On his knees…
There are no words for the images that flash through my mind. They’re so vile, so haunting, that I would do anything, give anything, to unsee them. That’s how much I don’t want to think about why Carrson was on his knees.
“You killed him?”
Another nod. Finally, his eyes open, and I wish they hadn’t. There’s nothing there.
No anger. No grief. No relief.
Emptiness. So deep you could fall in and never reach the bottom.
“I was seventeen.” His voice sounds distant, as if it’s traveling from far away. “He tied me up like always. But this time…” He swallows. “I realized I was as big as him.”
His hands twitch. Small, involuntary. Muscle memory, not movement.
“I don’t remember getting free, but my wrists were bleeding. A lot. I don’t know where I got the knife from.” The words catch, then shove their way out. “When I came back to myself...” His pupils blow wide, swallowing everything else. “He was dead.” His throat works. “I remember thinking…it was finally over.”
I shake my head, trying to catch up, trying to make it real.
“But I looked,” I say, my voice breaking. “When I—when I searched around the house today, there—there—” My throat closes. I can’t get it out. “There weren’t any bloodstains.”
“I changed the carpet,” he says, but it’s distant and I know he sees another time, a room soaked in blood. “The mattress. The wallpaper. Everything except the bed frame. I left that.”
“Why? Why that?”
“So I remember.” A pause. “Not to trust anyone.”
His eyes lift to mine. He blinks, slowly coming back to himself. A small crease forms between his brows. “Why are you crying?”
That question breaks me.
A sob tears out of my chest, and I lunge forward, knocking him onto his back. My hands find his face, his shoulders, anywhere I can reach, and I kiss him, frantic. His cheek. His jaw. His throat.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I’m sorry—”
I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for.
I just know he deserves it.
So I keep going, covering him with kisses, each one a desperate attempt to give him something.Anything. That isn’t what he just gave me.
I hope if I say it enough, if I touch him enough, I can make it different.
Make it hurt less.
And Carrson…he lets me.
Chapter thirty-six
Bad Attitude
Carrson
I slam the door open as hard as I can, announcing my presence. Nine heads snap up at once. Identical expressions with wide eyes and open mouths, as if I’d walked in holding a severed head instead of a bad attitude.
“Gentlemen.” I stride to the head of the table in the cramped conference room off the AshfordHouse kitchen.
Once there, I stare stonily at Mitchelson until he jerks to his feet, muttering as he scurries down to the only other empty chair. I sit in the spot he vacated, lean forward, and fold my hands, ready to ruin their morning.
