I glare at him, teeth bared.
Behind us, I hear Neve sob. “Bridger!”
I whip around. She’s at the back of the stage, down on her knees beside him. His body’s twisted in a heap, blood on the sideof his head. Still. Cody’s not far from her, curled in on himself and trying to crawl, every inch of him shaking.
Everything is noise. Blood. Pain. That gaping hole in the stage. Clay’s laughter, echoing like it belongs in a different kind of hell. He steps toward me again.
I pull the steak knife from my back pocket and grip it so tight my fingers ache. The metal is warm from being pressed against my body, and the weight of it feels both pitiful and powerful in my hand.
Clay barks a laugh, sharp and mean. “Is that a kitchen knife?” he scoffs. “What the fuck are you gonna do with that?” His eyes gleam with sick amusement as he lunges.
His hands come up—big, calloused, fingers curling like claws as he reaches for my throat.
But I don’t freeze. I drop low and twist sideways, my pulse roaring in my ears, and slam the knife into his side.
It sinks in with a sick, wet pop—like stabbing a slab of raw roast beef wrapped in sinew and fat. Resistance at first, then a give. Heat bursts across my knuckles, and the hilt shudders in my grip from the impact.
His body jerks. His mouth falls open with a ragged snarl of pain.
I rip the blade out just as fast, the sound squelching, blood spurting in a dark arc across my forearm. He howls, staggering back, hand flying to his side.
His eyes find mine, wild now, red with rage and disbelief. But I don’t look away. I’m breathing like a storm.
Behind me, Vick makes a sound—a low, wet moan. “Marlowe…” It’s slurred, barely audible. “Please… I’m your father…”
Clay stumbles, falling hard against the wall with a groan that vibrates through the room like thunder in a cavern. He clutcheshis side, blood seeping through his fingers in dark, pulsing streams, but he’s still on his feet. Still too damn alive.
I back toward Vick without looking away from Clay.
“Please,” Vick whimpers, voice trembling. “Please… help me.” The word cracks something in me—but it doesn’t break me.
I flick a glance up. The chains. One of the links isn’t welded—it’s held together by a cheap-ass carabiner clasp, the kind you can buy in a hardware store for ninety-nine cents. My fingers move fast. I unhook it with a metallic snap. Vick crashes to the ground with a grunt, his legs folding like paper under him.
But my eyes are back on Clay. He’s rising—slow and monstrously. His face is a mask of fury, blood trailing from his gut, his mouth twisted into something feral.
Oh fuck. A fucking crowbar. It’s there, just inches from his boot, glinting with old blood and rust like it’s been waiting for him. He sees it too. A twisted smile spreads across his face as he bends down and grabs it—fingers curling around the grip like it belongs to him. My stomach flips, ice-cold. A new kind of fear coils inside me. This one’s not just panic. It’s primal. Instinct. The kind that knowsthis is how you die.
“You’re gonna look a lot prettier with your fucking head bashed in,” he snarls, lifting the crowbar.
He starts toward me.
And my body hesitates even though adrenaline burns through my veins. I have no plan. There’s no air. No more breath in my lungs. Just the paralyzing understanding that the knife in my hand isn’t going to work against a swing piece of metal. Shaking, I fumble for the pepper spray in my front pocket, nearly dropping it as sweat slicks my palms.
Clay is closer. Crowbar raised. His eyes—blank, black, soulless—are locked on mine like he’s already picturing my skull caved in. I try to back away, legs slow, heart racing?—
Then everything moves too fast. My father lurches up from the floor and throws himself between us.
“No—!” he snarls.
The sound is sickening. Crack. The crowbar hits him square in the skull. The sound iswet.A mix of bone and meat and metal. And then Vick drops—like a string’s been cut. Just drops. Blood—so much blood—sprays across my chest, hot and metallic, and something solid and wrong hits my cheek and sticks.
I stand there. Frozen. Blood drips down my throat. It’s splashed across my lips. I taste it. My knees buckle and I fold forward, gagging. Over and over and over. Dry heaving until my stomach aches and the world swims and the only thing I can hear is my own gasping. And Clay? He doesn’t stop swinging that crowbar. He swings and swings.
The crowbar lands again and again. My eyes blur, but I still see it—his arm raised high, his expression twisted and ecstatic, sweat and blood flinging from his skin like he’s baptized in violence. He brings the metal down into my father’s skull over and over until it’s not a head anymore—just pulp. A ruined, wet mash of meat and bone.
I can’t move. Can’t scream. I justwatch.
Neve’s hands grab at me—my arms, my shirt, my waist—pulling and yanking.
