Page 16 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

Marshall very kindly stocked his home with everything I need to end his life, and once I’ve moved it all into place and stashed the evidence for the police in the garage, I settle on the floor of his bedroom and check the cameras inside and outside of the duplex. Rue hasn’t made it home from ladies’ night yet, so I send her my usual check-in text from my burner phone, using a number-spoofing service to make it look like it’s coming from me even though my actual phone is safely at home, pinging the nearest cell phone tower.

Proof of life?

It takes nine minutes for her to reply.

Life! Crashing at a friend’s.

I smile, knowing she’s safe.

Sleep well, neighbor girl.

You too, Hugo.

No sleep for me tonight. Now that I’ve confirmed Rue’s in one piece, I relax against the wall to relive every moment of Morticia’s surrender while I wait for Marshall’s return home. Four hours later, the sound of his footsteps on the stairs snaps me out of the pre-murder trance I’ve fallen into, and I climb to my feet, wincing at the pins and needles that rush into them—to say nothing of the pain from the stab wound in my thigh.

Stupid. Sloppy. I should’ve been up and moving this whole time. Still, I’m nothing but cold, impersonal death when the smaller man walks into his room and finds himself slammed against the wall.

“What the fuck?” Marshall squeaks, his struggles weak as his wild eyes search the room for help that isn’t coming.

“This is for her,” I growl.

“W-who?” he stammers as I jam my thumb into the carotid sinus just below his jaw, dropping his blood pressure and slowly rendering him unconscious. I could’ve done it with my titanium tactical pen, which passes as a writing instrument for Dr. Mohr and can kill a man in at least five different ways, but there’s something satisfying about using my hands.

While he’s out, I dose him with Quinn’s concoction that mimics the effects of an alcoholic bender on an autopsy. Depending on how much of his body is left after the fire, it could help explain how he burned to death in his bed.

His questions ricochet through my brain as I work.

This is for Rue, of course. It’s always been Rue, since the moment she pulled into our driveway for a tour of the duplex and I glimpsed her lovely face through the windshield. But now it’s also for Morticia, who gave me something tonight I’ve never had before and made me promise I’d finish what we started.

Before my brain is completely torn to pieces by these two women, I drop Marshall onto his bed and arrange him like he passed out in his clothes, scattering a few of the empty beer cans from his recycling bin on the floor next to his bed, staging a scene in case anything survives the fire.

In the room next door, I double-check that the jug of potassium nitrate’s sitting close to the beat-to-shit power strip and rickety space heater I found in the basement. Add the lamp that was already in the room, and I might not need a slow-burn initiator after all. Any one of these time bombs is likely to overheat all on its own.

Before I ignite the twine I found in Marshall’s stash, I take one last look at the man in the bedroom. Morticia would be relieved to know his chest’s still moving, so he’ll have soot in his lungs. But unfortunately for Rue, he’ll sleep through the flames as they consume his bedding, split his skin, sizzle his fat, and rupture his eyeballs. If I could, I’d bottle this man’s screams as the fire consumes him, and I’d lay it at her feet on the off chance it would ease whatever caused the pain in her eyes.

With one last look at the other murderer in the room with me, I light the initiator and race down the stairs and out the back door. Then I slip into the predawn shadows in the alley behind his house, waiting until I see flames chewing through the exterior wall of his bedroom.

If anyone asks, I can confirm that Howard Marshall died without screaming.

“This is for them,” I whisper before I vanish into the darkness.

CHAPTER SIX

Rue

I’m an unsettling combination of blissed out and jittery as I cruise up Felicity’s crushed gravel driveway.

Successful break-in? Check.

Near-death experience? Check-ish. It definitely felt like it at first, but Gomez wouldn’t actually have hurt me, I’m almost entirely sure.

Oh, and then there’s the knee-shaking, brain-melting, dangerous-as-fuck orgasm.

Check, check, and—holy shit—check.

How much am I going to tell Felicity? I spent the hour-long drive arguing with myself, and as I pull into the big red barn that’s within shouting distance of her house, I still have no idea.

So I met someone tonight. We threatened each other. Then, because I didn’t make him come fast enough, I lost the privilege of killing the guy you and I have been gearing up to kill. Now, I’m trusting him to do a good-enough job that we don’t all end up in prison for the rest of our lives. Also, I liked him, and no, I don’t know his name or what he looks like, but I might be able to pick his dick out of a lineup if they let me grope it behind my back in the dark.