“Oh… I didn’t just find them sweetheart.” Simon kicked out, and his tennis shoes collided with a book bag I hadn’t noticed. A faded red JanSport. A piece of masking tape holding its front pocket closed, a carabiner hanging from its handle. Like Simon planned on hitting a rock face anytime soon. When he kicked, the bag shifted, and pills settled, a shake of sound like a giant box of Tic Tacs.

I was confused, then I understood.

My medicine cabinet. Three or four years’ worth of meds that Dr. Derek kept sending and I kept ignoring. They’d stockpiled, one neat row before another, each new bottle marking the passage of time. Simon found them, thought he hit the drug mother lode, and shoved them all into this cute little backpack. His face seemed to think I’d care. I didn’t.

“Don’t call her sweetheart.” The hard voice came from behind me, from the third party in this room that I’d almost forgotten. I turned to Jeremy. “It’s okay.” I smiled again. My cheeks were beginning to hurt. “He’s leaving.” I turned to Simon. “I’m sorry about the pills. I was upset because you didn’t unlock me.” I met his glazed, cocky stare, and dropped my eyes. He must have opened the bottle. Took a handful. He wasn’t the shaky addict right now. He was high and confident. He needed to go. I lowered my head and turned my back to him. Walked around Jeremy and toward the door. Smiled as I heard Jeremy speak to Simon. Smiled as I heard them buy my act. Smiled as I bent over and wrapped my hands around the Spyderco.

CHAPTER 72

Past

JEREMY SHOULD HAVE known. That something was wrong, that something was off. But the whole situation was off. Walking into her apartment, his focus had been on one thing: getting her beautiful body naked and underneath him. Hearing her voice break as he pushed inside to the place that made everything sane disappear. There was nothing in life like the connection made when their bodies met. When she whimpered beneath him and took him, ran her fingers over his side and wrapped her legs around him. Whispered his name in the heartbeat right before she came.

He’d been so focused on that goal, the maddening tick of time passing… now only ninety minutes, now eighty-five… now sixty-four… that he hadn’t been aware, hadn’t been prepared. It had pushed at him, that nagging premonition that he always had when he twisted her unlocked knob, when he saw her enter and leave her apartment without hesitation. But by now, that feeling was second nature, easy to ignore, especially when her small hand was in his and she was pulling him forward, his cock already hard in his pants, her giggle a foreplay of things about to happen.

And then… that piece of shit. Standing there like he owned the place. Smiling and taunting her. The woman he knew would have tackled the man. Cut him to shreds with her words. But the woman before him did nothing of the sort. She bent, yielded. Ducked her gorgeous head and pacified. Used soothing words and gestures and asked him nicely to leave. A thousand warnings that he ignored, his heartbeat calming, his step toward Simon accompanied by all of the words he wished Deanna had said. Get the fuck out. What did you take? I’m calling the cops. You worthless piece of shit. He felt empowered, confident, more over Deanna’s reaction than his words. It was his own high, an affirmation of everything he had, deep down, known about her. She wasn’t dangerous. She could control herself. She wasn’t crazy, just passionate at times. It was all okay, they would be fine. Simon’s eyes had hardened, his mouth curling back into a snarl, and it was in that moment when the knife flew, straight and perfect, over Jeremy’s left shoulder.

CHAPTER 73

Past

MY SECLUSION HAS led to a lot of obsessions, but knives have always been forefront. My first year, I learned to spin them in my hand. Flip a switchblade out, then in. Out. In. Out. In. I bought a dozen, cut myself fifty times, and eventually got to the point where the knife was an extension of my arm. I could flip out an arm, then return to a pocket a switchblade, pocketknife, and tac blade with my eyes closed. My second year, I danced with guns, a difficult obsession when you’re restricted to an apartment. My third year, I returned to knives, this time with a focus on throwing. I practiced with darts, then moved to knives, then stars. My fourth year, I refined and perfected the skill. My throw at Simon was the first time I took practical application of my skills.

Go figure that I’d miss.

They didn’t understand what the knife was at first, neither of them did. It wasn’t until it pierced the bag, slicing through the clear plastic, the prescription bottle hitting the floor with a loud knock, that they looked at the wall, at the thud that had sounded, plaster giving easy way to the blade, the yellow handle sticking straight out of the wall. Jeremy turned quickly and was still too slow. I stood with my legs slightly spread, one before the other, my hand still outstretched toward the blade. I tilted my head and frowned, my tsk loud and hollow in the room. It’s funny how everyone shuts up when knives come out. Too bad the Spyderco hit plaster and not skin. No worries. There were plenty more. I crouched before the pile, Christmas coming early, a grin blaring out, everything perfect, everything red, and this was my time, my moment, my victim. My fingers wrapped around a handle and I moved without looking, around Jeremy, toward the asshole by the window whose eyes were wide, fear coming and he had no idea. I broke left, avoiding the block, and when I lunged forward a hand wrapped around my arm and yanked hard and everything was broken, interrupted when I fell into the chest of Jeremy and heard his voice. “Deanna.”

Deanna.

Deanna. I pushed against him, irritated. Simon. Simon is getting away, I need to drag my blade across his skin and bleed him dry. Jeremy holds me tight, repeats my name.

“Deanna.”

Deanna. Fury rips through me, my vision blurring, my control and compartmentalization crumbling in one quick burst of anger. Fuck this man and his firm hands. Muscles can’t beat blades. I see, in slow motion, the widening of his eyes, the change when he goes from attention getting to defense. But he is too slow, my hand jerking forward, my finger hard on the blade’s release, the snap of the metal joyous to my ears.

“I’m sorry.”

The words didn’t belong in this space, in this moment, certainly not from my future victim. I heard his whisper and didn’t understand it, didn’t see his arm move, his body twist, wasn’t prepared when my face exploded under the whip of his elbow. I only felt a brief moment of blinding pain, and fell backward, but I never felt the impact with the floor.

CHAPTER 74