pills were supposed to look like.”

  “Why?” Willow whispered the word.

  Jonathan shrugged. “Mat proposed. Chloe wanted Sunset House.”

  “But I was pregnant.”

  “She didn’t know that. She also didn’t think Dad would die as quickly as he did. She was playing a long game.”

  Willow stood. A wave of dizziness hit her. She placed a hand on the bedside table to steady herself. The fact that he was admitting all this was as terrifying as the information itself. Didn’t criminals reveal their identities only when they planned to kill their victims?

  Jonathan startled at her sudden movement. “Where are you going?”

  Where was she going? Away from him, but she couldn’t say that. “The bathroom,” she said.

  “Well, come right back. We need to talk about next steps.”

  She stumbled toward the bathroom, stepped inside, and locked the door behind herself. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it was all she had.

  Orthrus. That was another name the journal girl had given the monster. A dim memory from a classic literature class returned to Willow now. Orthrus was the two-headed brother of Cerberus, the dog that guarded Hades. She wished the memory had come to her when she’d read the journal. The writer must have been referring to the twins, Jonathan and Chloe.

  As children they tricked a girl into swimming with black jellyfish, then sliced her arms and allowed the family to think she was self-harming. As adults they were having a murder competition. And Jonathan was winning. Chloe would want to catch up.

  A hand flew to Willow’s mouth to stifle a scream.

  “Are you coming out of there?” Jonathan called through the door.

  “Yes. Yes. Coming.” Willow walked to the sink, turned on the tap and splashed her face with cold water. She had to think.

  The chill helped. As she blotted her skin with a towel, she decided on a course of action. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the best she could come up with in this moment. She would play along with Jonathan. Let him think she was on his side. As repulsive as the idea was, he was her only protection from his other half.

  She attempted a smile and opened the bathroom door.

  Jonathan’s eyes lit when he saw her. “None of this is easy to hear. I get it, babe.” He patted the bed next to him.

  She suppressed a shudder and sat.

  “But you’ve got to understand, the one percent, we’re different. We don’t play by the same rules. There’s too much at stake.”