She had a head start, but Marilyn wasn't far behind.
At the top of the stairs she paused for a split second and surveyed the area. Lana had likely tried the front door first, but she would've found the series of formidable locks installed there too daunting to waste time on. The rug was bunched and askew; Marilyn could practically see the reporter's bare feet slipping on it as she changed directions and bolted for the plate-glass sliding doors that hid behind a set of long white curtains.
A blast of cold air hit her from behind and Marilyn turned on her heel, darting for the slim opening left in Lana's scrambling wake. Her rounded stomach prevented her from slipping through so easily and she cursed like a sailor until the glass door gave way, finally sliding on its tracks to release her from the living room to the bleak winter world outside.
The backyard was sparse, dead leaves and dry grass coated in a thin sheen of frost; it lead to a thick tangle of New England woods. In the gray December morning light Marilyn could see Lana disappearing through the trees, the long iron chain trailing behind her, one link at the tail end inexplicably broken.
She could feel the heartbeat in her ears like war drums as she took off after her, unaware of the sticks and stones beneath her own bare feet, the branches of the birch trees scraping her face — she felt nothing but rage and vengeance and cold clear fury.
Lana had put some distance between them but Marilyn was rapidly closing the gap. She moved with a strange sense of grace and power she'd never experienced; she had one brief moment to think it must be how a lioness felt taking down her prey before Lana suddenly stumbled over a fallen tree and then she was upon her.
"Stupid bitch," she spat, grabbing for Lana because even as she went down she was already scrambling away on her hands and knees, outstretched fingers raking through dead leaves for something to give herself leverage. Marilyn struck gold and yanked a handful of sweat-soaked brown hair as hard as she could manage.
Lana screamed and kicked backwards, missing Marilyn's stomach by mere inches. They struggled together like children wrestling in the dirt before Marilyn pulled again, gaining the upper hand and pinning Lana's slim body beneath her own at last.
The kick Lana didn't land had sent a strange tingling through Marilyn's limbs, an odd sensation she remembered feeling on her way to work one day when another car ran a stoplight only to slam on the brakes just before smashing into the side of her prized cherry-red cruiser. It was a spidery sort of tingle that seemed to say she had just barely escaped certain disaster, and now it melted into a steely-sharp thrum of pure and utter hatred.
Marilyn had never hit anyone before but her fist was suddenly on fire and there was blood coming from Lana's mouth - not a lot, yet enough that the sight satisfied her and Marilyn struck again, ignoring the pain that shot from her knuckles all the way to her elbow.
Lana was laughing, or maybe screaming, she couldn't be sure. The heartbeat in her ears was louder now, a legion of drums pounding in her head, drowning out everything else.
"He said you loved him," Lana managed, and spat out more blood onto the dead leaves. "How romantic."
So that was it. Oliver had been distracted, and somehow Lana had used it against him, turned the tables and escaped because he was still thinking about what Marilyn had said only moments before he descended into the basement. It was her own fault.
Marilyn hit her again.
"You tried to kill my baby, you stupid bitch," she growled. She wanted to break Lana's nose but the fingers of her right hand felt shattered and bruised, so instead she seized her rival by the collar of her now-filthy nightgown and slammed her against the frost-hardened ground.
"He killed Wendy!" Lana shrieked, and Marilyn did it again, relishing the meaty thudding sound her skull made.
"I do love him." She emphasized the word 'do' with a threatening little shake of the cotton nightdress wrapped tightly in her fists. "He was right about that. I do."
"Of course you do," Lana said in a queer trembling voice that Marilyn didn't like, not at all; it was the sound of someone finally losing their tenuous grip on sanity. "Oh, what a story this would make. I can see the headlines now: KIDNAP VICTIM SUCCUMBS TO STOCKHOLM SYNDROME, CLAIMS TO LOVE INFAMOUS MURDERER BLOODY FACE!"
Lana's brown eyes rolled in her head. Marilyn wondered briefly if she'd given her a concussion.
"Don't call him that," she hissed.
"Yeah, that would sell some papers, that would get my name on the front page, because isn't what all this was about? Isn't it?" Her gaze locked with Marilyn's. "Isn't it?" Lana shouted, and suddenly Marilyn knew that Oliver had been right, he'd said it was hard at first but it got easier, and all at once it seemed so easy, so obvious what she must do next.
She wrapped her hands around Lana's throat and began to squeeze.
The reporter flopped beneath her like a dying fish at the bottom of a boat. Her fists beat at Marilyn's chest but she ignored it, this was long overdue, so long overdue. It was what she'd wanted to do all those months ago in the gray halls of the asylum, before the baby and the threesome and the night in the basement. The moment Lana had slapped Marilyn across the face like an insolent child, her fate had been sealed.
The muscles strained beneath her fingers; Marilyn could feel the struggle for breath, the manic butterfly-beat of her terrified pulse, but it was slowing, oh yes, it was slowing, and soon it would stop for good.
Lana struck out blindly, trying for a handful of thick blonde hair but got only the side of Marilyn's cheek; a jagged fingernail broke the skin just above her jawbone and Marilyn winced but there was no going back now. A thin trickle of blood dripped down her chin and fell onto Lana's in a brilliant red contrast to her pale skin.
She tightened her grip. The hands beating at her were growing weaker, the blows more and more feeble.
Lana was a fighter. She always had been. It was only in the last moments she seemed to finally realize that she couldn't fight forever, her brows meeting in a worried frown as her fingers began to scrabble hopelessly at the adrenaline-fueled hands around her neck.
"You knew this was how it would end," Marilyn whispered.
But it appeared that no, she hadn't, and even as the light faded from her eyes Lana tried to pry Marilyn's grip off of her throat, fighting for that last breath, the last precious moment of life that she supposed everyone fought for if given the chance.
At last her hands fell still. Her brown eyes unfocused. Marilyn couldn't feel the muscles straining or the beat of her pulse yet she couldn't let go, she couldn't believe it was truly over, surely it was a trick, Lana would spring back to life and land the kick that would kill her baby so she kept squeezing her numb throbbing fingers until suddenly the doctor was there, the dark scent of his aftershave announcing his arrival only seconds before he took her hands in his, peeling them from Lana's limp throat and pulling her body to his own in a tight embrace.
He didn't say anything at first, just made soft little hushing sounds of comfort as he stroked her hair because, Marilyn was surprised to note, she was crying, sobs escaping her in painful little bursts from somewhere deep in her chest. There was blood on his shirt; she wasn't sure if it was hers, or his, or Lana's.
"I'm so proud of you," he whispered into her ear, but he didn't sound proud, he sounded hollow and small and lost. She knew his eyes were probably on Lana, he was probably feeling something for his other 'mother' that he didn't fully understand but she didn't care because he was holding her and that was good.
Still sobbing, Marilyn took one of his strong hands in hers and placed it over her belly, pressing the pads of his long fingers against the tight little drum of a stomach that held their child, trying to remind him that this was what it was all for, this was why she had done what she did, for the fragile little life that hopefully still existed inside her broken exhausted body.
In the gray December morning's light, beneath the skeleton branches of the New England trees, they both felt it: like a single weak heartbeat against their palms, a kick.