CHAPTER 85

Present

THE PATROL CAR is silent yet filled with sounds. The chomp of gum in David’s jaw. The tick of the engine as she accelerates. The drag of wipers as she tries to clear fog off the windshield.

“Think he’s protecting her?” The click of bullets as David loads his clip.

Brenda shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

“The kid seemed clean to me. Messed up, sure. A druggie, sure. A killer?” He snaps the loaded clip into his gun. “No.”

There is a static burst of radio chatter and he grabs the mike, giving their location and ETA. When he hangs the mouthpiece back on the dash, he looks over. “You got your vest?”

“It’s in the trunk.” Chelsea Evans will probably be there. Human Resources couldn’t, at five in the morning, confirm whether she has moved. This might be messy. They need to prepare for anything.

I grab my bag and sit on the pleather sofa, the focal furniture piece in Simon’s apartment, the massive entertainment center its crown jewel. I set the gun on the coffee table and eye her. Pull items from the bag and set them down on the table before me, dusting off the surface with one aggressive swipe, weed flakes fluttering into the air, his rolling papers following suit. I catch a Zippo before it slides off the table and set it upright, next to my container of antifreeze. Reach down, to the bottom level of the coffee table, and steal a razor out of a glass bowl.

Duct tape.

Antifreeze.

Eight remaining zip ties.

Two plastic bags, thrown in for free by the wonderful Daniel.

The Zippo lighter and razor, courtesy of Simon’s coffee table.

Questioning. That’s what this would start as. Entertainment for my madness, a drink of something violent to calm my world, answers for Jeremy. I can feel the flutter of things in my world returning to normal and it will be here soon, as soon as I figure out the truth. I clap my hands in anticipation and smile at Chelsea. She sits in the same place, her wrists hanging off her knees, her eyes on the table of items before me. “Unharmed,” she repeats. “You promised.”

“Dee-Dee!” Summer’s face scrunched into that of an old woman’s, wrinkles popping up everywhere. “The park! You promised!”

“Oh yes, I promise,” I reassure her and smile again. My face is starting to hurt but soon I will know, soon he will have justice, soon this breakdown of my world will come to an end.

“I’m not going to the park, Summer. It’s a thousand degrees out.”

“But you PROMISED!” She stretched out the final word, giving it four syllables instead of two.

I shrugged, flipping the magazine’s page. “I lied.”

The two of them sit before me, like a matching set of salt-and-pepper shakers—Simon the Salt, Chelsea the Pepper—back-to-back because I said so and I hold the gun. They are handcuffed together with zip ties, Simon’s bare back pressed against Chelsea’s T-shirt, her long blond hair probably tickling the hell outta his vertebrae. I take the tape off Simon’s eyes at some point. He needs to see this. All of this. I stand up from the table and grab one of the trash bags and the roll of duct tape.

“Let’s talk about Sunday night,” I instruct, and step closer. I’ll pull the bag over Chelsea’s head and duct-tape it tight. Let her suffocate until Simon talks. Then I stop, think of Jeremy, and walk to the kitchen. Pull open the first drawer, then the second. I glance over at the pair.

“The police told me Jeremy was stabbed six times.”

There is no response from my quiet charges. I pull out a paring knife and wrap my fingers around the handle, rolling my wrist a few times to get accustomed to its feel. I look over and see a tear drag quietly down Simon’s cheek. There had never been a question of who would break first, but I am pleased to see my hypothesis proved true. I walk over and crouch before him, my touch with the knife’s blade gentle as I run it from ear to ear, teasing his beautifully exposed neck.

“Did you stab my boyfriend?” I whisper, watching his eyes, watching them jump to his sister. I would have protected Trent. I wouldn’t have let a psychotic girl handcuff him and play tic-tac-toe with his skin.

“No,” he whispers and I smile. Push the tip of the knife gently against the heave of his ribs and lean forward, the sharp tip breaking through, pushing harder, blood appearing at the same time that his mouth opens and he screams, a beautiful, long, pained scream, the kind my orgasms are built around, the kind that make Chelsea twist her head in panic, her eyes on mine, her own mouth opening and protests spilling out.

I jab harder, the paring knife buried to the hilt, then yank out. “That’s one, Simon. I owe you five more. Unless, that is, you have a confession to make.”

“I didn’t stab him!” he screams, his voice high and tinny, like a child’s. “It was an accident, it was all an accident!”

“Bullshit,” I growl, my next stab neither slow nor gentle, hitting quick and hard into his bare shoulder, his body bucking back, against Chelsea, her scream at me to stop you crazy bitch hitting dead ears and a broken soul. Jeremy was my person. You kill him and so God help your soul I will take all that you love. I leave the knife in, straightening to my feet and pull out the gun. Hold it against Chelsea’s forehead, her mouth falling silent, our eyes glued to each other. The cocky woman who tried to seduce my man is gone, and suddenly there is fear in her eyes. Respect in her silence. I don’t think, until this moment in time, that she truly realized what I am capable of.

“Talk.” I grit out the word and I can feel the edge of my world as it is destroyed, my control slipping, this interrogation one shaky step away from being a full-blown bloodbath for no other reason than my personal enjoyment.

Chelsea swallows hard and opens her mouth. “It was—” The door bangs open behind me, a sharp crack of sound and a series of spotlights bounce over the kitchen, zeroing in on our trio, my shadow thrown against the wall and I look huge. I stay in place and hear a series of clicks, bullets being chambered, guns cocked. It sounds like a brigade, like death in a marching band, but I ignore them all and look down at the woman with the answer to my soul.

“Me,” she whispers, the sound so soft that Simon and I are the only ones to hear, but I have my answer and I believe the word and when Brenda Boles says my name, I break my gaze from Chelsea’s and drop the gun. I can’t go back to jail, can’t be locked back up, I tried it and it is nothing like 6E, it is boring and long and will only drive me even more insane. This is not what I wanted, this is not how it should end, and I lift my hands in surrender, my eyes dancing over the nasty fridge, the bare countertop, and then I see my answer and run, my arms pumping, legs quick, and

jump my feet lift up together, my hands on my head, elbows creating a protective frame around my face, the coordinated bulk of me crashing into and through Simon’s sixth-floor window.

I loved him. No matter if it was twisted and deceitful and false, I loved him. Without him, it’s all broken.

It’s stupid, it’s dumb. I know what that fall can do. I know the chances of my walking away are nil. But as I fall through the air, my arms flailing out, I only feel free. I will not be harnessed, I will not be kept; I am freedom, and my name is Deanna.