When I look at him, I still see myself cuddled up beside him on my bedroom floor as he read Fox in Socks over and over again. I can reason with him. He saved me that day. However twisted, his aim has always been to help me. “Asher, you can’t do this.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. After the fire, I realized I can get away with anything.”
Asher is still facing me, his back to the log. I steal a glance at Gideon, whose hands are now free. Peter kneels in front of him, working to untie the rope binding his feet. “I love him. Please don’t.”
Asher’s features shift and a familiar expression creeps back onto his face. Maybe this is genuine remorse. Maybe the brother who read me stories was real, and he’ll come back to me.
His face is soft as he lowers over me. I envision him helping me up, the two of us walking off through the woods together, headed to watch a classic horror flick on the sofa. “I don’t want to. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to hurt you. But he gave me no choice.” His face presses even closer to mine, and I notice he doesn’t reach for his scars the way he always does when he worries about me. His voice doesn’t quaver in concern. Instead, he whispers in a voice as smooth as the blade of the wood carver he holds inches from me, “And if you don’t hurry up and get far away from here, you’ll be leaving me no choice.”
I see Asher now. The real Asher. It’s the first completely honest thing he’s ever said to me. It shatters whatever remnants kept my heart intact, sucking the breath from my lungs.
It also breaks the shackles that bind me to him.
“Go ahead,” I say, giving up. I deserve it. Peter seems seconds from releasing Gideon. If my death can somehow help the boys escape, it’s the least I can do. It won’t make up for all of the hurt I caused. But it will be something. I close my eyes, ready to let the blade do its job.
A deep grunt rattles me from my state of surrender. I open my eyes to see Peter and Gideon standing in front of the log. Peter is already rifling through the black bag in the next second, pulling out the wrench while Asher stands, stunned. Gideon’s body sways slightly, and I’m afraid he might collapse. But his gaze unites with mine. In that flicker from his one good eye, I know we have a plan.
I turn and take off running through the woods. My feet pound against the uneven terrain, and I know Asher has a choice to make. He can either chase after me or face the two boys and their bag of tools. Barely a second passes before I hear the sound of his body barreling through the branches.
I keep running like I never have in my life, until I reach the familiar barricade of trees. I dive into the small space at the base of the trunks, hearing Asher close on my heels. When I’m nearly through, my hair catches on a cluster of pine twigs and needles.
His footsteps hammer the earth just yards behind me, but my hair stubbornly refuses to budge. Just as Asher’s fingers pounce upon the bottom of my shoe, I give one final yank of my head. I pull myself free, abandoning a large chunk of brown hair to the tree.
I drag myself the rest of the way through the trees as Asher struggles to navigate. Once free, I race to the hideout and kick the woven cover off, leaving the tarp in place. Then I sprint around to the opposite side of the hole.
Asher finally pokes his head through to find himself in what was once the magical realm of my childhood. He brushes himself off, like he can’t commit his intended crime in such a disheveled state. I stand, shaking behind the blue tarp, completely exposed and defenseless. Asher holds the wood carver at his side. “It’s not too late, Cass. We can get out of here together. You and me.” He steps toward the tarp, squinting quizzically at the large blue piece of plastic that doesn’t belong in the natural world.
He bends down to examine the tarp, but Gideon comes crashing through the wall of trees. He makes his way like a low-riding bullet on the ground, hands outstretched as he shoves my brother forward.
Asher yells as he falls into the hole, taking the tarp down into the depths with him. Gideon and I push the woven cover over him just as Peter navigates his way to us. The three of us hold down the cover as my brother continues to stab and slash through the flimsy woven contraption with his tool.
We use feet, knees, our entire bodies to keep the cover down. My body trembles with sorrow and fear, making it nearly impossible to keep my grip. My strength is slipping. I can’t hold on any longer.
I’m about to let go when the merciful sound of sirens resounds through the woods. We shout at the top of our lungs until footsteps reach the outskirts of the barricade.
But Asher hasn’t given up. He slices straight through the cover and into Gideon’s hand, which flies upward as blood spurts over the cover. I want to rush over there, but with him down a hand, my two are even more essential. I grit my teeth and put every last ounce of strength into keeping my brother trapped.
A swarm of officers finally makes it through the trees and we back away, allowing them to cuff Asher, whose frantic efforts to escape the hole have ceased. His face resumes the composed demeanor that I know will haunt me the rest of my life.
I turn to Gideon in time to see his eyes roll back into his head. Then he collapses, as though he’d been holding on just long enough to rescue me. Screaming, I fling myself over him. I allowed myself to believe Asher’s lies my entire life; now Gideon, who is more family than Asher ever was, is paying for it. I cry in short, staccato bursts, the tears pooling over Gideon’s blood-caked body, until paramedics tear him away.
They let me ride with him to the hospital, and I sit, holding his hand so tightly. Peter, whose phone call to the police and heroic efforts saved our lives, is left in the woods to answer questions. I catch his eyes trailing after me, his figure becoming smaller and smaller through the back window of the ambulance.
31
My brother is secure behind bars now. For a while, my parents struggled with whether or not they should keep his senior portrait hanging in its spot on the foyer wall beside mine. I know they felt like taking it down meant he was really cast out of the family for good. Leaving it up allows them to hold on to some semblance of a family unit, however fictional.
Seeing his portrait there with those cold blue eyes and that smug, cracked smile always conjures up the memory of Asher’s tear-filled breakdown in his room; I get a stab of pain remembering how I believed his performance.
I wasn’t the only one who believed my brother’s performance over the years. I often wonder, if we’d all been paying a little closer attention, would my parents have seen the truth about their precious prodigy? Would Gideon and I have noticed a nervous tremble run through the strong jaw of Maribel’s hero?
Then again, maybe he never betrayed such a tremble. I remember a lot of things about my brother—all lies—but memories, nonetheless. I remember him happy. Sad. Angry. But now when I think of my brother, I see the utter calm, like a pristine patch of snow beneath the dappled light of dawn.