Before I’ve given myself permission, I’m in the kitchen, at the knife block, sliding out a medium-sized utility knife. People are scared by the big chef knives or meat cleavers, picturing those as murder weapons, but I want precision. I want to feel exactly what I’m severing inside him.
I return to stand over him again and measure all the hollowed spots of his body where no bone or muscle presses the skin. There, at his throat. Under his eyes. The spot just beneath his breastbone. The hollows of his hips right above the groin. Or the groin itself, all of it so squishy and unprotected from the danger I present. The insides of his thighs . . .
I lay the blade of the knife flat against his leg. He doesn’t stir.
I slide it up, scraping the edge along his crisp hair. His balls are loose and heavy with satisfaction and sleep. Will he wake if I take them in a gentle grasp and lift them for a tiny metal kiss?
Smiling, I raise the knife and smooth it gently up his testicles and over his penis. The shaft stirs a little at the touch. Just a twitch. Then a slight thickening. His respiration stays the same, but his dick will take any kind of attention, even in sleep.
Pet me, it says. Pet me with your knife.
I slide it over him again, snickering at his stupid vulnerability. They’re all stupid. Stupid and worthless.
He’s not that deeply drugged. He could wake at any moment, but what do I care? At his first sign of protest, I’ll slip the knife deep, and it will be too late for him.
But I’d rather take my time, so I lift the blade and move it higher.
His belly rises and falls in a slow rhythm like the skin of a toad’s throat. Up and down. Up and down. I can almost hear him croaking.
I point the blade at the hollow between the bottom curves of his rib cage. The aorta is just there, unprotected by bone or gristle. I could pop it like a balloon and watch the blood shoot out with impressive pressure. It would paint me scarlet, but I’m already naked. A quick shower would clean me up.
I lower the knife until the next deep breath pushes his skin into the point. When he exhales, a tiny nick is revealed. Another inhalation, another little pinprick. I leave five behind. The first is bright red now. I press my thumb to it and smear the faintest bow of blood across his skin. Finger painting.
What do I want to remove? I’ve never cut anyone before, and there are so many choices. His genitals for pointing his selfish body in Meg’s direction. His eyes for the pictures he wanted and kept and used. His stupid tongue for all the evil words he beat her with. His treacherous, traitorous, ugly goddamn heart.
All of it.
I drag the blade over his penis again. And again. The metal makes a sweet chuffing sound against the skin as the shaft gently swells.
This is where I’ll start. So Steven can wake up and look down with clear eyes and see that he’s losing the center of his universe.
I angle the blade. I poise the tip to split his dick open from base to crown.
Except . . . I don’t. I don’t cut him.
I want this with every fiber of my being, but my heart rate has calmed and I know I can’t. There’s evidence of me everywhere. At work, in his phone, on surfaces here at his house and in his car. My DNA is all over his body and his bed. It’s on the empty beer bottles and the crumpled napkins in the trash.
I’ve marked him as surely as a cat marks its possessions, and if I kill him this way, I’ll never escape it. I could probably avoid capture, but I could never go back to my comfortable life.
I should have killed him the moment I stepped into town, but I was seduced by the fun of it, of invading his life and toying with him, making him into the ultimate fool.
Conceit is my greatest weakness. I know this. It’s why I inserted myself into his world instead of keeping my distance. Because I wanted to feel him slide into my trap.
It’s why I used my real first name instead of a complete alias. I wanted him to know it was me doing this to him. Me, even if he never connected the dots. Me Jane, as primitive as it was in the old Tarzan movies.
Good times indeed, but now there’s a price to pay. I can’t do what I want.
Damn it. I despise consequences.
But I reassure myself: it’s only a momentary sacrifice. I’ll find another way. He deserves to die. I can see that now. I’ll find a way to take his worthless life without risking my own. I will. I whisper it aloud: “I’ll find another way, Meg.”
But I don’t believe there’s any part of Meg left in the universe to hear me, and the sad truth is she wouldn’t want me to hurt him anyway. That won’t dissuade me. This isn’t about honoring her wishes. If she’d wanted a say in this, she should have stuck around.
I stare at him for another minute, letting my heart believe I could still kill him. Then I return the knife to the block and shut off the lights. I don’t look at the pictures again because I can’t risk the rage. But I can’t allow him to ever look at the pictures again either. He killed her, and he used these photos as a murder weapon even as he delighted in jerking off to them.
I delete the entire folder. Then I climb into bed with Steven. He’ll never know it was me. Even if he suspects, he’ll assume I was only jealous.
I try to settle into bed, but I realize I’m aroused by my close brush with vengeance. So I masturbate, turned on by the idea of hurting him, turned on by the camera, turned on by the video I’ll watch later of me hovering on the edge of murder.
When I’m finished, I tuck us both in and fall quickly asleep.
CHAPTER 35
I’m up before him in the morning, thanks to my not mixing drugs and alcohol. I shower and dress and put eggs and bacon on the stove before returning to the bedroom.
“Good morning, sleepyhead!”
He opens his eyes slowly. “Oh. Hey.”
“I wasn’t sure you were going to wake up. Sleep well?”
“I guess I did.” He stretches hard.
“I’m cooking breakfast. It should be ready in two minutes.”
I’m not a great cook, but I can handle breakfast, at least—not that I’ve made it for many men. Even if a guy sleeps over, I’m not looking to make him feel cherished.
Steven arrives at the table in sweatpants, rubbing a hand through his tousled hair. He sits down and waits while I find plates and silverware. The timer on his coffee maker kicks in and the machine begins brewing while I serve my lover his plate. Two eggs, three strips of bacon, and a little kiss on the mouth to add sweetness.
“Thanks, babe.”
“You’re welcome.” It’s easy to play the passive, clueless girlfriend this morning because I woke up with a plan. And I think it’s a good one.
“God, I slept great,” he says. “You really wore me out.”
I giggle and serve myself one egg and two strips of bacon like the modest lady I am. “You seemed pretty satisfied.”
He stretches again, then reaches down to scratch his bare belly. I hear the scritching of nails against skin and then he winces. “Huh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Something bit me.” He’s hunched over, trying to get a good look at the little cuts I left in him.
I get close and crouch down. “Let me look.” I make a show of peering at the tiny marks. “I’m not sure. It looks like maybe something bit you and then you scratched it while you were sleeping.”
He shrugs and rubs his palm over the wounds.
“Or maybe I scratched you during . . . you know.”
He grins. “The superhot sex?”
I mean, I’m not sure what his standard is for hot sex, but it’s obviously pretty low. Still, I giggle and drop back into my chair to eat breakfast. When the machine stops brewing coffee, I pour us each a cup. I hum a little to show that taking care of him makes me so happy.
Before I can move away after delivering his cup, Steven snags my waist and pulls me onto his lap. “So,” he murmurs into my ear, “it seemed like you relaxed after all.”
I titter as he nuzzles my neck. “Maybe.”
“Did you like it, baby?”
“I did. It was better with you than my ex.”
“Hell yeah it was.”
I know I shouldn’t. I really know I shouldn’t, but I didn’t get to carve him open last night and I need a little fun to make up for that. “With him . . . with him it hurt sometimes because he was so big. I hated it.”