Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I nod at him to go ahead.
I didn’t come here with a plan, really.
There was a part of me that knew Trip wouldn’t fight.
He’s always been a coward at heart. Too soft to go against what the other boys wanted. Too afraid to tell me he liked me all those years ago.
He searches for a vein in his arm with his fingers but never takes his eyes off me.
“You’re really beautiful,” he says. “Even more than I remember.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” I tell him. “All of my ugly is on the inside.”
He pushes the needle into his arm with a sigh and leans back into the couch, stretching out his legs as he stares up at the ceiling.
“I don’t believe that,” he says. “You were always too good for us.”
The needle hangs out of his arm, his words already slurring together.
“For what it’s worth. I really am sorry, Ten.”
He depresses the needle again, this time injecting the entire contents of the murky liquid into his vein.
I am not stupid. And Trip isn’t either.
It’s a lethal dose.
“Trip?”
I move over next to him, and his eyes flicker open just for a brief moment.
“Always was a coward.”
His head lulls to the side, his face gray and clammy when he slips into unconsciousness. There is a gurgling sound in his throat and then choking.
I reach for him, and I don’t know if I can watch this.
But it’s over as quickly as it began.
His body falls into stillness, and he is gone.
I fall back into the couch beside him and stay there for a long time.
And I grieve.
I grieve what we both became. I grieve the unfairness of life and the hard choices.
When it’s all done, I wipe my eyes.
And I leave.
Twenty-Six
Scarlett
Terror made me cruel- Emily Brontë
I bump into Whiskey on the way back to the apartment. He’s being his usual self, carrying on about something that’s upset him.
“I get it,” I tell him. “I didn’t listen to you, and I should have. You tried to warn me.”
He swishes his tail and spins in a circle, and I have no idea what that means.
But when I bend down to give him a pat on the head, there is blood matted into his fur. I swallow and scratch between his ears while I search his feline eyes for clues.
He trots a few steps ahead of me and then turns back to see if I’m following.
I retrieve my knife and follow him to Mrs. Rogers door. It’s cracked, and there’s a distinct metallic smell permeating into the hall.
And this is that part you see in every horror movie.
Mrs. Rogers can’t be dead. She’s just an old lady, and she doesn’t hate anybody. Except for maybe me because sometimes I steal her cat.
I shoo Whiskey away and push open the door with my foot.
There is blood spattered across the kitchen floor.
And there, in her recliner as usual, is Mrs. Rogers. With a steak knife lodged into her throat.
Hot tears spill over my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound.
He came here.
I know it in my bones. Alexander came here after my apartment and did this.
There’s a first aid kit torn apart on the counter. Cut strips of cloth and towels and blood everywhere.
I’m trying to make sense of it when the door clicks shut behind me. And when I turn, there is a man I don’t know, giving me an equally bewildered and annoyed expression.
He brings a phone to his ear with a leather-gloved hand and speaks.
“Small problem. There’s a woman here.”
I can’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but it could only be one person.
The man in front of me rakes his eyes over my body and describes me in a clinical way. A nonhuman way. People do this when they need to disconnect from a situation. When they see the person in front of them as a potential threat.
The knife is still in my hand, clutched at my side, and he doesn’t know I have it.
The person on the other line speaks, and the guy listens.
He’s a foot soldier. And he has his instructions now.
He hangs up and moves to pocket the phone. His next move will be for the gun tucked into his side, maybe. Either that, or he will try to strangle me. The more likely scenario since it’s quieter and not as messy.
But he won’t do either if he doesn’t get the opportunity.
I launch myself at him and plunge the knife into his gut.
He grunts and stumbles back, and we are both reaching for his gun. He’s in shock, and I’m faster.
In the seconds it takes him to comprehend his loss, I have it pressed to his temple. And what do you know, it’s a fucking Glock, and thank you, Rory Brodrick for imparting your knowledge.
“On the couch,” I say. “Now.”