Chapter 9 - The Edge of the Abyss
The crack in the acrylic ceiling let out a screech that resonated through the soles of my shoes. Water didn't just drip; it began to spray in razor-sharp jets, slicing through the humid air of the chamber.
"Move!" I shouted, dropping the gun into the surging water and grabbing Veronica by the uninjured arm.
Whatever monstrous acts she had committed, whatever psychopathic vengeance burned in her mind, I couldn't stand there and watch a human being pulverized by collapsing hydraulic glass. I wrenched her forward through the knee-deep flood, hauling her toward the reinforced concrete stairs that led up to the pool deck.
"Get off me!" she snarled, thrashing against my grip with the crazed strength of an injured wolf. She drove her elbow back into my ribs, fracturing the air from my lungs.
We tumbled together onto the slick, rain-lashed flagstones of the pool deck.
The full fury of the Pacific gale hit us instantly. The sky was an ink-black void torn apart by sheets of horizontal rain and jagged forks of purple lightning. Below the edge of the infinity pool, the waves slammed against the cliff face eighty feet down, throwing plumes of white spray high into the air.
Behind us, with a catastrophic, subterranean roar, the glass basin beneath the pool imploded.
The center of the infinity pool collapsed inward. Millions of pounds of water dropped like an anvil into the basement below, dragging deck chairs, structural stone, and glass panels down into the dark abyss. The shockwave rattled the entire estate, the vibration shivering up through the cliffside like an earthquake.
I rolled onto my back, coughing water from my lungs, only to see Veronica crawling across the rain-swept tiles toward the cliff’s edge.
She was dragging her shattered shoulder, heading toward the narrow stone path that wound down toward the private boat slip—a path that had been washed out an hour ago by the storm.
"Veronica, stop!"
I pushed myself up, my muscles screaming in protest.
Through the rain, another figure emerged from the shattered French doors of the mansion.
Elena.
She had left the vault. Armed with Arthur's heavy tactical flashlight, she moved across the swaying terrace, the wind tearing through her clothes. She ignored me, her eyes locked entirely on the woman crawling toward the edge of the cliff.
"Veronica!" Elena called out. The sound was neither angry nor vindictive. It was an agonizing, sisterly plea.
Veronica reached the rusted iron railing at the cliff's precipice. She pulled herself up, her boots slipping on the slick stone, her body swaying precariously over the howling black drop to the ocean below. She turned, her back to the abyss, clutching her bleeding shoulder.
"Stay back!" Veronica screamed into the gale. "Don't come near me, you pathetic little copy!"
Elena stopped five feet away. The rain plastered her hair against her face, highlighting the identical contours, the identical cheekbones, the identical eyes.
"We don't have to die like this," Elena said, her voice carrying through the roar of the wind. "Arthur used us both. He divided us so we would destroy each other before we ever asked him why he made us. But Arthur is dead, Veronica. The game is over."
Veronica looked at her sister. For a fraction of a second, beneath the rain and the madness, I saw a flicker of the little girl who had been pushed into the shadows, the child who had watched from boarding school windows while another girl lived her life.
"There can only be one Elena Cole," Veronica whispered, her voice suddenly flat, devoid of rage. "There was never room in this world for both of us."
"Then let me be Elena," Elena said softly, stepping forward, extending an open hand into the dark. "And you be Veronica. Be my sister."
Veronica looked down at Elena’s outstretched hand. Her fingers trembled. For a heartbeat, she reached forward.
Then the concrete edge beneath her boots crumbled.
A section of the storm-weakened cliff sheared away with a dull, sickening crack. Veronica gasped, her footing vanishing into nothingness.
Elena lunged.
With a speed born of pure instinct, Elena threw herself onto the wet stone, her fingers locking around Veronica’s wrist just as the rest of the rock ledge collapsed into the surging dark.
"I’ve got you!" Elena screamed, her body skidding toward the precipice. "Julian! Help me!"
I threw myself across the stones, sliding on my chest, grabbing Elena’s belt with one hand and wrapping my other arm around an iron balustrade that was still anchored in solid rock. The strain tore through my shoulders like fire.
Below, suspended over the churning, predatory waves of the Pacific, Veronica hung by Elena's grip.
The wind whipped her wet hair across her face. The sheer deadweight was pulling Elena forward, centimeter by centimeter, through the mud and shattered slate.
"Let go, Elena," Veronica said quietly. The panic was gone from her voice, replaced by a terrible, serene clarity. "The foundation is giving way. You can't hold me."
"No!" Elena sobbed, her knuckles white, her muscles seizing under the impossible strain. "I'm not letting you go again! Give me your other hand!"
"Tell Lily..." Veronica whispered, looking up at the sister who had every reason to watch her die, "...tell her she was the only part of this house that was real."
Veronica twisted her wrist.
She didn't try to climb. She deliberately slicked her palm with her own blood, prying Elena’s exhausted fingers off her arm.
"No!" Elena screamed.
Veronica slipped.
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She fell backward into the dark, silent as a shadow, swallowed instantly by the roaring, frothing mouth of the Pacific waves crashing against the jagged rocks eighty feet below.
***
