My gaze drops to his mini fridge, and my lips purse as I cock my head, an idea brewing.
Dread’s all over sports news and featured on ESPN often. I’ve heard he typically has reporters at his swim meets, and though I haven’t cared enough to search him on the internet, it’s easy to guess he has quite an online presence.
Which means he’s under an immense amount of pressure. All eyes are on him, expecting him to qualify for the Olympics again in three years. If he were to, say, fuck up badly at a swim meet, it would likely make headlines.
Biting my bottom lip, I quietly scurry into his bathroom before I can fully think through what I’m doing. Or, rather, talk myself out of it. I pull open the mirror hanging above the sink, revealing the medicine cabinet behind it, where several bottles of melatonin line one row, one of them opened and nearly empty. I raise my brow, but it doesn’t surprise me he has trouble sleeping. I do, too.
However, while I wasn't exactly expecting to find a goddamn drug store, Iwashoping to find some type of sleeping aid.
Casting a quick peek over my shoulder first, I take out the opened bottle, along with a brand new one, and quickly get to work. Quietly, I empty the first bottle onto the edge of the sink and add in another generous helping from the second. Then, I use the empty one to crush the pills into a fine powder.
All the while, my heart races a mile a minute, praying to whatever god still pities me not to let him wake up.
Once they’re all crushed, I deftly scoop the powder back into the empty bottle and return the other one to the cabinet, praying he doesn’t notice the difference until it’s too late.
Exhaling a shaky breath, I sneak back into the room, my stare bouncing around until it lands on nail clippers on his desk. I quietly creep over and snatch them up, grinning when I confirm it has a thin, metal nail file attached before aiming straight for his mini fridge.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Dread, it’s that the man always has a bottle of Gatorade on him. I have no doubt he downs at least one or two of them before his swim meets.
Biting my bottom lip, I carefully open the fridge and damn near squeal from excitement when I find it loaded with an array of different flavors.
I check over my shoulder once more, confirming he’s still asleep, then grab the first bottle and twist the cap right before it cracks. Then, I take the Sharpie and bend back the clip until it juts upright. Very carefully, I wiggle it beneath the cap and the seal and maneuver it around the entire rim until the cap pops off the bottle, the seal still intact.
My hands tremble from the adrenaline rush as I dump about half a teaspoon of powder inside and gently swirl it until it’s dissolved. Afterward, I push the cap back down onto the bottle and pray when he opens it, it cracks the seal instead of coming completely off again.
I risk spiking the first two rows, which is only six bottles, but plenty to ensure he grabs a laced one.
I have no idea if any of this will work. The powder could settle at the bottom because it's too cold to dissolve completely and catch his attention before he drinks it. Or maybe he’ll notice the caps were tampered with somehow.
I don't know. All I can fucking do is hope it works and then brace myself for impact when he inevitably realizes I drugged him.
Most people would duck their heads and try not to evoke their bully’s wrath, but he's going to torment me whether I fight back or not. The least I could do is have some goddamn dignity and make the fucker kiss my ass.
When I’m finished, I waste no time shoving the empty melatonin bottle in my coat pocket, replacing the nail clippers exactly where I found it, then bolting toward the door.
Except just as I reach for the doorknob, I catch sight of a small stack of mail on the nightstand right beside it. As I go to look away, the word ‘victim’ written on one of the letters catches my attention. My heart drops as my eyes snap right back to the pile.
The corner of a white envelope peeks out from beneath a couple others, just enough to confirm I saw correctly.
Slowly, I reach over and slide the envelope out from the stack, quickly reading over the letterhead.
Office of Victim and Survivor Rights and Services
California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation
Fuck.
It’s the letter informing Dread about my father’s parole being accepted and his set release date.
He must not have noticed it yet. Otherwise, he would’ve opened it immediately.
A short horror film plays in my mind’s eye of Dread opening the letter, his light blue eyes skimming over the words, confirming his mother’s killer will be set free in three short weeks. Then, in a matter of seconds, pitch-black consumes the entirety of his corneas, five-inch talons sprout from his fingers, and he shreds off his human skin, revealing cherry red flesh beneath. In all his glory stands a demon the size of a baby T-Rex, with horns curving out of his big head, sharp, pointy teeth, and hooves for feet.
It's only a slightly dramatic depiction of what will happen.
God, and Ireallydon’t want to find out what he’ll do next.
My heart lurches, and I don’t stop long enough to think about what I’m doing. I fold the envelope in half and stuff it in my coat pocket before I haul ass out of his room, shutting his door behind me as quietly as possible.
