This is it. Now or never. He’s still totally involved with whatever he’s doing—maybe playing a game, eyes glued to his screen. I casually walk over to the cabinet with the knife block under it, reaching up for a bowl, then pulling a long, thin knife from the block.
Do it. Just do it.I set everything down on the counter and close my eyes, blowing out a breath. Kill or be killed.
“Ow! Oh, dammit!” I grab my hand, hissing, grimacing. “Son of a bitch!”
“What happened?” The chair legs scrape against the floor.
“I cut myself.” I grip my hand, bent over, hissing again.
“Of course you did. Let me see.”
I have to wait until he’s close enough. Hovering over me. That’s when I show him my hand… and the knife I’m still holding.
He gapes at me, mouth hanging open, when I jam the knife into the side of his neck.
Oh, my god. I just did that. I can’t undo it. “I’m sorry!” I blurt out, and whatever small part of my brain is thinking rationally sees how funny that is. I almost laugh. What good is apologizing after what I just did? I pull the knife free, and he drops to his knees, holding his hands over the wound that is now spurting blood. It runs down his neck, soaks into his already dark T-shirt until it’s black. He looks up at me, his mouth moving, no sound coming out.
“Here. Use this.” There’s a dish towel hanging over the handle on the oven door. I yank it up and give it to him. “Press it tight. I’ll call 911.”
“You fucking bitch.” His back is to the stove. He’s already losing color, going gray.
Shit. I need the gun. He’s so busy trying to stop the bleeding, he doesn’t bother stopping me from pulling it out of his waistband. When I see his wallet sticking halfway out from his back pocket, I grab it, too, and pull out a fistful of cash, which I shove into one of the sweatshirt pockets. “Give me the code to the elevator! I’ll call 911, but I need the code!” I even point the gun at him, not that I need to. I don’t think he has much more time. Will I go to hell for this? I can’t afford to worry about that.
“Can’t…” he whispers.
“You can’t get to your phone, either.” I pick it up from the table and toss it out of the room. He would have to crawl to get it now. “If you want help, give me what I need. The code!”
He closes his eyes, resting his head against the shining oven door. Is it too late? Did it take too long? Then he parts his lips. “Three… five… eight… seven.”
“Thank you. I really am sorry.” He groans helplessly when I turn my back and run for the elevator without calling for help. All that matters now is taking care of myself. I’ll deal with the consequences some other time.
Please, please. As soon as I’m inside the elevator, I punch in the code with a trembling hand. 3587.Please, please, let it be right.
The door closes. I hold my breath almost as desperately as I’m holding the gun.
And then I start to move, descending, and I whimper in mixed relief and horror at what I just did. I killed somebody. He might be dead right now, and it’s because of me. But it was either me or him, right?
The door opens into the underground garage. There’s a guard sitting on a folding chair just beyond the door.
Kill or be killed. Him or me. He barely has time to react with anything more than a grunt of surprise before I raise the gun and fire. The sound is deafening, but my aim was true. I hit him in the chest, and he drops, knocking the chair over when he does. Whimpering again, I pry his wallet from the back pocket of his black jeans and pull out the cash.
What do I do? Now that I’m out, where do I go? Instinct makes me take off on foot, running for the exit, shoving the gun under my sweatshirt while I do. I’m a murderer. Just like my father, I’ve taken a life. Two lives. I had to do it, but is that what Dad used to tell himself? He had a way of rationalizing his choices, too.
There’s no time to think about that now. I can worry about it later, when I’m safe.
Only, where is safety? Shit. I didn’t stop to count the money I stole, but there were plenty of big bills in there. How much, though? How long will it last? How do I get more money? Why didn’t I think about that?
It’s too late now. Once I’m out of the garage, I slow my pace to a brisk walk, still hustling down the sidewalk with my hands shoved deep into my pockets. One fist is clenched around the money—I can’t just take it out now and count it. I haven’t spent much time outside in the world and pretty much no time at all by myself, but even I know that much. I can’t flash cash around if I expect to keep it.
So what do I do? I stop at the first corner, overwhelmed by the sounds of passing traffic, honking horns, people’s voices as they walk past in both directions. They’re talking to each other, they’re talking on their phones, they’re listening to music. None of them know they just walked past a double murderer who is still carrying the gun she used in one of her crimes.
I have to think. I have to calm myself down. I keep walking, always expecting to be spotted. By Liam, by somebody from his team. My heart stops and my stomach plummets when I see a police car parked up ahead, and I have to force myself to keep walking instead of running in the opposite direction. I have to act normally. They don’t know what I did. Nobody knows yet.
I don’t have any ID. I only have the money I’m carrying in my pocket. How far can I get with that? What happens when I run out of it? The panic starts seeping back in and poisoning my brain until I force myself to shake it off. I can think about all of that later, once I’m hidden someplace safe. The first step is finding that place.
I stop at the next Starbucks and head straight for the bathroom. I need privacy to count my money. Once I’m behind a locked door, I pull the cash from my pocket and unfold it. There’s over six hundred dollars here, including a lot of small bills. Should I get a cab? But I wouldn’t know where to tell them to take me, and that would probably eat up too much money. What else? The bus? Several of them passed me while I was walking, though I don’t know how much it will cost to ride. Iguess I can always find out once I’m on. There are plenty of dollar bills, so I should be able to pay. I don’t think they give change. I don’t know a lot, but I know that much.
Peeling a handful of singles away, I tuck the bulk of my stolen money in the pocket of my yoga pants and fold the rest before tucking it into the sweatshirt. I make sure the gun is secure, the safety on before wedging it down the back of both pairs of pants. It shouldn’t fall out.
