Page 65 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“Any idea why I might have drugged you, taken you someplace where nobody can hear you scream, and strapped you to the last chair you’ll ever sit in?”

He squints at me in confusion, so I step forward and bend down, putting my face even with his.

“Better yet, want to guess why there’s a drain right underneath you?” I gesture at the white epoxy floor, then at the hospital-grade panels on the walls.

The furrows in his brow deepen, but he attempts a laugh. “Since when are you into pranks?”

My ex is a good-looking guy. Dark hair, tan skin, and a compact muscular build I’ve always found appealing. But the thing that sealed the deal for me was his expressive brown eyes. I loved the way they glinted with humor or heated with lust. Now they reflect pure, innocent confusion.

“This is a joke, right?” He flashes me a playful smile. “Quit messing around and let me give you that orgasm I know you’re dying for, sexy ma—uh, sweetie.”

“Awww.” I set my gloved palm against his cheek. “Only one of us is dying tonight, sweetie.”

I pull out my knife.

“W-why do you have that?” He’s sweating now, the light sheen visible under the stark overhead lights.

“What, this?” I look down at it like I’ve never seen it before. “Don’t worry about this for now, big guy.”

Those expressive eyes are now saying, What the fuck? How do you expect me to ignore that? so I flip it around and smack him between the eyes with the handle. He yelps, and I grin.

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sure.” He nods, eager to please all of a sudden. “We can talk about whatever you like.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.” He’s straining at the zip ties as he speaks, trying to loosen them and praying I don’t notice.

I notice, but I don’t care. There are four on each arm and half a dozen on each leg, and that chair is securely bolted to the concrete floor. He’s not going anywhere.

“Okay. I’d like to talk about how I let you turn me into some kind of surrogate-mommy bang maid when we were together.”

His mouth drops in surprise. “What the fuck? I did not.”

“Yes the fuck you did,” I shoot back. “Let me refresh your memory.”

I tick the grievances off on my fingers with the flat end of my blade as I pace. “Let’s see… you stopped keeping track of your family’s birthdays and holiday plans because I was ‘more organized.’ You refused to shop for your own clothes because I was ‘better at it.’ You quit doing, like, any chore ever after I moved in.” Oh lord, the examples are pouring out of me now that I’ve uncorked the bottle. “You once called while you were walking out of your dentist’s office to have me make your next appointment. You had to ask me for the zip code of our own condo every time you filled out a form.”

I’m breathing hard by the end of my litany, and his jaw works obstinately before he concedes.

“Okay, maybe. But I made all our dinner reservations.”

“Because you hate going places that serve something other than chicken parm.”

“You love chicken parm!” he says a little desperately.

“I love it in sandwiches on occasion, but not—you know what?” I hold up my hand, halting my own argument. His eyes zero in on the gloves again. “We’re not here because you’re a bad boyfriend, Gregory. We’re here because you’re a bad person.”

“What? No, I’m not.” He blinks a few times, and I can see his lawyer brain click into gear. “You’re not considering the evidence. I donate to the ACLU. I do that run for breast cancer every year. I’m a mentor to two different at-risk youths.”

He’s earnest and sincere. He’s a misunderstood man who never did a thing wrong in his life. He’s the person I fell for, and he’s sure that if he just talks long enough, I’m going to let him out, especially when his eyes go melty and he says, “Rue. Rutabaga. Come on, you know me. Did you forget the kind of person I am after you dumped me and broke my heart?”

“Did I forget? Did I fucking forget?” I hiss, stalking toward him. “Or were you really fucking careful to hide your real self from me?”

He blanches at the venom in my tone, apparently realizing this approach isn’t working. But he’s not giving up yet. He runs his tongue over his dry lower lip as he calculates a new approach, and I step back and flip my knife lazily while I wait, enjoying the play of the overhead lights on the iridescent color pattern.

“Every couple has secrets,” he finally says. “But we know each other. I mean, you weren’t the easiest person to live with either, always running off with your girlfriends and taking trips out of town. And don’t get me started on all your rules. You act like you’re some cool chick, but you’re one of the most rigid people I know.”