I close the flimsy door lock behind me, hang my purse on a little hook in an effort to free my hands, and run to the toilet as quickly as possible given the slippery floor and my high heels.
The toilet lid is opened, and I catch a glimpse of the disgusting stuff in the bowl when I throw my now-useless cigarette into it. God, would it have been that difficult to flush the shit? The sight and stench of it reminds me of a nightmare I had a few times about a dirty bathroom. And this reality might be worse than that nightmare if I don’t hurry up.
I reach for the water tank just as I hear the lock on the door being picked.
Shit. He’s faster than I thought he’d be. He must’ve run down that hall like a maniac.
I frantically lift the heavy tank cover . . . just as the door lock fails.
“What the hell?” Shkillet says in Russian as he steps inside and sees me standing there with the lid in my hands.
Good. Not what he was expecting. And I capitalize on that by throwing the lid at his head with all my strength.
He’s not fast enough to duck.
As he staggers backward with a grunt, I turn and grab the gun in the plastic zipped bag from the tank. I’d found this weapon in one of my earlier excursions in the Mind Dimension. I’m ripping the bag open when someone’s hands grab my left arm.
It’s Shkillet.
His fingers are like pincers digging into my flesh.
I Split into the Mind Dimension to assess the situation.
The sounds of his panting are gone, and I observe us from my new vantage point.
One of his hands is on my arm, and the other is reaching into his boot for the ceramic knife he’s hiding there. His eyebrow is split open—must be where the lid hit him. The blood running from that wound makes his face look ghoulish.
I examine the bag in my hands. I’ve almost opened it, but I’m not sure if I’ll make it before he gets the knife out and uses it. But I can do something else if I aim right.
I look at my statue-like face that’s paralyzed in fear. I’ll try my best to be calmer when I get back into my head. Calmer and lethal.
Grabbing my hand, I jump out of the Mind Dimension and desperately will my muscles to act. As though in slow motion, my leg kicks backwards, aiming for his shin. My foot connects with something.
“Bitch!” He falls to his knees. I must’ve hurt his leg.
In the time I bought myself with the kick, I get the gun out. Whirling around, I see the knife already in his hand.
He swings, the knife swishing through the air an inch away from my leg.
Instinctively, I jump to the side, then slam the butt of the gun into his face. It connects with his nose with a disgusting crunch.
He looks stunned for a moment, and I do it again, swinging the heavy handle at his jaw this time.
He tries to grab me, so I hit the back of his head.
He crumples—his head landing right in that disgusting toilet.
Serves the fucker right. Now he’ll drown.
I should gloat, but for some inexplicable reason, I get the urge to kick him away, to get his face out of that toilet. Do I actually want to save his life?
I take a closer look at him. His mouth and nose are above the water, so he won’t drown in that muck.
Funny, but for someone who was just thinking of saving him, I feel a pang of disappointment. The practical side of me knows I can’t let him live. So I take the gun safety off and aim the muzzle at the back of my would-be-rapist-and-murderer’s head.
This is it.
Now I just have to pull the trigger.
Is my hand really shaking? What is wrong with me?
This man deserves to die. Maybe not as much as my parents’ killer, but he does deserve it. And if I don’t kill him, he’ll likely come after me. So shooting him is self-defense. Or a pre-emptive strike, if I have to justify my actions.
And apparently I do—because I can’t squeeze that trigger no matter how many reasons I come up with for doing so. Like: he might be too chicken-shit to come after me. Or: this might be his first attempt at murder. And even: he might change his whole life around after this. Yeah, right. I’m now grasping at straws to come up with excuses for myself, when the truth is that Eugene was right.
It’s not easy to kill a person—even a bad person.
“Is someone in there?” someone says from the other side of the door.
Shit.
I rush to the door and open it a sliver.
“Hey there,” I say to the guy at the door, who looks to be one of the bouncers. “I’m just powdering my nose, and I need to change after that. Can you please use the bathroom upstairs?”
The bouncer mumbles something derogatory about women but starts walking away. Taking no chances, I Split again and Read a second of the bouncer’s mind. He’s going upstairs—that’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s mentally cursing a specific woman, me, and not, say, women in general, or one of the few other possible women who visit this place, like Vera—Victor’s fucktoy from the nearby VIP room.
I guess this makes my decision for me. I can’t shoot Shkillet now. The bouncer will know that I was the one who killed him, even if I run as soon as I fire the shot. I’m not keen to find out how Victor would react to my murdering someone in his place.
I could, though, hold Shkillet’s head under the water until he drowns. That way, no one would come running right away, and I could get away. Plus, the bouncer wouldn’t necessarily think I’d done it—I’m sure he’s seen more than one drunk in Shkillet’s position.
The big question is whether I can actually do it . . . since I wasn’t able to pull the trigger.
Damn it. I hate that Eugene is right, and today isn’t going to be the day I finally prove my worth to myself.
I stuff the gun into my purse and walk through the place, paranoid all the way to the exit that someone’s going to notice the size of my purse. Luckily, no one stops me. It makes sense, since the time to distrust someone is when he or she is on the way in, not out. Plus, what male bouncer is going to be staring at my purse instead of my cleavage?
Still, I’m only able to breathe normally when I get into my car and put the gun into the glove compartment. Even though I don’t need it, I didn’t want to leave it for Shkillet in case he regains consciousness and decides to come after me. I might not be a cold-blooded killer, but that doesn’t make me stupid.
The drive back home happens in a post-adrenaline-rush haze, for which I’m thankful. I don’t want to think about what just happened. I just want to get home and unwind.
When I arrive at the apartment I share with Eugene, I take my high heels off and tiptoe into my room, stepping over all the junk in the living room. Not for the first time, I promise myself to tidy up, but obviously, not tonight. Closing my bedroom door, I’m super-grateful that I didn’t wake my brother. My earlier plan for a dozen showers forgotten, I get into bed and pass out.
My sleep is interrupted by a recurring nightmare—a skeleton trying to strangle me.
Chapter 4
“Mira, is that you?”
My brother has this annoying habit of talking to me when my mouth is full or when, like now, I’m under a cascade of blissfully warm water, trying to relax.
“No, Eugene, it’s some fucking stranger using our shower!” I slam the sliding door for emphasis.
“Thanks for saying the F word—now I know it’s you!” He bangs on the bathroom door. “Come to the kitchen when you’re done.”
I wish I’d slept instead of tossing and turning all night. Still, the little sleep that I had should keep me going, and this shower is doing wonders.
I put on jeans and a T-shirt and head to the kitchen. My curiosity is piqued because I smell food—an oddity because I don’t think anyone is here besides Eugene. Which would mean that, whatever dish the smell is coming from, he would’ve had to cook it.
“Happy birthday to you,” my brother sings when I enter. “Happy birthday to you—”
“Eugene, please stop. My ears are going to wilt.” I use humor to cover up the fact that I completely forgot about my birthday. With everything that’s happened, it was the last thing on my mind.