Page 86 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Thirty-Six

Val

Icould hear Jack talking, but his voice was muffled. Following our lopsided discussion, I was sure he intended to lure Vince to our location, and then kill us both.

His voice grew closer.

“Where are you now?”

If he was asking someone’s location, he was obviously talking on the phone.

“Park in the driveway. Be prepared to be searched and scanned at the door.”

The person he was talking to had to be Vincent.

“Park in the driveway,”Jack said, his voice now closer than before. “Come onto the porch and place your flattened palms against the door. I’ll let you in.”

A door opened and then closed.

Several moments of silence followed.

My hope of Vincent tracking my phone diminished to nothing. Scared, confused, and mentally exhausted, I lowered my head and closed my eyes.

None of us are perfect. I will not apologize for the decisions I’ve made, nor do I have regrets. I humbly ask for your forgiveness and pray that you give me the strength to let go when that time arrives.

I raised my head and opened my eyes.

Of all places, my thoughts went to Vincent’s roasted cauliflower. My mouth salivated. Soon, my mind drifted miles away. Midway through a semi-lucid daydream about Vincent and I walking hand-in-hand along a distant beach, I heard an explosion.

My eyes shot open.

The muffled sound of a gunshot followed.

Then, two more.

A struggle. Silence. Footsteps approached. More silence. Wedged into the corner of the empty room, I bent my knees and drew my thighs tight to my chest. My muscles tensed.

The door flew open with a bang, sending splinters of wood flying across the room.

In the opening stood my savior.

A choppy breath shot from my lungs. Every emotion that had been bottled up inside of me escaped at once.

I laughed and cried at the same time.

Vincent rushed to my side and pulled his knife from his utility belt. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Anything broken?”

“Maybe my arm.” The words came out on a bed of tears. “I don’t know.”

After kneeling at my side, he lifted my chin with his index finger and looked me over. He cut the tape that bound my ankles.

“That motherfucker,” he said under his breath. He met my teary-eyed gaze. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

Ever so gently, he cut the tape from my wrists. He helped me to my feet. Beneath the loose-fitting jacket he wore, there was an intricate bomb strapped to his chest.

“Why are you wearing a bomb?” I asked.