Page 127 of Jig's Last Dance

Exhaling heavily, he drops his hands and whispers, “I killed Miranda.”

Blankly I stare at him and shake my head. “You did what?”

“We were fooling around in their bedroom. You know?” he says, licking his lips.

In their room? Oh . . .

“And?”

“We, um, we found some stuff.” He looks away, a flush suffusing his cheeks, and I wrinkle my nose.

“But we needed, um, lube.” When his voice drops to a whisper, I cock my head. “In the drawer, she found . . .horrible things. I didn’t know Dad was into that, and Miranda, she freaked out. She wanted to leave. I panicked. I tried to stop her, and she fell down the stairs.”

“She died?” I ask, glancing behind me to the stairs. How many times have I walked down them since, unknowing of her fate?

Shit. Suppressing a shudder, I turn back to Ben as he nods, his face ashen. “I didn’t know what to do, but Dad came home and said he’d take care of it.”

“Take care of it,” I murmur, rubbing my aching belly.

Dad covered it up, presumably by making it seem as though she was a victim in the sex shit. It’s horrible. Jig and his family will spend the rest of their lives wondering what horrors she was exposed to.

Collapsing on the couch, I stare at the wall. Ben is responsible for Mandy’s death.

Ben.

And I can’t ever tell Jig, or my brother will die.

“I didn’t mean to,” Ben rasps.

“I believe you,” I say softly.

He looks at me with shining eyes. “What if they’re dead because of me? Mom? Dad—shit, Ali, do you know what it’s like to close your eyes and see the people who would still be here if . . .”

“Ben,” I sigh, grabbing his hand. “Castinetti killed our parents. Not you.”

He shakes his head, but I tap his arm. “He told me himself.”

Ben eyes me quietly before sitting down next to me and sagging into the couch.

This is all so fucked up. Shit. Jig would lose his mind if he knew. Sadly, I acknowledge I did the right thing by pushing him away. He can never know.

“I thought—but, no. It was stupid of me,” I whisper my thoughts out loud.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say, smiling to hide my wobbly lips.

“No, tell me,” he pleads.

“It’s not—”

“Ali, what?”

Looking at my hands curled in my lap, I murmur, “Jig. I hoped it could be more . . . something, but . . .”

When I glance up, Ben is staring at me like I’ve grown two heads, and wiping my eyes, I stand. “What now?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and with a sad smile, I whisper, “Me too.”