“To kill Ellen,” Sidra says, and tears glisten in her eyes as she looks at me. “That’s what you said, isn’t it? Ellen is dead, and Lane killed her. Killed her and came for me. Killed her and stole … stole…”
She spins to face the forest again, and when she screams “Lane!” it’s a raw and horrible sound, and the force of it buckles her knees. Baptiste catches her, his face still blank with shock. I see his face, and I see hers, and the missing piece falls into place.
Motivation.
Felicity said four kids from the two settlements hung out together. Tomas said Lane lost his best friend last year. That connection had clicked earlier. Lane knew Sidra and Baptiste, and Baptiste was his supposedly dead friend. I hadn’t confirmed that because it seemed nothing more than a tragic collision of circumstance.
Lane knows Ellen. Lane also knows Baptiste and Sidra. A hostile steals their baby, and Ellen steals her back, and Lane sees her and shoots her because she’s having an affair with his aunt. He has no idea she’s clutching a baby under her parka. And the fact that that baby belongs to his old friends? Tragic, tragic coincidence.
That makes sense, right? And if the gun that murdered Ellen belongs to Baptiste, then that must mean Baptiste or Sidra actually shot her. The young couple have been trading their game with Lane, who’s been passing it off as his own arrow-shot kills. Then, when we accuse Lane of shooting Ellen with that same gun, he realizes who actually did it and quickly spins a story to protect his friends.
That must be the answer, right?
Unless Cherise sees Sidra with a young man she presumes is Baptiste, while my gut says Baptiste didn’t lie to us and his wife is missing. Who else could Cherise mistake for Baptiste? Another young dark-haired man of similar build.
Lane.
Before this moment, I could only guess at why Lane kidnapped Sidra. Maybe he confessed to her, and she hadn’t forgiven him. Or maybe he took her hostage as a bargaining chip against his punishment for killing Ellen.
Neither scenario had satisfied me. Now, in Sidra’s scream of rage and frustration, I hear the echoes of other women, and I see the answer.
“Lane…” Baptiste says, looking at me as he holds Sidra, who vibrates with fury. “You think Lane…”
“He confessed to killing Ellen,” I say. “He didn’t seem to know she was holding Summer when she died.”
“H-holding…” Sidra says.
“Summer is safe,” Baptiste says quickly. “This woman— Casey—found her, and she’s fine. Ellen had rescued her and she—she died holding her, but they found Summer before—before anything could…”
“Lane murdered Ellen.” Sidra stares at me. “While she was holding my baby. He left … he left her…”
“He didn’t seem to know,” I say.
Her face contorts in an inhuman snarl. “Oh, he knew. He knew.” She turns and screams. “Lane! Show yourself, you coward! You want me so badly, come and face me!”
“Want…” Baptiste looks sick. “No … Yes, at first, yes … but he said he was over you. He said he was happy for us.”
“He lied,” Sidra spits, face contorting again. “He lied to you. Not to me, though. Never to me. It didn’t matter what I said. It didn’t matter what I did.”
“He … he kept…?” Baptiste sways, face green. “He kept bothering you, and you never told me.”
“He was your friend, and I thought he’d get over it. He would see the truth—that it was you, and it had always been you, and I never saw him as anything but a friend. I married you. I had your baby. He would understand soon. I kept telling myself he would finally understand. And he did not.”
Baptiste goes still, processing. Then his face hardens, and he strides toward the forest. “Lane! Sidra’s right. Show yourself! You have something to say to me, come out here and—”
A whistle. That’s all I hear. An odd whistle, and then Baptiste falls back and Sidra screams. She runs to her husband as he staggers back, an arrow in his shoulder. Sidra knocks Baptiste to the ground as another arrow whistles past. She covers his body, protecting him, as we surround them, guns out, shouting for Lane.
The forest goes silent.
Dalton motions that he’s heading in. I clamp down on the urge to stop him. Instead, I motion that I’ll do the same, from the other side, and he gives me the same look, the one that
resists saying no, don’t go. Go or stay, though, we’re in equal danger from an archer in the woods.
Dalton leaves first, as I call to Storm, loud enough to distract Lane if he’s watching. I’m telling Storm to stay with Petra when Sidra shouts, “Lane!”
I look to see Sidra marching toward the forest, her arms spread wide. Petra is on the ground with Baptiste, checking his shoulder injury. Baptiste stares at Sidra and then tries to rise, but Petra holds him down.
“Sidra?” I say. “Don’t—”