When the clock hits 2:30 a.m., I rise from the couch, and stalk toward my car. As I sit behind the steering wheel, a war begins. Turn right for my chosen victim—the convenient one—or left for the man I want to kill.
The question gnaws at me until I feel sick. My chest is so tight, I’m sure it’ll tear if I breathe too hard. Every inch of my makeup is telling me to hunt Jack down. It’s a soul-deep need. A blinding fucking itch that I need to scratch.
But if I go to Norton tonight, I’ll lose everything. He may have told everyone it wasn’t me who attacked him, but he’s shown just how quickly people will turn on me.
So, when I back out of my driveway and drive to my chosen substitute, that reluctance eats at me.
I don’tneedto do this.
And yet I do.
It’s quiet in the car. Almost deafeningly so. I can hear every beat of my heart, the blood rushing through my ears, the tires rolling along the ground, and when the car finally comes to a stop, I feel one thing: resolute.
This is necessary. For me and for Mina. Thomas isn’t competition or an obstacle. He’s a nuisance, and it’s my job to make my girl’s life better.
I take one last breath, then get out of the car, pulling a pair of gloves on, then a ski mask. It’s easy enough to climb the fence into his backyard.
With no one to witness what I’m about to do, I kneel in front of his back door with a tool in each hand.
Lock picking—God, I fucking hate it. I haven’t needed to do this in months. Once I got my hands on a key to Mina’s place, there was really no use to keep honing my skills, and it turns out, my muscles have no memory of ever doing this.
I huff, trying again.
I had to practice fordaysbefore it was sheer luck that Joyce forgot to lock their door. On the days I couldn’t just turn the handle, I had no choice but to test my inner strength and resort to such tedious methods.
Sweat is gathering between my fucking shoulder blades. Was this always so goddamn hard?
My jaw is screaming at me by the time ten minutes have passed and I’m still trying to get the fucker open. I drop myhands, screw my eyes shut, and take one long, calming breath, telling myself Norton is on the other side of this door.
Bloodlust seems to do the trick. The lock gives way a minute later.
I give the door one last scathing glare before creeping inside. To no one’s surprise, Thomas’s two bedroom looks like it’s occupied by a man. There are clothes and empty takeout containers strewn around the place, with décor consisting of a TV on the coffee table, beanbags in place of a couch, and fold-out chairs around the dining table that’s balancing on a folded piece of cardboard.
This is pitiful.
I’m half tempted to walk back out because this is justembarrassing.
Shaking my head, I stalk up the staircase that likely hasn’t seen a vacuum in weeks, and nearly roll my eyes to the sound of Thomas’s snores shaking the walls. I’m putting money on the fucker having sleep apnea.
I follow the sound until I’m watching him from just outside the door. Jack would never live like this. He’s always been tidy and organized. Vanity always kept his space looking new, yet lived in. When we were kids, he’d have one or two posters on the wall, but there was never any clutter.
I found it odd as a kid. Now it makes sense.
Thomas is the opposite in every way.
The longer I stand there, the more the scene morphs into my image. ThisisJack’s room. The mess, the empty spaces; it’s how I imagine his mind to be. There just needs to be more rot to make this place in his picture-perfect image.
As I lean into my imagination, the man sleeping in the bed is exactly who I want. The person who turned my family against me. Who’s harassing Mina. Trying to take my life away from me. Who won’t leave me the fuck alone.
Every single one of his indiscretions plays out in front of me.
Doctoring images to make it look like my high school girlfriend was cheating on me. Throwing away my homework so I’d be stuck in detention and couldn’t hang out with someone who wasn’t him. Trying to convince me that Sabrina ripped my favorite hoodie when it was him. Going through my fucking phone and targeting Mina.
Messaging her. Commenting on her posts. Saying vile shit to her. For what? To get back at me? Turn her away from me like he’s successfully managed to do to everyone else?
I don’t think about the next part; it just happens.
My fist collides with his nose, and liquid spurts across the wall. He doesn’t get a chance to make a sound before his teeth break beneath my knuckles. I yank him off the bed and bury my oversized shoes into his stomach, winding him.
