Part 4
Then Helen was there.
Helen dropped onto his left side, her calfskin boots pinning his thrashing forearm to the floor. With her free hand, she gripped Julian's chin, wrenching his head sharply to the right to expose the taut, corded muscles of his throat.
Julian's gaze flicked sideways, catching the faint silhouette of his imposter mistress towering over him. For the first time in his calculated life, a flicker of genuine comprehension—and terror—dilated his pupils.
Between Helen's thumb and forefinger, the plastic barrel of the syringe caught the cold, pale luminescence of the snow outside.
"You said it yourself, darling," Helen whispered into his ear, her voice a purr of venomous delight. "Only one Mrs. Holloway leaves this mountain."
Julian tried to twist away, let out a muffled shout, but Claire drove her knee harder into his sternum, locking him flat against the floorboards. "Hold him," Claire said, her voice eerily calm, stripped bare of fear, stripped bare of grief.
Helen didn't hesitate. She uncapped the needle with her teeth, spat the plastic shield onto Julian's chest, and drove the bevel straight into his exposed carotid artery.
Julian's body arched in a sudden, violent spasm. A strangled, wet sound tore from his throat as Helen's thumb depressed the plunger, emptying the clear dose of succinylcholine directly into his bloodstream.
The struggle lasted less than twenty seconds.
First came the fasciculations—tiny, grotesque ripples coursing beneath the skin of his forearms, neck, and face as the paralytic overwhelmed every neuromuscular junction. His grip on Claire's throat slackened, his fingers curling inward like dying spiders.
Then came the suffocating stillness.
The violent thrum of his athletic body simply evaporated, extinguished under the chemical flood. His chest ceased its frantic rise and fall, frozen in place as his diaphragm surrendered to total paralysis.
Yet his slate-blue eyes remained wide open, staring upward into the dark.
Claire slowly released her grip and sat back on her heels, drawing a deep, steady breath into her aching lungs. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands were entirely steady.
Beside her, Helen tossed the empty syringe onto Julian's paralyzed chest, brushing a loose wave of dark hair from her forehead. A wild, breathless smile curled the edges of Helen's mouth, but her eyes were fixed on her sister.
Claire looked down into Julian's conscious, unblinking eyes. He was awake, fully aware of the dark room, the howling wind, and the two identical faces staring down at him like twin judges.
She reached out, her fingertips cool and deliberate, and gently closed his open lips. "You always did love having both of us in the room, Julian."
Julian's slate-blue eyes were wide, dilated with pure, unadulterated terror.
The succinylcholine had seized his vocal cords and skeletal muscles, but it left his mind violently, mercilessly intact. A thin line of crimson trickled down the side of his neck from the puncture wound, freezing in the draft that swept across the cedar floorboards.
Helen knelt beside him, wiping the drop of blood away with the edge of her thumb.
"Still in there, darling?" she murmured, smoothing back his silver-tinged hair with theatrical tenderness. "Good. I'd hate for you to miss the finale of your little tournament."
Claire stood over them, her breathing quiet and steady. The terror that had hollowed out her chest for days had vanished, replaced by an icy, diamond-hard clarity.
"Help me lift him," Claire said. Her voice didn't waver. "The snowplows will reach the lower access road by dawn."
Together, moving with a seamless, rhythmic efficiency that required no spoken instructions, they dragged Julian toward the foyer. They worked his limp, dead-weight arms into the sleeves of his bespoke charcoal overcoat. Claire fastened the silver buttons with methodical precision, while Helen slipped his expensive brushed-steel pilot watch over his wrist.
Julian's eyes tracked Claire's hands, begging with silent, desperate agony.
Claire met his gaze without blinking. She buttoned the collar tight against his throat, hiding the tiny mark on his carotid artery. "You always said I lacked ambition, Julian. You said I was predictable. A blank canvas."
She leaned down until her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "Thank you for finishing the portrait."
They dragged him through the mudroom and out into the biting fury of the blizzard. The wind roared through the pines like an oncoming freight train, whipping white sheets of snow across the gravel drive.
Julian's black luxury SUV sat idling under the timber portico, its headlights cutting twin beams of silver through the gale. Helen pulled open the driver's side door, while Claire hauled his torso upright, wedging his paralyzed frame behind the steering wheel.
Helen arranged his gloved hands over the leather-wrapped wheel, curling his limp fingers around the rim. She reached down and planted his heavy boot firmly across the floorboard, leaving the seatbelt unlatched.
"A tragic accident," Helen said, shouting over the howl of the storm. "Distraught husband speeds off into the blizzard after his mistress vanishes. Takes the hairpin turn too fast on black ice."
"And the pre-signed death certificate in the glove compartment?" Claire added, stepping up beside her sister. "A grim, poetic suicide note. The police won't look twice."
Helen shifted the transmission into drive. The SUV crept forward against the brake. Claire reached inside, jammed a heavy iron tire iron between the driver's seat frame and the accelerator, and slammed the heavy door shut.
