“I need a gun,” I say.
He grins.“Yes. Yes, you do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THEA
Did you know that blood doesn’t splash? It plops.Plop,plop,plop. Though I can’t hear the dripping of blood splatter through the ringing in my ears, my mind fills in the blank. I stare, watching the blood roll down my ankle and onto the floor.Plop,plop,plop.
Henry fiddles through his drawers once more. He’s made an utter mess searching for the best tool, the most-prized blunt edge.
I’m bleeding.
I’m bruised.
And I’m hallucinating. I swear I heard Henry on the phone with Slade, and I’m not sure if I’m trying to relieve the pressure of my restraints or the sting of his blade, but I cling to his name.Slade, Slade, Slade.
Plop,plop,plop.
I wish he’d end it. These superficial cuts, tiny slices made across my chest, down my arms, and at my ankles—none of them alone makes a difference, but together, together they burn. A map of his insanity.
His last gadget wasn’t even from his toolbox of toys. A man named Sam from the kitchen brought it in. A meat tenderizer.Good, I thought for a moment. Maybe this is the end.
Instead, my kneecaps are bruised, and my butt raw.Numb. I’m numb.
Sweat beads down my spine as he rounds the table with another long object in his hand. My tears have long evaporated, so I squeeze my eyes shut instead.
There’s a loud bang as the door is forced. My eyes don’t jerk open; they slowly come to, and for a minute I think I’ve officially started hallucinating. Two figures saunter in, and I focus on the one man’s glasses.
Slade.
Behind him, Kenji walks in with a foul disposition etched on his brow.
The horror in Slade’s expression is devastating. His upper lip twitches with his flaring nostrils.
Henry DuPont sidesteps and stammers. “Slade, what the hell?—”
Slade raises the gun in his hand, and two shots ring out, landing in Henry’s stomach. Henry jerks back, a wet sound tearing from him before he folds to the floor. But Slade startles, eyes flicking to the smoking gun in Kenji’s hand.
He follows through with another three shots, methodically patterned in Henry’s chest. “No one should have to kill their own grandfather,” Kenji says, taking out his phone and making a call before Slade can respond.
My heart slams against my ribs as I stare at Henry’s unmoving body; nausea tangled with relief rolls through me.
Slade’s gaze flicks to mine, and he rushes to the cage.
“Slade …” I whisper. “You’re really here?”
“Always.” He studies the cage. “Did you see where he put the key?”
I shake my head.
He darts over to the table and scours every inch for one but draws up short when he picks up the tools used on me. My blood coats the tip of the blade, and he mutters out a “hell” when he picks up the meat tenderizer.
My vision wavers, the edges of the cage softening and the rusted black colors running together. Slade’s voice—is he still here? It’s far away now, like it’s filtered through oil. There’s a ringing in my ears, an echo—no, the ghost of my screams. My pleas. I blink.Focus, Thea.
He’s at the cage again. Oh God, please help me. “No! Don’t!”
He curses under his breath while metal grinds against metal. “Thea, it’s me. Slade. Stay with me,” he says. His voice—hisvoice. Slade. “Stay with me,” he says again.
