Page 120 of Into Pitch

Not because I feel dirty, but because its habit. I scrub carefully, until the water runs clean and my pulse settles back into its normal cadence.

The world is quiet again though, and gloriously balanced.

I didn’t linger to gawk at what I did to Evan. I don’t bother to admire the outcome. This wasn’t about satisfaction—though there was spades of it—it was more about correction.

An obstacle to be removed.

I drive away before the city has time to notice the absence and by the time the news breaks its days later. The story already being shaped by people who need simple explanations. Wrong place at the wrong time. Bad luck they call it.

Violence without context.

I sit in my apartment, lights low, listening to the broadcast on the news without really watching it. I don’t need the visuals to confirm what I know was done.

She tried to replace me.

I mean, I knew she would do that. I had called it, but it still fucking hurts. Sure, she didn’t sleep with him but she did attempt to forget me. Which has to count for something. I hope.

She might not know yet what has happened to her little slip up, but I’m sure she will soon. At least then she’ll understand that I don’t share and certainly don’t fucking compete.

And I don’t lose what’s mine because someone else failed to understand the rules.

Sadie will come back, I repeat to myself.

And when she does, the world will already be safer for her. Whether she realizes it or not.

The news is on because I need noise, not because I’m actually watching it.

I’m painting; half-finished strokes layered over older ones, colors bleeding together without intention. The TV murmurs behind me, the cadence of the anchor’s voice smoothing the edges of a world that insists on continuing no matter what it destroys.

I rinse my brush, shake the excess water into the sink, and that’s when I hear it.

A name.

Not my own of course, but close enough to me that my spine goes rigid.

“… Evan Bray was identified earlier this week…”

I turn slowly on my stool, heart already pounding before my brain catches up.

Holy fucking shit.

The screen shows a photo of Evan, smiling to the camera unawares of the absolute stop sign he would meet in this life.

The room yanks sideways and I grab the counter to steady myself, fingers biting into laminate as the anchor keeps talking. Words that stack on top of each other in neat, professional pile that doesn’t begin to touch the weight of what I’m seeing.

No suspects at this time.

Authorities believe foul play was involved.

Last seen leaving his place of employment.

My ears ring as I sink down onto the end of the bed, my legs having simply stopped functioning. The paintbrush slips from my hand to hit the floor, rolling until it leaves a streak of dark color across the rug. I don’t move to clean it up, because Evan’s face stares back at me frozen on the screen with a smile that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

It was only a week ago.

A single fucking drink and a door closed behind him.

“Asshole,” I hiss, though my mind is already arranging the truth into something solid.