Wicked was turning Paul’s anguish into her weapon. My parents, even loving him as they did, would be suspicious of him immediately.
“Heya,” Theo called from the great room. “How did you make out on Firebird construction?”
“Better than you’d think,” my father began, but then his voice trailed off as a taxi pulled up in front of our house. At first I couldn’t imagine who would drive up in a cab, but then the door swung open and Paul stepped out.
He’s here, I thought. He made it! Paul got here before Conley could even start to look for him.
That gave us a chance, unless Wicked had already screwed him over for good.
She opened the door and ran into the yard, eager to greet him. It’s what I would’ve done—but I would’ve leaped into his arms, told Paul I loved him, and began trying to talk him back from the terrible despair that had taken him over. Wicked, on the other hand, went right up to him and then stopped short, as if taken aback.
“Hey.” Wicked smiled sweetly, or tried to. It didn’t feel quite right. “Are you okay?”
“I feel fine,” Paul said, stoic as ever. “How I am isn’t important right now.” Then he walked straight past her, shoulders squared. This coolness would’ve wounded me at any other moment. Now it gave me hope. Already Paul had raised his voice to speak to my parents in the doorway. “Sophia, Henry, how much has Marguerite told you?”
My muscles tensed with Wicked’s fear. She hadn’t realized that I’d been able to explain everything to Paul before the end. Probably she thought I’d pieced his soul back together and come straight home. Her impatience was my one opportunity.
But if she could stall long enough to get Theo in on it, they had a chance to discredit Paul. To hurt him, even kill him, and make it seem like self-defense. By that point I knew there was nothing they wouldn’t do. She followed Paul inside, my heart thumping fast with her determination to take him down.
“She got us started, Paul.” Mom’s tone was tactful. “Come in. Sit down. We’ll take this step by step. All right? And how are you feeling?”
“Strange.” Paul shook his head. “Like . . . I have to choose who to be. Every moment.” My parents gave each other worried looks as Paul stepped inside—and then he stopped. Slowly he turned his head and looked back at me.
Has he guessed? How could he have guessed? But if anyone knew me, truly knew me inside and out, it had to be Paul.
He stared into my eyes, searching for something I couldn’t name. Wicked smiled back at him as she folded her hands around his arm. “Welcome home,” she whispered.
Please, I thought. Don’t be fooled. Look inside my eyes and see the difference. It’s our only chance.
Please, Paul. Know me.
And he did. He did.
“Marguerite . . .” Paul’s voice trailed off. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “You didn’t hurt me.”
My parents tensed at the idea that Paul had caused me pain, which was just what she wanted. But it was also the moment Wicked tipped her hand, because Paul knew there was no reason for me to say anything like that.
Paul slipped his arm out of her grip, then grabbed my wrists so tightly they hurt. Wicked gasped in shock. My dad took a step forward, hand outstretched, ready to act. “Paul, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know how this is possible.” Paul looked down into my eyes and saw through her straight to me. “But this is not our Marguerite.”
3
“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” MY FATHER LOOKED back and forth between Paul and me, still more suspicious of his grad student than his daughter.
“I don’t know which world she’s from,” Paul said. “But Marguerite isn’t our Marguerite.”
Oh, thank God, I thought. I should’ve felt relieved, but my body was taking its cues from the Wicked Marguerite. The emotion surging through me could’ve been fear or fury. My skin flushed warm, and I pulled free from Paul. “I told you,” she said, and the tremble in the words was real. She kept backing away—deeper into the house, toward Theo—as she continued, “Paul’s been twisted, poisoned by his splintering. The other versions of him, where they hid his soul? They were some of the worst, most evil Pauls that could ever exist.”
“Evil?” Mom pronounced the word like she didn’t understand what that even meant. Never had she ever imagined thinking of Paul as evil. But if Wicked got her way, everyone would turn against Paul at any moment.
“One of them shot Theo. Injured him so badly he might have died.” Wicked’s voice shook. She even dared to imitate my grief. “Another one got in a fight with me in a car, and hurt my arm so badly I might never paint again. There was even a priest who violated his vows—”
Oh, come on! I thought. The gentle Father Paul from the Romeverse wasn’t evil, only conflicted. But Mom and Dad didn’t know that. They only heard that Paul was capable of hurting their baby girl.
Paul tried to explain himself. “This isn’t about me. This Marguerite . . .” His voice trailed off. Not only was Wicked making my parents doubt him, she was also making him doubt himself. He finished, more quietly, “Something’s not right.”
Wicked slipped my hands behind me as if I were just going to lean on the rainbow table. But one palm covered my father’s old letter opener, an antiquated thing with a carved wooden handle and a metal blade. My fingers were close to the sharp edge. “Paul?” she said in my voice. “Come on. You’re still messed up after being splintered. I don’t blame you. Okay? I know it was hard. But I still believe in you.”
And dammit, that got to him. Paul hesitated, just long enough for my mind to scream, Come on, Paul, you know me! Don’t doubt yourself now!
I might have put Paul’s soul back together again, but there were still . . . cracks. Vulnerabilities. Although I’d recognized the emotional damage, I’d thought of it as something that would pass.
Only at that moment did I understand Paul might be changed forever.
Wicked knew. She’d always known. And her knowledge told her just where to strike. “Paul, just because things are, well, weird between us right now? That doesn’t mean I’m not me.” She pronounced the words as if confessing some terrible tragedy. Paul’s depression and doubt had become her weapons. If she could turn him against himself—make him pause before acting against me, even for one more minute—she would win.