"What the hell is taking so long?" Rodney’s thunderous rage distracts me.
The sandwich falls onto the handle of the frying pan, sending it careening to the floor.
My instincts take over, and I drop to the tile along with it as Rodney hurls himself around the island. I bring my hands up to protect my face, waiting for the first blow.
It doesn’t come.
His fist wraps tight around my hair. I let out a cry as he pulls me up by my ponytail until his face is less than an inch away from mine. "You incompetent little bitch. I guess you need to be reminded how things are done around here."
With one hand still tangled in my hair, he reaches for his belt buckle as his rage-filled eyes bore into me, cold and unyielding.
“No. No. Please. I’ll fix it.” I manage a few shallow breaths as fear threatens to suffocate me. "Just let me go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to."
"You never mean to. You’re useless! Just like your mother."
Tonya Anderson. My mother. Both a victim and an enabler. She’s never once protected me from her husband.
Tears fall in earnest now as my body shakes uncontrollably. I look around for an escape. My eyes catch on the knife sitting on the cutting board. Time seems to slow. The leather slips through his belt loops with an ominous swish. My fingers inch along the wood grain, and I wrap my fist around the handle.
“I can’t mess up that pretty little face of yours, but that don’t mean I can’t find other ways to punish you.”
My knees slam against the tile as he shoves me back to the floor. The belt snaps against my back with a deafening crack. I hardly have time to register the pain before he rears back and brings another one down.
I only have seconds, maybe less, to decide what happens next.
Him or me.
Unable to draw in a breath, I close my eyes and swing. The blade slices through his neck with a sickening crunch. Rodney releases my hair and claws at the wound, the knife still sticking out of him as he gasps for air.
I scramble away, dragging my bloody palms against the slick tile. His body slumps sideways. Thick, red blood pools around his prone figure.
"What have I done?" My voice is low and ragged.
Get up, Callie.
I stand on shaky legs and make my way to the bathroom in a daze, frantically washing the blood from my hands. By the time I’m finished, my fingertips are red and raw, but my hands will never be clean.
Running to my bedroom, I change my clothes and shove as much stuff as I can fit into my backpack, including the shoe box full of money I’d been stashing from my part-time job at the diner. I was planning to leave as soon as I saved up enough for an apartment, but this will have to do. I might not get far, but I can’t stay here. There’s no other option but to run.
The framed photo on my nightstand catches my attention, and my heart squeezes at the portrait of me and my sister, Clio. I wish I could go to her, but I don’t know where she is. She ran away from this hell years ago. Despite her promise to return for me, she never did. I remove the picture from the frame and tuck it between the pages of my favorite book, shoving it into my bag with the rest of my belongings.
I press my ear to the door for a few moments and creep into the hallway, peering around the corner to the kitchen. Rodney hasn’t moved from his slumped position. If he’s not already dead, he will be soon. I tiptoe past the gruesome scene and out the front door.
The second my feet hit the pavement, I run.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t go back. Sirens wail in the distance, and my heart thunders.
They know.
They know, and they're coming for me.
I turn onto a rural street leading out of town, moving as fast as my legs can carry me. I don’t stop until my lungs are burning and my legs give out, sending me crumpling to my knees.
I let out a horrifying wail as the weight of what I’ve done bears down on me.
I’m a murderer.
No.
