“Give it to me,” I cry out.
She whimpers and then starts crying and then laughing. Crazy bitch.
The handle of the knife gives under her hand and slips into mine. I don’t hesitate. Her threat to find the girl whom the room belongs to cannot go unpunished. I slam the blade into her chest cavity using all my weight to plunge it in and all my strength to then yank it out again.
Over and over.
Stab. Spatter.
Stab. Spatter.
Stab. Spatter.
Over and over, I plow the knife into her body. My arms are shaking and weak, but I don’t relent.That is, until I don’t have the strength to do it anymore. I crawl away from her unmoving form, holding the bloody knife in my grip. I’m unable to look away from her, wondering if she’ll somehow rise from the dead and come for me again.
She doesn’t.
Shit. Shit. Shit
Oh, God.
My mind blurs and reality shifts. I’m confused and cold and so fucking tired.
The early morning sun, peeking in through the bathroom window, is beginning to chase away the shadows in the room. What time is it? How long have I been sitting here staring at the body?
Shaking, I get to my feet and pull on one of Jeremiah’s discarded shirts before grabbing my purse. I walk in a haze to the garage and get into Jeremiah’s car. I left mine on the drive earlier today. My heart thumps like a drum as I pull away from the house and drive on autopilot.
How am I going to explain this to Adam? He’s going to think I killed Jeremiah, and even if he believes it was the nun girl, he will still blame me. Itismy fault. I’m so fucked.
I need help.
I need Viktor.
He will know what to do.
No, you need them. They fix things.
I’m trembling as I drive to The Vault. The clock says it’s four am. The club closes at three, but Viktor is always there long after it closes. As soon as I pull into the parking lot, I realize it’s empty. Regardless, I jump out of the car and try the back door. It’s locked.No one is here.
Fuck.
I race back to the car and fall into the seat. I can barely dial Viktor’s number because my hands are shaking so badly. He doesn’t answer.
No.
I need help.
Hot tears stream down my bloody cheeks.
What do I do?
Go to them.
With quaking hands, I fumble inside my purse on a hunt for the matchbook. I dial the number of the hotel. As soon as the woman answers, I plead for her to patch me in to the penthouse suite.
“Ma’am,” she says in a bland tone. “I can’t do that.”
“Please,” I cry out. “It’s a family emergency. I need to speak to my husband.” Lies. But I’ll say anything at this point. “We’re hurt.” More lies. The hysteria in my voice is real, though.
